Finding a (secret, heroic, hard-but-fair and extremely not-dull) Purpose…

Finding a (secret, heroic, hard-but-fair and extremely not-dull) Purpose…

by Ruben Molenaar

The wind was cold, and razor-sharp. Again. Darn Nornlands…Grim thought. He lifted a mug of ale to his mouth, in an attempt to drink away the cold. Looking at the campfire further down the hill he was standing on, he saw Roan trying to roast some bear meat. A faint, quick smile drew the corners of his mouth up, and he took a sip of his beer. He wasn’t thirsty, he just needed something to do while on the watch. The weather was nearing a blizzard-like status, so his sight was very limited. There was simply no telling what might be out there, so he attuned himself to the earth. That way he would at least feel the thundering of the Modniir hooves if they were to come close. He breathed in slowly, thinking about his reasons to come to this godforsaken place. His guild had chosen him to compete in the great Norn Tournament, an annual event that was said to bring together the strongest fighters in the whole of Tyria. He would have refused, if Roan had not been looking at his father full of expectations that very moment. Roan was nearing the age of ten years old, and even though he was a peaceful child he still had Charr blood running through his veins. If Grim would have refused, Roan would have thought it strange. Fighting is only natural, a chance at glory. That was the way Charr thought about the matter, and so did Roan. So he had no choice but to enter. Maybe it was a good thing, too. He needed a goal in his life, and the Defenders of the North and Roan gave him exactly that. He looked back at Roan for a while, and a tear caught his eye. He was proud of his son, but despite his best efforts to cultivate him, the young Charr kept showing troubles accepting the rules of humanity. Still, Grim thought in a moment of reminiscence, Roan did show compassion for his father, and he was grateful for that. Glad. Glad that his efforts weren’t all for naught. He didn’t notice the falling scythe until the last moment. Grim ducked aside, and instead of chopping him in two the scythe cut through air. Grim finished his roll and while he stood up he grabbed his own scythe from the ground. A Dervish, in green with brown attire stood before him. For a split second Grim wondered why he didn’t feel his opponent through the ground. Darnit, he must have cast Featherfoot Grace. The unknown Dervish, his cover blown, now engaged Grim in combat. He swung his scythe at Grim’s torso, an undisciplined but powerful strike that was awfully accurate. Grim blocked the attack with his scythe and rammed the rear end of his weapon in the stomach of his opponent. The Dervish stumbled back a few steps, allowing for Grim to execute a follow-up attack. With the intent to kill the unknown threat he swung his scythe at the head of his opponent, hoping to sever it from the body. Without hesitation the Dervish went in a low stance and deflected the swing, trying to ignore the pain in his stomach. Grim was amazed by the seemingly intuitive blocking technique. That moment of amazement nearly cost him the battle. The rear end of his opponent’s scythe hit his jaw, and hard. Not unfamiliar with battle and pain, Grim pivoted on his heel, along with the blow. At the end of his rotation he swung his scythe diagonally at the opponents neck. Grim’s eyes flared yellow for a second, just before he hit. He was a few inches too close for a kill, his scythe hitting the opponents neck with the grip instead of the sharp end. The opponent seemed confused, not able to see his target. The Ebon Dust Aura enchantment had worked it’s magic once again. Grim finished the battle by sweeping the legs of his opponent from underneath him, a foul but extremely useful trick he had picked up somewhere in Vabbi. The stranger regained his sight, only to see Grim kneeling down next to him with a knife at his throat. ‘Who are you?’ The stranger looked Grim in the eyes for a moment, and Grim saw no malice there.

‘Get me some ale, and I’ll explain.’

The two dervishes sat at the campfire, Roan was sleeping in the tent. Even though Grim did not believe his attacker to be evil, he had taken his scythe from him. You can never be too sure, he thought. ‘I was… sent here, so to speak. To find Grim and to kill him, before he takes more lives.’ Grim was taken aghast. Take more lives? What was he talking about?

‘But your mercy has convinced me that you are no killer, so now I wonder: what are you then?’ Grim looked his “guest” straight in the eyes, before saying: ‘You still haven’t answered my question. I asked who you are, and you gave me no name. As for me, I am indeed Grim. Grim Mortbane, and I hail from Istan. I’m here to compete in the Norn Tournament.’

The other dervish seemed to be lost in thought for a while. When he finally decided to speak, Grim was surprised. ‘Seen the circumstances, I think it is in both our best interests if you know who I am. My name is Nolran Cor Raebuem. I’m one of the leaders of a select group of individuals, the Brotherhood of the White Dove. The Brotherhood is a group of… talented people such as yourself, that seeks to track down and eradicate practitioners of black magic and other malevolent beings. I think you could call it a guild, but we prefer to work in the shadows. I lead a fraction of this “guild”, so in theory, you could say that I sent myself here. The task was originally meant to be fulfilled by Xandra, a member of the Brotherhood, but she is currently busy on a mission that involves an ancient artifact, the Staff of the Mists. Even though our source has asked specifically for the help of a Ritualist, I decided that I would be capable enough to handle any trouble here.’ Grim’s brain was working as quick as his body would allow it. Who would want him dead? And why a Ritualist? He came to a most disturbing conclusion. ‘What if your source doesn’t want me to win the Tournament? It is fairly common knowledge that Ritualists have dominated the Tournament ever since they found their way to the north, so that would explain the specific need for one.’ Nolran nodded, took a deep breath and finished his ale before he answered. ‘I was thinking the same thing. When I asked around town in Olafstead, they told me I could find you travelling in the direction of Gunnar’s Hold. You were heading for the Tournament, and right into the arms of our source.’ Grim finished his ale too. ‘Who?’

‘Magni the Bison.’

A night and a day later, the three travellers arrived in Gunnar’s Hold. Grim took the lead of the party, being the oldest and most experienced of the three. He stepped up to an old looking Norn and asked the most burning question that was on his mind: ‘Where can I find Magni the Bison?’ The old man pointed in the direction of a set of stairs without speaking. While walking, Grim asked Nolran if all Norn were like this these days. ‘He doesn’t know you. Apparently he has never heard a tale about any of your endeavours, so he does not deem you worthy enough to speak with him. You will find most Norn to be that way, but since the Tournament is open for everyone to enter, I suppose Magni will be more talkative than most Norn.’ Upon reaching the giant Norn, Grim kept a cool composure, in the knowledge that this was the man that wanted him dead. Magni, however, looked at him casually and asked with a heavy, bellowing voice: ‘Hey there, dwarf! What can I do for you?’ Grim, standing upright, was still at least two feet shorter than the giant. Nevertheless, he put his strong voice and body language to good use. ‘Word has reached my ear that you would rather not have that I enter your Tournament. Care to explain, Norn?’ Roan looked in awe to his father as he stood up to the tall man. The Norn, however, burst into bountiful laughter. ‘Now why would I care who enters the Tournament? I’d crush all contestants in the same round! Why should I be worried over a shrimp like you? Who are you, anyway?’ Grim was about to announce his name when Nolran stepped in. ‘Two weeks ago you contacted the Brotherhood. You wanted Xandra to rid your lands of Grim. More than this information, we did not receive.’ The Norn looked at both Dervishes, noticing that they were equally tall, and they were tall by human standards. ‘I believe you did not get all of the information then. Xandra is needed to exorcise a foul spirit named Tanto the Grim, not some flimsy human with no tales to tell and heads to boast of.’ Nolran threw a glance at Grim, giving him the word. ‘My name is Grim Mortbane, son of Argus Mortbane, of Norn ancestry. I can become the bear and my tales are only told when I want them to be. May the Wolf teach you that tales are but words and that deeds are what counts, and may the Raven take you to higher plains of wisdom. I for now must go, I have a spirit to put to rest.’ With those words, Grim turned around and beckoned Roan to follow him. Nolran stayed behind a little longer to exchange information with Magni. Grim knew somehow that he would see the Dervish again before he would confront the spirit.

The spirit. No one stains the name my father gave me.

He wasn’t even finished setting up camp or the very Avatar of Balthazar stood before him. Roan looked at the armoured giant with a glimpse of interest, but when the Avatar turned into the strange dervish from before, Roan was bored again. ‘Well, this explains how you could travel so fast, I guess.’ said Grim. Nolran smiled at him, a bit exhausted by the effort of staying an Avatar for a prolonged period of time. ‘I have fought you and I won’t believe you don’t have the ability to turn into an Avatar. You are smart to make yourself seem less than you really are.’ Grim continued setting up camp while talking. ‘I’m not really the person for Balthazar’s Avatar. I’m more of a Grenth-person. Balthazar is too violent for me, he will have war indiscriminately. The casualties are not important to him, only the battle. Many good men, Norn, Dwarves, Asurans and even Charr have died because of him. Following Grenth, I can at least petition for his mercy towards the ones I kill.’ Nolran understood him, and instinctively saw the link to Roan. He decided to help a hand, knowing this was not the time to talk. Before long, the three sat around the campfire with a warm drink and some meat. Silence ruled.

Silence was broken. Nolran, who was on watch, felt the hairs on his body stand upright, and he was sure that the cold had nothing to do with it. He yelled at the others, who were sleeping in the tent. The moment he yelled, the tent caught on fire. Nolran sprinted back to the camp but suddenly he felt his knees weaken. The spirit was here. Nolran looked at the burning tent, hoping fiercely that his yell had been loud enough. A quick, dashing figure carrying a young Charr confirmed his hopes when it shot out of the tent, scythe in hand. Grim put down Roan near the campfire and immediately made a mad dash for Nolran. Nolran didn’t have enough strength to keep himself standing anymore, his knees felt like they were about to fall to pieces. Grim caught him before he hit the ground, looking terrified to see another life lost for no good cause. Nolran, however, assured him with a quick, strong nod that he was okay, so Grim put him down to the ground. The tent was almost completely consumed by the brightly burning fire, so Grim had enough light to see his surroundings. Looking around frantically, he held his scythe diagonally in front of his body, to offer him the best protection. The spirit would not show itself, staying invisible until it drove Grim crazy. ‘WHERE ARE YOU!?’ he shouted, only to be answered by an awkward silence. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, being carried away on the ever-changing rhythm of the wind. The wind! Having picked up several Elementalist-qualities, he knew how to counter the spirit’s cloak of invisibility. Grim attuned himself to the air, feeling every movement, obstacle and cold spot that the wind carried along. And that cold spot was at his left. He swung his scythe intuitively, and a soul rending shriek told him the spirit had eaten some metal. The spirit, now visible because of the pain, immediately went for Grim’s throat with his long nails. Grim bashed his scythe grip upwards into the chin of the spirit, causing it to stagger back a step or two. While the spirit was recovering from the blow, Grim felt a hot, infected cut in the side of his neck. His experience told him it was just a superficial wound, but it hurt like hell and he knew it would mean serious trouble if the fight was going to last longer. Grim knew he was poisoned. The spirit hadn’t fully recovered yet, so Grim decided not to wait and to cut to the action. He jumped forward, twisting around in the air, scythe close to his chest. Right before reaching the ground he swung his scythe out at the spirit, cleaving it’s head. Thinking the battle won, Grim nearly lost his life when he lowered his scythe. The spirit, it’s head severely wounded, still stood upright and brought up a hand. ‘Fool! Trying to kill a dead one!’ A blast of purple-green miasma shot from the spirit’s hand at Grim. With the poison having tapped his strength, Grim was unable to duck aside and the miasma hit him right in the chest. Grim flew several metres backward and hit the ground with a smack. The spirit walked up to Grim, ready to finish him off. Grim tried to get up but he just didn’t have the strength. Praying for a faithful intervention of the gods, he prepared himself for the final blow. Closing his eyes, he knew rest was coming to him soon enough. No god could save him now. Idle hope fled his mind as he readied himself for the Mists. But the final blow didn’t come. When Grim opened his eyes, he saw Nolran standing again, between him and the spirit, with his scythe ready. Grim was surprised to see Nolran upright, seen as he was laying around with no power in his legs just a minute ago. But now he stood there, firm and ready. The spirit readied another blast of miasma, but Nolran was one step ahead. In one swift, flowing motion, he cut of the hand of the spirit and hacked his scythe in the chest of the creature. Nolran put a foot next to the scythe, and he kicked the spirit away while he jerked his scythe loose from it’s chest. The spirit struggled to stay standing, and Nolran turned to Grim for the shortest of moments. In a flash, Grim could feel his strength returning, knowing that Nolran was imbuing him with health. Grim grabbed his own scythe and climbed to his feet, thanking both the gods and Nolran for his life. He wasn’t ready to go yet. He still had Roan to care for, evil spirits to put to rest and foreign lands to travel to. He and Nolran both looked at the spirit, then at each other. With a quick nod from Nolran, Grim knew they were thinking the same thing. Grim stepped up to stand beside Nolran, and they both raised their hands. A white string of light came whirling down from the sky to their hands, down their arms. Four Dervish-eyes were glowing of the purest white, and as one entity, the two comrades rushed forward. Their scythes swung upward from their feet, making contact at the same time, and the banishing strike finished it’s track when it exited the spirit’s body, both scythes at the same time. The creature screamed, trying to hold on to the earthly realm. Grim’s eyes dimmed, and he looked surprised the spirit wouldn’t die down. Nolran seemed to be equally surprised at the strength of the spirit, and for a moment they doubted they would be able to defeat it. That very moment, a small, steel tip penetrated the body of the spirit. Roan had fired an arrow and it had hit it’s target. The spirit was unable to keep it’s focus and was blown away on the wind, releasing a final howl that soon dissolved along with the storm. Moonlight broke the clouds apart and rest settled down in the Varajar Fells.

Nolran was the first to spot Gunnar’s Hold, and with the scythe over his shoulder, he walked firm once again. ‘Are you still going to fight in the tournament?’ Grim looked at his new friend, thinking a little while before answering. ‘I think I might just do that. Sounds like fun to get into action again. Last couple of years have been awfully dull, not to mention the last few days. Absolutely nothing exciting ever happens.’ Nolran grinned. ‘Tanto isn’t gone for good yet. Xandra will have to look into it later. At least he’s gone from here, so I would consider it a job well done.’ Grim stayed silent for the remainder of the journey, but while walking he put a hand on Roan’s head. Pride filled his chest looking at his son. As they reached the gate of the town, they noticed a giant campfire on a cleared square. The light of the day didn’t make the fire any less welcome. Tired as they were, they sat down in a circle around it. Nolran looked at Grim and Roan, knowing there was something Grim was thinking about. ‘What will you do after you win the tournament, Grim?’ The other Dervish took of his gloves to warm his hands at the fire. ‘I don’t know. Win another one. Kill some Titans. Maybe chase a spirit that pissed me off. I’m not quite ready to retire yet.’ Nolran laughed. ‘I suppose I could count you as a special member of the Brotherhood, then. Feel free to help, you’re always welcome. We own a nice island somewhere of the Tyrian coast. It’s quite pleasant there.’ Grim welcomed the offer with a warm feeling settling down in his heart. He had a purpose again.

A huge Norn approached the party. Judging him by the beard since the face was hardly recognisable from a sitting position, Grim guessed it was Magni. Magni looked down at the party and knew the spirit was gone instinctively. He beckoned for some ale and sat down with them. ‘I can see off your shining faces that Tanto is gone. Great job at that. Now you finally have a tale to tell, human.’ he said looking at Grim. Grim smiled at Magni, accepting a mug of ale from a large Norn woman. After emptying the complete mug, he said: ‘Oh, it’s not my tale to tell. It’s Roan’s.’