The Dragon Queen of Thelvadore

If it weren’t for the entire situation, seeing a merchant caravan escorted by a group of mercenaries probably would’ve made for an amazing sight. After all, it was sort of peak fantasy adventure in a way. At the very least, seeing the dozen or so wagons all loaded up with goods and people pulled me in in ways that the rest of my time in this world hadn’t so far.

In the end, though, the atmosphere was far less fantasy adventure, and far more the sour clouds of loss and concern. Not all of which was directed to the situation at large.

The one to lead us was, naturally, the merchant. He was a middle aged man who seemed to be quite successful in his chosen career. Not the filthy rich kind, and I was pretty sure he was no noble–even I could recognise that he was far too chummy with the common rabble for that–but certainly successful enough in his own bracket of society.

He was obviously quite rattled by the entire situation, likely less so than after the initial attack, but even now, two days later of their own account, he seemed uncertain, even if he hid it well. In some ways I could sympathise. The man had a responsibility to look after the goods and people that were a part of this caravan, and while my own opinion on most merchants, especially in mediaeval settings like this, wasn’t exactly a good one, I was rational enough to realise that my biases were speaking louder than logic in that regard.

Yes, you needed a certain level of greed to be successful as a merchant, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t hold dear the lives of the people around you.

What concerned me more was the woman next to the older man. She was obviously an adventurer, and a mage, although I had trouble placing her exact style. To all outside appearances, she didn’t strike me as your average healer, yet according to the merchant in charge of this caravan, she was capable of such.

Then there were the things that were unlikely to be noticed by most common folk. Such as the fact that I would almost bet that she was more than just an elf. Personally, I had very little experience in judging someone’s race or heritage, considering the fact that I’ve only been in this world for a month at most, likely less. But I trusted the instincts I had inherited from Vuthe, and those were screaming at me that she was, at least in part, a spirit or a fey.

The scent of death hung over her like a cloud, although, contrary to how putting it that way made it sound, not in an unpleasant way. She didn’t wear it like a taint, as so many undead would do, but more like a pleasant–if very esoteric–perfume. Given that particular piece of context, I found it far more likely that whatever race she belonged to had natural affinity for death. It was part of her person, and from birth at that.

Intellectually, that worried me. Perhaps a natural reaction from any living being with a healthy instinct for survival. But that was all that it was. An intellectual worry, not one supported by my instincts. In a way, I was more worried about my complete lack of visceral reaction than the knowledge that this might be a death spirit of some kind. Stranger still, the more I observed her, the more I felt my instincts telling me the opposite of what my mind told me. That I could trust this person, specifically because of her affinity.

Despite the paradoxical nature of this feeling, it did make sense, in retrospect. Very few beings ever had a personal encounter with Death and lived to tell the tale. Additionally, there were very few natural sources of death affinity to be found in the world, so very few people would have any point of reference or experience with it.

Out of the few that did, Vuthe was quite far up on that list. Twice before had she cheated death, once when she was first reborn onto Satien, and once more when she had told Altis in no uncertain terms to fuck off because she hadn’t yet been done with her task. If one was generous, it could even be said that even my being here was Vuthe cheating death a third time, at least in some ways. After all, her soul and experiences remained, just inhabited by me. The details of that still weren’t clear to me, and maybe never would be, but it didn’t change the fact that I was able to draw upon all her experiences and wisdom.

So, perhaps, it really wasn’t much of a surprise that I found it so easy to judge those touched by Altis’ hand.

Still, I remained cautious. Instincts were well and good, but caution didn’t cost me anything and might save my hide in the future. Especially, given the glances she received from so many people present. For that, I had yet to find a sufficient explanation, and until I had, being a bit suspicious was warranted.

The older man led us through the group of people and past a few wagons, homing in on one who had the stench of blood and death about it. I mentally prepared myself to keep strong, considering that I hadn’t actually seen any victims of monster attacks so far. The last thing I needed was to collapse at the sight of a torn off limb or something. That would be wildly out of character for someone like Vuthe, an ancient dragoness who had, supposedly, sown death and destruction for millennia.

Collapsing just from seeing a few wounds definitely didn’t fit that image. But I knew myself well enough to realise that I, as the person now inhabiting Vuthe’s body, was not used to wounds, and had frequently freaked out when I saw some gnarly wounds before.

As we got closer, though, the mage suddenly stopped. I had kept part of my attention on her, in case trouble ensued, so I was the first to notice and react to her sudden halt.

I came to a stop only a few steps ahead of her and turned, surprised at what I saw. Up until now, her expression had been neutral, not betraying any thoughts or emotion. Now, however, she had a very solemn expression on her face. A moment later, the rest of our group noticed the sudden halt, and came to a stop as well, everyone turning around to glance at the Mage.

“Swordsman Luca Velhein has passed on.”

Her voice was soft, although it somehow still carried. Many of the nearby people stopped whatever they were currently doing, everyone turning to her. I watched, curious, uncertain what to make of it.

“Are you certain?” The one to speak was the merchant, his voice taught, although without any malice.

“Yes. My apologies.” The mage bowed deeply.

A short moment of silence followed, before she straightened herself. I watched the display. For all the uncertain–sometimes even hostile–glances the people present had given her, they didn’t seem to doubt her words.

Perhaps they were aware of her nature? We hadn’t received any proper introductions yet, but it wasn’t a stretch to believe that they exchanged some words if they were travelling together for a longer period of time. I decided that it was worth asking.

“May I inquire as to how you know such a thing?”

Many of the eyes now turned to me, but I ignored them. The woman I had addressed, for her part, didn’t reply with any words. Instead, she held out her right arm and closed her eyes for a brief moment. I could feel her magic come to life, her Intent carried out, like a solemn lonely voice, quietly singing that which should be offered by a choir. It was a strangely melancholic feeling, one equal parts soft yet also holding a certainty that pierced through the chaos and noise of the world around us. A lonely tune, one that was not powerful by any means, yet one that guided those that were lost with ease. In many ways it was so very different from my own experience with magic.

Within a moment the world obeyed her, and with a soft orange glow something appeared in her hand. The shape expanded, and a few seconds later she held the hilt of a scythe. It was equal parts entirely ordinary, and elegant beyond mortal ken.

“I am a servant of the Guardian of the End. It is my duty, and the duty of my kin, to assist the Shepherd of Souls to guide those that have passed on into the loving embrace of eternity.”

Her words were soft, gentle, yet carried in the same way they had before, and I was mildly surprised by how little reaction the display received from those around us. Oh, sure, everyone present didn’t exactly seem happy to witness it, and not just a few were quite tense. But the surprise and shock was missing. In their stead I found resigned acceptance.

The woman fell silent, and even I wasn’t daft enough to miss what was happening. With unhurried motions, she drew a circle in the air with the tip of her scythe, before she cut through the invisible formation in a single motion. Magic spilled out, potent enough that even those without any training should be able to sense its presence, even if they couldn’t make out what was happening.

To my senses, though, the display was quite spectacular. Magic didn’t have colours or sounds or tastes in the traditional sense, although the experience could be likened to the same, as I did earlier with the feel I had gotten from her style of magic in the form of a singing voice. Whatever ritual she had invoked, for that was clearly what was happening, brought forth an atmosphere of solemnity. Goosebumps raced across my body as a strangely familiar feeling settled over us. One I had never experienced myself, but Vuthe’s body remembered.

Feeling a touch of death, even this far removed, probably would’ve sent me into shock not a month prior. Yet here, feeling Altis' presence was almost soothing. I knew immediately that they weren’t here personally, the one to guide the departed soul wasn’t the Shepherd of Souls themselves, but one of their agents. In this case, the mage currently performing the ritual.

It was such a profound experience, despite the complete lack of power at display. Truly, this was the prime example of Intent being more important than raw power.

The ritual lasted for perhaps a minute, before it slowly started to subside. Thirty seconds later, the woman who had cast it, let out a long breath, slowly lowering her arm, the scythe in her grasp quickly dissipating into motes of orange.

“This is all I could do for him. To ensure that his eternal rest could not be disrupted by foul magick.”

Silence settled over everyone present, the experience having left all of us quite… touched. Eventually, though, I forced myself out of my stupor, and turned my attention back to the merchant who was still watching the Mage with awe and trepidation.

“I hate to upset the mood, but there are others that need our help, no? Best hurry before Altis has the solemn duty to accept more of their souls.”

My attention had been on the merchant and the wagon behind him, the one he had led us towards, but I didn’t miss the sudden jerk of the head that the woman who had just performed the ritual gave in my direction. Surprise was written there, although she schooled her expression quickly.

Mentally, I sighed. I really had to get their names at some point. Referring to them simply as ‘the mage’ or ‘the merchant’ in my head was getting tedious.

“A-Ah… Yes, p-pardon me. Please, in here.” The man in question visibly gathered himself, before he turned towards the wagon that held the rest of the wounded.

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