The Vixen Queen: Prologue

The greatest weapon of control is the chase.

Always make them chase, and always give a half-reward.

May it become a cycle, a wheel which ever turns,

where they chase and chase and chase after you,

and never catch up.

• Grimoires of The Dark Moon

The 360th Year of The Nordur Imperium

The 19th Year of The Reign of King Ragnar XII

4A Y360

BAEDSTEN

Her eyes were familiar. A deep, intense violet, that warped his vision each time he looked upon them, pulling reality around him into a tunnel, with all else but her…blurred and irrelevant. There was magic in them, he was sure of it. Magic was easy to spot, but not always easy to identify, depending on the source. Comparatively speaking, whatever this woman was packing was an enigma wrapped in a mystery, with a giant sign saying, ‘Hey! I’m someone you might know from somewhere, and I might practice a magic that you’ve got a particular weak spot for.’ He shuddered, racked by an icy chill that was egged on by the nails she traced along his calf. I might be in danger with this one, he laughed to himself and took a long draw of his pipe, and exhaled. This woman…

She lay across him, her thick black hair falling like a dark blanket over his legs and onto the earthen colored bedding below, her rosy pink lips pulled into a grin. Ganzig found himself sucked in again, like his head was being shoved in an ice cold bucket of water filled with apples — a cruel joke among the Chinids. A classic. Everyone knows you can’t fall for that. But this is Baedsten. Not Chinid. And you…are more known to me than either. So familiar…what secrets are you hiding?

With significant effort, he managed to break free of her gaze once again. The woman snickered, a click of her tongue. The chill intensified. His fingers clenched the wooden pipe tighter as he eyed her, suspicious but amused.

Ganzig took another long draw from the pipe, creating a saturated orange glow within the bowl. The spiced apple flavor of the tobacco washed across his tongue. Chinid weed. Good for dulling the senses…amongst other things. I mean, I can’t speak for everyone else, but I’ve yet to find a more potent aphrodisiac. Also a plus, it calms the nerves. Ugh, I can’t even think about that yet.

He blew out, suddenly noticing the warped sense of time within the room, how it felt isolated from every other thread within The Weavers’ hands, from every thought within their infinitely omniscient minds. Is that because of her? Or is it the trauma about to unfold for everyone in this kingdom once it’s reported that Asher and his men are on their way across The Rissard Sea. Which, of course, it will be reported. Obviously. Only a fool wouldn’t take a chance like this, and Asher’s no fool — Scurra’s delight, I think that’s enough of the pipe for now. Eh, one more draw, call it a good luck charm.

He sucked in, the warmth of the smoke batting the effects of the woman’s charms. Mysterious, crafty fingers of spiritual rapture pined for him, reaching their strong but bony tendrils in his direction, hoping to get a grip on his soul. He had felt it many times before in his millennia long existence. It was an unmistakable beckoning, like the bright aura of a flame calling out to moths as they fly by, ever so close to danger, ever so close to pleasure. A thin current of red began to swirl about her as her fingers moved, as if they were dispensers of scarlet ribbons of the finest satin.

The smoke blew out into the stale air of his still, small home, coating the immediate area in a thick white haze reminiscent of a morning fog. He raised his own fingers and played with it, smirking at the thought that his fingers were dispensing their own ribbons, white to juxtapose the red. He cast a moving image on it, depicting the old Karhai legend of the binding of Tjilbrud — a history he longed to repeat, to slay that savage beast. The scene dissipated with the smoke and Ganzig was left in the vulnerable state of limbo between sadness, grief, and recklessness as he looked around his room.

Knick knacks lined the walls and numerous racks of shelves, souvenirs from the thirteen hundred years he’d spent traveling across Teleria. Dragon bones from Nihen. Journals and books from Sunterran shops and old, dusty Jadar libraries and basements. A copious collection of booze and tobacco from all the hotspots: Brette, Chinid, Silica, Gallica, Two-Cities, Dalaï, Slavi. All of them alongside various other accouterments and relics given to him on his journeys, including dried mushrooms, flowers, herbs, and a plethora of concoctions for medicines and alchemy alike.

Straight ahead was an altar to The Triune, perhaps the last one standing anywhere in The Cosmos. He kept their memory alive, but just barely. Their patronage had grown weak over the years since Tjilbrud was unleashed. So close to vanishing, just like The Karhai themselves. All except a few.

The three gods were arrayed upon a single carving, made of ivory that had turned a yellow-cream. Ongor, Baiga, and Iredui, tall and in their white robes, reached out their hands to form akabra. A group channeling of power that should have been extinct, rotten and decayed from infection. He had felt it slipping away for a while, even growing stale — but then, it evened out. Now, it was beginning to find a resurgence. What reason did a gods magic continue to hold strong for their servant, despite their retreat from his realm and a dark spirit poisoning them? The question had gnawed Ganzig incessantly for the last few hundred years. Especially because, for the first time in thirteen hundred years, it was stronger than ever.

Wait…I’ve been here before. Not this exact sequence of events, but something of the same essence. Those scarlet ribbons…they’re more than ribbons, aren’t they? They’re threads, being pulled so that the veil in front of me slowly reveals what it’s been concealing. Me, sitting here pondering questions I should never find the answer to. I swear the last millennia at least have been lived in a constant fugue state, like I’m under some sort of spell I wasn’t aware was cast. Oh gods…literally whoever…why do I have a bad feeling about this?

He quested at the threads as they settled. They swirled down, ever slowly towards their semi-horizontal bodies — movements of spirit, vessels of divination. Vibrating, singing, they called out frequencies of yearning….and an immanent presence. The host? Unidentifiable as of yet, but he had his suspicions. It was a decent explanation for the yearning as well. For him, the source of such intense attraction was clear. But is it her? If it is it might explain my brooding, contemplating the centuries of explorations between the various lands of Teleria, searching endlessly for a way to break Tjilbrud’s Bind, revive the oasis out of The Wastes, to end the suffering…only to remain unfulfilled. Like the air of familiarity about this woman, it was always just out of reach, veiled and elusive, not not out of view. All the while she spreads her spell upon my weak and vulnerable mind. Typical. It really might be her after all.

Ganzig shuddered.

“You’re sad,” the woman finally said in a low voice. “I could fix that, you know.”

Ganzig sighed. “You already did what you could.”

“More than that,” she added, taking control of Ganzig’s gaze once more. His eyes were guided, as if by magic, over her bare, slender figure. Magic…what magic? Her magic, something enticing, enough for me to wander over this seemingly endless, smooth porcelain landscape. Enough to get lost in it. The gentle, sloping curves. The comforting, plump breasts. Little points of pink. The sharp contours of her face. Those violet eyes. Oh, those eyes…

“You want to be happy,” she added, warping reality around him and trapping Ganzig within it. The nails became like a beat, a rhythm, lulling him into hypnosis. He did his best to fight it, and steadily failed. “Fulfilled. Of service. To know that your additional years of existence weren’t undeserved, that someone besides you benefitted from your survival.”

Ganzig gulped and eyed her suspiciously, raising an eyebrow. “And you can do that?” he asked smugly.

“Yes. Of course.” The woman shrugged.

“If that’s your plan, you’re going to need a lot more than what’s between your legs.”

The woman chuckled, haughty, seductive, and bone chilling. Oh fuck. It’s her, isn’t it?

On the verge of revelation, the hypnosis hit stasis as a knock rapped against his door. The woman was unphased, as if it was all part of her plan. Her eyes motioned towards the door.

“You might want to get that.”

Ganzig’s heart turned to water, but fluttered as it fell like rain.

Hah. Yeah. I don’t like that one bit. Coincidences don’t exist. But alright, witch. I’ll play your games.

Ganzig grunted as he shifted his weight out from under the woman. He stood and grabbed the maroon, silk robe from the end table, wrapping it around his thick torso and tying it tight. Another set of knocks rapped against the wood, more eager, with a hint of desperation.

Ganzig reached the door, clicked the lock and opened it. Baedsten’s cool, moist air swept across him. A refreshing, sobering wave. The streets outside were dark, with localized circles of warm light from the oil lanterns. In the small gap of darkness between the lanterns which flanked Ganzig’s tenement was a band of Loyalists, consisting of two Ealanites, a centaur, and a halfling. They looked upon him hopefully, as so many had.

“It’s time,” the young Ealanite in front stated with a seriousness that nearly turned Ganzig’s ancient, stone heart back into ice. “There are Jadar ships crossing The Rissard Sea. The Heralds have begun to move on the palace.”

He was barely a man, perhaps seventeen, and yet he found himself in a position Ganzig knew all too well: fighting for the soul of his people. It was exactly how Ganzig predicted. A foreign born, half-Ealanite Prince was on those ships with ten thousand men. His heralds had proselytized for two years, professing Asher’s generosity, his desire to see Baedsten and all of Ealan united with The Jadar. House Colt’s claim to the throne was hanging by a thread, despite their relation to the now defunct Mercer’s Royal Court.

Ganzig observed the others, finding in them the same spirit as the young man who delivered the news. The halfling seemed the oldest of the bunch, with a sea of wrinkles on his forehead betraying his age. The only female, the centaur, stood also as the strongest. Her legs were strong and steady on the cobbles. A bow hung around her chest, the bowstring nestled safely between her decidedly ample bosom. Deft hands hung at her sides, ready to mow down every Jadar soldier as fast as they could.

They cannot land. Marsden Colt had insisted. If they do, we will have a fight like we have never known.

In the distance, he heard the riders. The clacking of horseshoes upon Baedsten’s flagstone streets were like war drums, spreading chills across his body in a harrowing wave. Their voices, ghostly harbingers of future terrors. “All able bodied citizens to the battlements! Everyone else must shelter! All able bodied citizens to the battlements! Everyone else must shelter!”

Ganzig shifted and grunted away the ghastly visions. The what if’s. The thousands of Ealanites that could die under his support. The thousands of Jadar who would die opposing him. Tens, if not hundreds of thousands, between both continents, who would never be the same.

“The Thaewethens?” Ganzig asked, his deep voice a stark contrast to the boy’s. The warlock made sure there was no hint of apprehension in it.

“Five thousand strong, sir. On their way. Two thousand Iyentian cavalry, too, streaming down Royal Road as we speak at nearly full speed. The ships are ready to leave to meet them. Just waiting for you, sir,” the boy answered.

“Good.” Ganzig ran his hand nervously along the thick wooden frame of the door. He heard the shuffling of sheets behind him, and his heart turned back to water and sank into his stomach, drowning the butterflies. “Let…uh, let me get ready. Tell Marsden I’ll arrive at the battlements shortly.”

“Yes, sir.” The young man nodded, as did the others. “Thank you, warlock, for helping us.”

“We’re not out of it yet, boy. Stay strong.”

Ganzig saw the young man’s eyes fill with a balance of courage and fear as the door swung shut. The perils of war hung in the air now, an ever present terror, but the presence of something else overpowered them. Or rather, someone else. Disclosure had finally come. Familiarity became identity — and he was right.

Ganzig’s body seized with dread. His eyes went wide. Hair stood on end.

Rirris.

Eight hundred and fifty years she had followed him, finding him each time, no matter where he settled, even for a night. Her tricks never failed. He was always deceived.

His eyes were overtaken yet again, guided to the bed where the woman lay, one leg spread, the other angled, pulled close to her body. Hair parted, it hung down over her shoulders, covering her breasts in long, dark waves. She puffed on the pipe, blowing swirling, tangling mists that shrouded her face. As they cleared, her violet eyes held a light of their own. They stared out at him, locking him into their spells as she finally revealed herself.

“Hello, Ganzig,” she drawled, winking. “Miss me?”

“I’ve told you a thousand times,” he hissed, in both exasperation and exhaust. “I can’t be bought. I serve The Triune.”

The woman laughed through closed lips, which pulled into a smirk. “The Triune have masked themselves and left you frustrated, Ganzig. They’re about to be gone from this realm, just as your people are. But I’ve been here. I’ve been honest with you. You’ve known me for almost a thousand years, Ganzig. Have I ever brought you anything but pleasure?”

Ganzig’s skin crawled at the question. Yes. But that’s the problem. That’s what you do. But it’s shallow. I won’t share in your misery, witch. Yet, as always, he couldn’t bring himself to voice a full rejection of her invitation, nor a direct answer to her question. She knows my thoughts, too. This is just a fun game for her.

Rirris had continued to be his biggest fear since the very day he met her. Ganzig readily defined himself as reckless, at times a bit conniving and manipulative — but Rirris took it to a whole new level. Haunting him served many purposes to her, he surmised. Fun, for one. After forty-thousand years of immortal existence, she was probably bored and looking for a fun plaything. It surely didn’t help that she was tied in spirit, drawn by mutual attraction, to every lost cause in The Cosmos. He could only imagine what that must do even to a declinate’s self-esteem. And what does she choose to do? Fuck with them. Use them. Typical.

What really drove him mad was that he sensed a convergence on their paths, one that was inevitable, inescapable. Not even Freya herself could hope to change that fate. All he could do was prolong it. As much as he refused to accept it… he was a lost cause, and he was well too far within her grasp to escape now.

“You’ve brought me a lot of confusion…a lot of regret.” Oh, so much regret. Your calling card, patroness.

“And pleasure…” she reminded him, on all three comments. She wasn’t wrong. Not entirely.

“Be gone.” The words were strained, as if he didn’t really believe them. Had he the capability of being honest with himself…he didn’t. He was close to wanting her just as much as she wanted him. He always was. Her company was an odd comfort, strangely congruent. And that pleasure…oh…she’s not wrong on that.

“Hah,” Rirris scoffed, blowing another bout of smoke from her tantalizing lips. It traveled across the distance between them, wrapping around Ganzig like a lasso, tugging him closer to him. He was helpless to fight it — not that he really wanted to. “Oh, Ganzig. You just prove each time that you don’t want me gone. No. You want to be bound to me. You want to serve me…be my…oh, I won’t say slave.”

“No,” Ganzig denied halfheartedly, fighting listlessly against the steps she forced. “Say it.”

He reached the bed a few moments later. Rirris rose to her knees, set the pipe on the end table and came to him. He did everything in his power not to look upon her, and failed. The declinate witch was amused at his efforts — and at his easy defeat. Skilled, magical fingers ran down his neck, parting the robe and untying it.

“You know exactly how to cast me out,” she whispered, purple eyes gazing straight into his soul. “How to protect against me. Yet, you never do it. Always finding yourself strangely tangled up in me instead, asking me to confirm that it’s ok to want to be my slave.”

“I…” Ganzig stuttered as the robe fell. “Ugh…”

Rirris stood and walked to the set of steel armor hanging on the adjacent wall. Ganzig dutifully watched every step, wandering that porcelain landscape as if he was an explorer on the surface of her flawless skin. She beckoned him, prompting him to dress in his undergarments. He obeyed.

One by one, she assembled his armor — the greaves, cuisses, sabatons. She draped the chainmail over his head, fluffing it out so that it lay flush with his hips. Her sorcerous fingers unlatched the breastplate and placed it around his chest.

“You may be a powerful mage, Ganzig, but you can’t resist me much longer,” she taunted him as she worked, cinching the plate into place. “You’re already mine.”

“I won’t serve you.”

Rirris smiled coyly as she turned, and then wheeled back around with his vambraces. She locked them into place around his wrists. “I always hope you’ve figured it out and yet I walk away disappointed. I’m not going to have to force your hand am I? Ugh. I’m not here for that, though.”

Ganzig studied her, curious. She was surprisingly patient this time around, and that frightened him more than the ten thousand soldiers on their way from Mystara. “Then what are you here for?”

“To encourage you, of course,” she replied, as if there was any other possible answer. “You have a war to fight. A civil war, in fact. One in which many outsiders seek to influence the outcome.”

He squinted, his eyes straightening to a flat line. “Oddly specific description.”

“And a relevant one.” Rirris’s eyebrows raised with her answer. She handed him his sword, then his helmet.

“Relevant?”

“Oh, is it ever…”

Ganzig was hard pressed to remember a time he was so torn with contradictions. Confusion gripped him, but so did clarity. His constitution was firm, but he was so weak against her seductive charms. He longed for her promises, but knew their fulfillment came with caveats. Beggars can’t be choosers. Yet, destiny was set, as much as he longed to escape it. His soul was as good as wed to hers. Soon, it would be official, but he’d run as fast and as long as he could in an effort for it to not be so.

Rirris. Patroness. Witch. Declinate. I…no. No.

She granted him a pivot towards The Triune. He saw now, with deep mourning, that those old gods were growing cryptic and withdrawn. The chill returned to him as Rirris’ nails slithered up his exposed neck and into his hair.

“The Triune, once stark and powerful, now cold and distant…” she whispered, straight into his ear. A single finger tugged at his chin. He turned and beheld her, seeing her in a new form…an infinitely more intoxicating one. “Rirris, once cold and distant, now stark and powerful. I’ll have you, Ganzig Enebish, and you’ll have me…but not today. Today, I need you to win.”