Myharl (prime)/Reunion with Icemule Trace (short story)

This is a creative work set in the world of Elanthia, attributed to its original author(s). It does not necessarily represent the official lore of GemStone IV.

Title: Reunion with Icemule Trace

Author: Myharl

This is a vignette prequel explaining Myharl's motives and interests in becoming involved in the current storyline events happening in and around Northwatch. Takes place at sundown on the Giantman Path in Commerce Burrow of Icemule Trace on Tilamaires the 30th of Lormesta, 5124.

Myharl's introspective gaze was unyielding and dissociative of the spindrifts that danced across the granular verglas covering the cobbles of the Burrow. As the susurrus of the frigid breeze spun to psithurism through the barren limbs of the ancient oak, a spattering of marcescent, umbral leaves shuddered free of their bonds and caught his attention. His eyes followed the liberated trio as they drifted wayward to the ground near where he sat. He mused upon whether his own countenance was as abject.

The old man, gnarled and outstretched above him, had been his attentive companion in years past; ever listening, ever patient. It was why the kindred had so often chosen this spot for contemplation. The days when Myharl frequented the streets of Icemule Trace seemed a lifetime past, but there was a comforting nostalgia in finding himself once more lost in thought here at the brim of the city's wall.

His fingers twitched upon the deeply incised surface of the veil iron ark seated in his lap. The vessel remained half-cloaked in the backpack where he always kept it. Becoming cognitively aware of its presence once more, his thoughts shifted to the artifact vaulted within.

"No beginning. No end. Endless cycles borne upon endless cycles." His deep voice carried a hushed growl as he contemplated the nature of the form power so often manifested into the physical. He spoke to the old tree almost as if he expected it to expel some wisdom in reply to his wandering thoughts.

Moving his fingers across the aurate dragons crowning the ark, he pushed upon the small golden disks, releasing the mechanism locking it. As he slowly lifted the lid his visage became illuminated by a fiery glow from within as the tendrils of shadows writhing around his body slowed to a near stationary remiss.

Time seemed to slow as the rift widened, revealing the artifact within. He felt the relentless pull anchoring his soul to the shadowy orb as the fiery eye bound within bore its gaze into him, flames of wrath stirring just beneath the surface of his awareness.

Myharl's eyes donned a tenebrous hue as dark veins spidered across his muscular arms, careening beneath his dark skin towards where his hands braced the ark. He searched the depths of the dark sphere for answers, but none were revealed.

Shadows were moving in the North.

Three days earlier Myharl stood alone atop the ruins of Angargreft in the Hinterwilds, bound in his vigilant wyrmwatch, when the auroral sky was cloaked in total darkness. A stygian void roiled across the Frostmain until forming a maelstrom of shadow that descended upon the bier where the living corpse of Zerroth, avatar of V'tull, lay in eternal repose.

With fire and ash, the servants of the dark champion descended to awaken the berserker, and for a long while he stood at the edge of the world, his wrath unleashed upon the destroyers. Soon, others joined in felling the fiery gigas until their forces were exhausted, but not before Zerroth's escape.

It was upon his trek south to warn the city council of Icemule Trace about the V'tullian incursion and rise of Zerroth that he learned of a mysterious cult plaguing the city, of evil gatherings, murder, and dark forces seeking an orb of power.

The cacophony of battle flooded Myharl's senses. A growing rush of discord radiated from the depths of the shadow-suffused ball, and the metallic twang of bloodlust permeated his tongue as his gaze was held fast by its blazing slit-pupiled eye. Feeling himself falling into unbridled rage, he quickly slammed shut the ark's lid.

Instantly the stillness of the Burrow replaced the draconic roar tearing through his mind, proceeded by a tintinnabulate whine to remind him of the sphere's dark power. His curse.

With an exasperated sigh, he shoved the ark deeper into the backpack before fastening it and heaving it over his shoulder. He addled his head as he stood, reappropriating his focus.

His towering height was made all the more apparent in scale against the nearby stone fortification as he glanced towards the sky. The overcast in the east had dimmed to near pitch, and a narrow glow across the western horizon was the only hint of the waning day. Overhead a dim silvery-white lucense brumed, cast by the waxing face of Liabo stationed high above the cloud cover.

It was nearly time.

Myharl's reunion with Icemule Trace was not happenstance — he had arrived with purpose. The kindred had heard the call Councillor Opalina to gather a party to search the city for the “Orb of Kai” with the Council's hopes of obtaining such an artifact before it could fall into the hands of their enemy.

He would lend his hand and do his part to help realize their goal. His intent was partly bound by his sensibilities. He felt it was the right thing to do, but mostly his commitment was to reassure himself that his own curse and the artifact that bound his soul were not intrinsic to the mysterious plot befalling the city.