The Wyrmblood Viking - Excerpts

[Telkar]

Eldur Valgeirsson

In the first post, there is succinct information about the character. In the posts that follow are scattered excerpts from his life in third person mostly.

Other biographies mentioning Eldur or Kolgrim

The following are some perspectives on Eldur from other biographies. I divide them into those that give a significant insight as major and those that mention him briefly as minor.

Major

• Monica Belmonte
• Sera Patton
• Sable Hart
• Unuldor Jr'einfer
• Ciaran of Harmonia

Minor

• Morticia Corpori
• Elrawiel
• Jeffron

Just brief points to give the general gist of him.

Virtues

• Integrity, Honors his word
• Courage

Flaws

• Greed for material wealth
• Demonic appearance
• Trust issues and avoidance of emotional attachment to people
• Pride

Fears

• Undeath
• Betrayal

Motivations

• Establishing a close circle of experienced individuals with various skill sets and a common purpose
• Power. Wealth, Greatness
• Acquisition of rare and powerful artifacts

Summary of Major Events
A short description of Eldur's major events that have shaped him and others. (to come)

Youth (912 - 932 A.D.)

Eldur (Fire) was born in Gothic Earth in a valley called Hrútsstađir (Ram places) in  the northern island Iceland in 945 AD, some 15 years after its settlement era. His father was Valgeir Járnglyrna (Iron Eye) son of Svartur (Black), and his mother Freydís, daughter of Ármann the sorcerer. He had two younger twin sisters, Snćdís and Fönn (referring to snow).

Back then, he was entirely human (at least to look upon), but had the same fiery red hair, hence his name. He grew up under the strict rule of his father, the more kindly guidance of his mother and two annoying sisters.

His father was a very ruthless, unforgiving man in his tutelage of combat and did not tolerate failure well, even in mundane everyday tasks. His controlling nature often clashed with Eldur's rebellious spirit. This upbringing induced in Eldur a lasting resentment towards authority and yearning for independence, but also a drive to constantly improve himself and prove himself to his father (though he would not admit it himself). Eldur inherited from him his steely gray eyes, but none of his black hair.

His mother was softer in spirit, and kinder, nearly the opposite of his father in that respect, but she had a knack for soothing his father's harsh side. She was descended from a known sorcerer, and her lineage could be traced to much warmer lands in the south. She taught Eldur runes and rune magic and of other esoteric things like the language of dragons, although she never referred to it as such. His father was skeptical of such practices, but she claimed that's why she had power over him. Eldur retains some of her kind spirit, but it still battles with his selfish side to this day. He inherits his hair color from her.

His younger sisters often proved to be annoying pranksters. If he learned anything from them, then that is a healthy cautiousness.

From early age, Eldur often experienced dreams of flight and various things on fire. At a very young age, when he did not know better, he was very drawn to fire, but his mother managed to keep him at safe distance. In contrast, he showed extreme dislike for the cold. Since it was so frequent in Iceland, people eventually took to calling him Kuldagunga (Coldcoward) when they wanted to call him names. Those were the effects of an ancient draconic heritage inherited from his mother, originating in the far south, or another world.

His family owned a few slaves, one of which was a young woman named Ţorbjörg. She was the first woman to lay with him, and did so out of mutual attraction. To have forced his authority would have reminded him too much of his father, whom he had no desire of becoming. Having cared for Ţorbjörg leaves him with a bad taste in his mouth whenever he sees slaves treated badly, but he sees slavery as normal due to culture.

Aside for aforementioned things, Eldur led a life in tact with nordic culture, and had some skaldic interests, mainly in the area of poetry of warrior heroism. He had a best friend named Kolgrímur Kárason, and they had their small time adventures on the island.

From Death to the Mists (932 A.D. & 763 BC)

In the summer of his twentieth year, Eldur had the opportunity to join in "viking", a raid to southern lands. He took it, and so did his father and Kolgrímur. They reached Ireland's shores and went from town to town, killing and pillaging. Some would rape, Eldur not among them. He lusted more for the treasure, and would carefully inspect their intricacies after combat ceased.

In the last town Eldur's flock attempted to raid, they were taken by surprise by a superior force of Irishmen. He saw his friend riddled with arrows and his father pierced by a spear. The defeat was immediately obvious and he took to retreat back to the longships, which when he arrived, happened to be guarded by more hostiles, some of which came after him. He turned to the left to run up a hill, upon which more hostiles met him. He was surrounded, and he knew he would meet his death at that moment, but he still resisted.

Each time they closed on him, he backed further away. Thoughts of inducing the favor of the gods with forthright heroism befefore his passing were far from his mind. He wanted only to survive and only did what might possibly buy him more time in the world. When he was almost past the precipice behind him, where sea and sharp rocks waited, he managed to slay one of the assailants with a swift lash of his sword. After that moment, it was as if time stood still. He had a vision of expressionless Odin standing behind the assailants, then he was pushed past the precipice.

He was in free fall, then the world faded into a gray haze. He would not stop falling, but just as he felt like the fall was slowing, his consciousness faded as well.

Eldur awoke in Barovia. Initially, he did not know what to make of the situation. Was this death? Was he in Hel or Valhalla? He surmised it could be neither, and remembered his vision. He decided it must be a test of the gods of his worthiness. As time passed, he learned more of the lands of mists and of realms beyond it. He grew to know and fear the horrors of these lands and through his frustration with his powerlessness against them, he started to realize his monstrous heritage as if in response to this plight. Finally, he abandoned his initial conclusion and believes the gods found his heritage unfit for Valhalla and thus sent him here. In turn, he distanced himself from them in heart and mind, and found his own meaning in life.

Vampire Tragedy (764 BC)

Eldur acquired a few other outlander friends in Barovia, one of which was Sera Patton, a Helmite paladin from Toril. To him, she always seemed to end up in well avoidable dangerous situations, mostly due to her naive ideals of what is just and right. He came to love her for her purity, and hate her for her lack of self preservation. He knew it was but a matter of time before her actions would lead her to her final rest, so he tried to distance himself from her emotionally, but was still plagued by concern for her.

She eventually became involved with a Morninglordian paladin turned vampire named Aran. His good side outweighed his undeath to her, and she begun to help him with donations of blood. Eldur was disgusted by it, a behavior he deemed degrading for her as a living being. He could not sway her, and through a series of events, she caught other vampires' attention, thereamong Viktor.

Viktor was an old vampire who played with Sera's mind and eventually turned her into a vampire. Eldur tried to prevent it where he could, but the last time he saw her alive, he denied her the love she sought from him. To this day, he still regrets that decision, for he thinks it might have changed the outcome of her fate, but he keeps telling himself it was unavoidable.

He still kept her company in her vampiric state, but was torn between simply accepting the illusion of her and ignoring it. From what he knew, the undead held but an echo left of a soul that had already left. Out of the wish of honoring her in death, he eventually sought to end the mockery of her that still walked and slaved under Viktor. Liam Lockhart, a man he sometimes kept company, heard his concerns and strengthened his resolve.

In a barn in the Village of Barovia, under false pretenses, he plunged a stake through Sera's heart, but the barn accidentally caught on fire, and he was forced to flee outside. Viktor came by in desperation and tried to harm Eldur, but soon the sun was just starting to rise and he was forced to leave him be. The barn burned to the ground, and Eldur's tribute to fallen Sera was concluded.

After the event, he saw visions of Sera's betrayed face in the fire and in his dreams, seeding doubts about the justifiability of his actions. It was hard, but he endured them for a long time. The fact was that Sera was not destroyed as he thought, and still roamed, avoiding him, disguised. Eventually, the visions ceased, and one day she was destroyed by the hand of another.

He still keeps a ruby gem she gave him in life, embedded in a golden ring, and the events it reminds him of, induces a special kind of hatred in him towards vampires.

A Wanted Man (764 BC)

Sometime during and after the events with Sera and the vampires, Eldur had become involved with another woman called Joey. She was a bard with a very outspoken, and to Eldur, reckless personality. Their relationship started rather absurdly, with her sudden request that he provide her and her girlfriend Narell with a child. With his ego stroked, one thing led to another, and they became something of a unit.

One day in the Western Outskirts of Vallaki, Joey somehow managed to upset a garda and was taken to the citadel. She was beaten, and taken to the central square of town to be flogged for her offense. Unable to control his anger, Eldur flew into a rage and got into a fight with the garda about to flog her, in front of a bunch of other garda and other bystanders and outlanders. He was overwhelmed by the rest of the garda and the bystanders that came to their aid. He was forced to retreat and went into hiding in the Balinok mountains. After the flogging, Joey was released, but Eldur became a wanted man by the authorities of Vallaki. He had to lay low and change his name to avoid all the bounty hunters who wanted to take credit for his head. He became known as Kolgrímur. It was a name that had belonged to his childhood friend that fell in their raid on Ireland.

Joey and Eldur moved on from this insident, With persistence over time, the name Eldur was forgotten. Eldur himself became increasingly unrecognizable as the physical changes brought by his deliberate draconic transformation overwrote much of his human appearance. He couldn't help but feel some tinge of resentment towards Joey however after the whole ordeal and resentment towards himself for getting his feelings all tangled up with her in the first place. He saw it as a sign of weakness, and didn't want to be pulled back and forth by whatever reckless decisions she would make. He grew emotionally distant from her as a result.

Joey eventually bore his son Eldgrímur and made sure he was taken care of in Dementlieu. With his appearance changing the way it was, Eldur couldn't possibly see a way to be around his son without causing problems, so he opted to leave him be to grow up in peace.

Ezran Betrayal (765 BC)

In these days, Eldur made a number of close friends, there among the couple Sable Hart of Mielikki and Unuldor Jr'einfer the elven warrior sorcerer. They had their adventures across Barovia and quieter moments near Vallaki. At some point they started to convert to the faith of Ezra. This happened sometime while and after his ordeals with Sera and the establishment of the bounty on his head. Eldur wasn't very happy about this fact. In fact, he had come to distain the worship of any god, as if it were degrading and disempowering to those who would. Indeed, he was far from humble and full of ego, but still wished the same kind of self-focus for those he cared for, so they would be strong as well. This lead to many a heated argument, especially with Sable.

Sable and Unuldor became involved with the Fifth Sect of Ezra, mainly stationed in Zeklos Keep. It was still standing in those days. Marle Webber, seen by many as a saint, was a prominent member of this sect. It pained Eldur to see them fall in with this group which he thought was nothing short of fanatical. Over time, he could see the physical wounds Sable received from them, and in the end with the loss of an eye. At some point, she split up with Unuldor and left the Fifth Sect, but stayed an Ezrite. Unbecknownst to Eldur, she eventually happened to be taken away from lands of mists.

Time passed, and Unuldor stayed with the Fifth Sect. In those days, Eldur could still walk around in Port-a-Lucine without much undue attention. One day he happened upon Unuldor there. He still considered him a friend, so that's how he treated him. Unuldor was however in reality very different from how Eldur had known him. His time with the Fifth Sect and Marle had made him unswervingly aligned with its dark cause. For it, he used his old friendship with Eldur to lead him into an ambush where he and Marle turned on him. Eldur narrowly managed to escape. The only reason for this occurrence that he could think of was that to them, he was having a bad influence on Sable. In any case, he was quite shaken up by this event. It became one of the greatest contributors to his difficulty with trusting or getting close to people.





Clash of the Wyrmbloods(764 BC)
Revenge to the Wight (765 BC)
Banite Bashing (765 BC)
The Artifact Card (765 BC)
The Hounds and the Pearl (770 BC)

[Telkar]

With the crunchy sounds of frozen grass beneath his boots, and the clinking of armor chains, Eldur trudged through the forest of snow rimmed trees, in the bitter cold of winter. But the cold was the last thing on his mind now, being occupied of finishing an important task at hand. He held a very thin, inert and limp, black robed figure over his shoulder. Its pale hands protruded from its sleeves, though more like claws they were, long and sharp. From it dribbled black liquid, forming a dotted trail behind him. Eldur reeked of sour, burned acid from the earlier battle, and it stung his nose. He reached the riverbank, its waters clear and glimmering as they reflected the sun peeking past the clouds in the sky. He took a short survey of the area…yes, he had his privacy. There were none but the chirping birds around, audible from treetops on occasion.

He pulled off his helmet which was styled in the way of the Norsemen, and the long horns looped through the extra holes in the sides of it. He looked like a devil with those horns, his face hardened with scarlet scales, and his expression relentlessly focused.  He then crouched and set the body on the ground and turned his slitted eyes to the robed one musingly. He pushed back her hood and looked at her white, haggard face closely. Her eyes were still open, and incredibly lifeless, and her hair was short and black, with occasional streaks of red here and there. He moved the pointed tip of his metal clad finger to her pale lips, tugging down the lower one to reveal her teeth that resembled needles. He let out a grunt, a shame she had to fall to this state to begin with, he thought, as he recalled the little of her he got to know in her life. He retracted his finger and sat down in the grass, watching her features, which became more familiar with each passing moment, making her appearance in memory all that more clear.

He had back then been much closer to a human, able to pass amongst the Barovian people, and she was this young, pretty gal with long hair the shade of red. She smirked a lot, and often spoke with tongue dripping with sarcasm, portraying a sly quality that reminded him of a mink. Flashes of scenes in the outskirts of Vallaki struck him, of her in her fine black Dementlieu styled clothing, wearing long knee high leather boots and one of those fashionable hats they had there. He remembered how glad she was in the early days of receiving that hat. “Chic” she called it, and she had called him “monsieur Rausseau,” referring to the starkly red hair. He recalled a time when she had traveled with him, and someone else, up in the Balinoks. She mentioned him having fleas, as she did numerous times when he went through the period of having his scales growing out of his skin, resulting in much itching and scratching…ah, he had found those words so irritating, especially added onto all the itching.

In her life, she had aided him in saving a friend from a fate where she had been turned to stone beneath Dvergheim, by some creature they never got to see. She had come when he bade her, and worked the esoteric symbols on the scroll he brought, as only she could. It was Tarinyar that she saved, the same person of whom the wretched figure that lay before him, who called itself Sheltatha, had tortured and left for dead. Eldur made a distinction between what she was in life, and the thing that twisted her in death, stubbornly holding onto the notion that the undead are not the same people as they were in life. To him, they were the anti-life, and would always conflict with the living in their hate, jealousy, or desire for them. He wondered if perhaps she had chosen this state when she was alive? He had heard rumours of her long time ago, of deceit and demon worship, the latter making his opinion of her lessen, as he had always felt worship of anything degrading, be it a demon or a god. The closest he would get was reverence. He remembered one time, when he hadn’t seen her for a while, and he had begun to dwell in the Drain of the Vallaki sewers, his shape having become too inhuman to pass amongst the normal folks. She had been with some gaunt old man, with a face pale and parched, and they kissed. Maybe that man was a thing like she had become? He would never know, but he wished he knew how she had really been before falling to undeath. He wanted to know how he should remember Morrighan correctly, but all he knew was just bits and parts of a larger whole, so he couldn’t make up his mind.

Things shifted back to the stark reality of the moment. Sheltatha lay there still, upon whom he had inflicted his revenge for her crimes against Tarinyar, one of the most highly valued people in his life. Revenge was a message of warning to those who would dare harm, or take what was his, and there were more still on his list from whom he would demand compensation for their deeds. He never saw things in light of good and evil, and did not pick a side on that ground. All that mattered to him, was what he deemed his, things and people he somehow grew to care about, and strangers were nothing to him. He was a brute, animalistic force that protected his herd, demanding fear of his enemies, and respect from others. It would not come to a surprise that the hunters of the night became his targets more so than others, as they unknowingly tread on his toes when they find targets seemingly like any other, but then turn out to be those he deems to be of his flock, making all Hel loose upon them if Eldur could help it. It was time to finish one of those deeds…

He pushed himself to his feet with a grunt, his breath visible in the chill air, and begun gathering branches and twigs he found nearby, and piled them up like a funeral pyre. Then he turned to Sheltatha, raising his flaming halberd and drove the edge down on her throat, beheading her. He ran the flaming blade along the wood then, setting it afire, and pulled the body thereon. He watched it go up in flames as he took off his clawed metal gloves, revealing his scaled, taloned hands, and pulled up his sleeves. He then reached down to pick up the head by the hair, and held it out to the fire, meticulously burning away the pale skin. His hands were unharmed by the fire, but the heat gave him a giddily pleasurable sensation as usual. The black liquid oozed from the head as he peeled the burned skin off, humming a solemn, droning tune in old Norse.

Deyr fé,
deyja frćndur,
deyr sjálfur iđ sama.
Eg veit einn
ađ aldri deyr,
dómur um dauđan hvern.

In the end he had her skull, cleanly picked, white and slightly browned in places by the flames. It was clear it was inhuman, with rows of needle teeth. He glanced over to the pyre, the body now turned to ashes…and the flickering flames offered him the common vision of Sera. A peaceful feeling then washed over him, as it often did when he eradicated the walking dead. The world managed to feel a bit cleaner, every time.

[Telkar]

The lofty stone temple loomed over the field of grass, dirt and trees under an overcast sky. It was made of large dark bricks, reinforced with iron and its front emblazoned with symbols of the Lawgiver depicting a spear thrust upwards. The power of its facade, its steadfastness and relentlessness drew a sense of awe from a nearby spectator. None could see him, but he was there, sitting upon a large slab of rock, watching the structure with eyes that saw not as a human's, but with inexplicable depth. Eldur sometimes wondered how humans saw what he saw, he didn't remember how it used to be anymore. His mind tended to merge his memories with his current senses.

Despite his initial fascination with the building, it quickly reminded him of the premise it was built upon. It was done in subserviance to a god, something he had always despised. How could you ever become greater in subservience to anything but yourself? The thought took him back to the religious people he knew, now gone or somewhere he knew not. Asta was one, but to him her relationship with Thor had seemed more like a parnership or an agreement between mortal and deity. Another was Tarinyar. She saw common purpose with Hala but he knew she gained no power as such from her, nor did she kneel to her in subservience. He begun to think it must be up to the deity whether they require partnership or subservience. Of course that's it. He supposed working 'with' a god mightn't be so bad, but then he'd never seen one, except that one time when the mists took him the first time.

Others came to mind, ones he'd rather forget but never would. They invoked pain, shame, regret, hate and love within him. A soup of powerful emotions he now carefully guarded against. One was Sable. He had hated her for submitting to Ezra...to Marle. Another was Sera. He hadn't been pleased with her subservience to Helm, doing deeds in his name and not herself, often at nonsensical risk. She had dropped that, but then she turned to vampirism. A pang of regret always gripped his heart when he thought about that. What if I had done something differently. But he pushed such thoughts out of his mind. They would return later of course, unbidden...they always did.

He truly was cursed with finding great beauty in weakness, but he'd never admit it to himself. He purposefully blinded himself from seeing value in weak things, discarding them as irrelevant in his pursuit of what he believed to be of true value. Personal power, knowledge and the mastery of the world, sought for with worthy allies. It indeed was inherently of true value to him. The seductive promise of his ancestral bloodline had created an unquenchable void within him that would never go away. He always wanted more. But that human part of him would always be there.

He stretched out his mambrenous wings, flapping them once lazily before folding them again neatly over his scaly back. Then he glanced down the road he'd come from. There were bodies there under some cover, heretics most likely. They took them quite seriously here in Hazlan. He had seen burned houses further away labeled as the houses of heretics. He had little doubt someone like him would not be greeted with smiles and open arms were he to show himself. Though the land itself was of some interest. New places almost always were. He liked to see new beasts which were mostly in the forest. In fact, the scrag intestines he had gathered a moment ago had begun to sting his nose. He reminded himself to get rid of them at first chance.

For the most part the past year he had spent his time in hot, arid wastes of Har'akir, and probably would a lot more still. He liked the heat. It was purifying, a solace to a messed up past, and gave him focus on the future. The future...he had a child and a woman he used to call his wife, but no longer loved. He wasn't even sure if he ever did really love her. He did risk his life trying to save her from further torture at the hands of the Barovians what felt like years ago, but then he'd have done the same for Tarinyar and others similarly valuable. He thought perhaps it was better to leave love out of it. It made him loose control. As for the child, he was in Dementlieu...if all else failed at least the blood would live in him. He never liked being around children, besides he thought the boy would be better off alone than to have him around to draw more attention to him than he would already receive. He had a feeling he'd be no better father than his father was to him, in fact he found it laughable even to think of himself as one, monstrous as he was. No his place was in the field, in the raid, bloodshed and glory and the swaths of treasures it yielded. The only future for me.

Little use was in idling, dreaming of the future. So he went exploring these new parts the vistani had opened for him. While he had stayed with them in the mists he had noted other travellers there nearby around a campfire. Almost immediately after stepping out from the caravan could he feel the judging gazes. He just remembered then how much he hated that. He couldn't help but return a rather baleful gaze in return every time. One of them went inside a tent and returned a fully armored Ezrite he reflected with a sardonic smile. No wonder he had so few companions. Take a chance traveller and the odds would say they'd despise one another.

Of those few he had, some he trusted with his life, some more recent ones who at least were useful. Trust would take time and effort. He wondered what they were up to, what they had been up to while he  had lazed about in the desert. He just remembered Tarinyar being pregnant about a year ago. Great, more children.

He dug out an alexandrite gem from a pouch at his hip and held it between the black talons of his fingers and placed it on his cloven tongue and swallowed as he closed his ruddy mouth. He let out a light hiss at the sensation as the furnace within him started working on the gem. He slipped off the rock and down the dirt road away from the temple, smoke rising from his nostrils, not that anyone could see him. It was time to get something done.

[Telkar]

It was dark, except for a few fires here and there, and the mists roiled lazily about the campsite. The camp was made of caravans strewn about a grassy plane along with large tents here and there. Nearby, oxen ate their grass, and their owners, the dusky, colorfully clad vistani went about their business. A faint sound of their drums could be heard in the distance, as was usual in the evenings. They liked to play music and dance away the dark.

Eldur sat on a nearby rock at the edge of the campsite where the mists licked at his lower part, a little more than a shadow to the rest of the campdwellers. He was clad in a ruddy steel armor, made by himself, making it very closely fitting to his physique. The most important part had been to leave space for his wings in the back in a way that didn't make it bothersome to put it on, and didn't leave space for an easy access for a blade through his back. He wore it here because all manner of people came and went through this mist camp, and usually people bore him ill will. He had seen a new sign the vistani had put up, saying that any violence starters would meet their ire. He didn't find it very assuring. They had been powerless against the undead riders from Darkon that once raided their camp. If he hadn't been there to save them, he wondered if this camp would be here at all now. They still owed him for that and he didn't doubt they'd forget. They always seemed to be well in the know.

Not long ago he had interacted with two people, one of whom he knew well, or in the least he liked to think so. He had spotted Eldur where he sat now, a man of the name Ingwulf, or Ingúlfur as Eldur liked to call him, in line with the tongue they shared. Ingwulf had always had a strangely uplifting effect on him, reminding him of the world they had once shared, and now lost. Why the norns had woven such a fate for them, he would never truly know, but he knew they had both been mistled after they had wetted the earth with blood...

They had never met in Midgard, yet they were from the same little nordic island. Their people had been free, proud and owed fealty to no king, making a living by bold raid, trade and harness of land and sea. The bond they shared through those roots was well felt by each. The difference remained that Eldur had lived in the misty realms for a good while longer than Ingwulf, while Ingwulf was older.

They sat on the rock and exchanged news. Eldur had little to share from his time in the desert. Things were simple there. He mostly slept, killed, looted and ate. A primal existence. Ingwulf however had spent his time in Barovia, where things became a bit more complicated. He spoke of an ice witch with a frozen face he had slain just outside the Lady's Rest inn near the walls of Vallaki in Barovia. She, by the name Elissa had received Ingwulf's help under the false promise of finding a way to slay the wyrm beneath Dvergheim once and for all, but he had found out she wished to free him instead. He had to protect his honor, so what happened happened. Eldur would have meted out revenge himself would he have been in the same shoes, be it death or satisfactory humiliation. It depended on the grievance. It would be for honor, though his stance towards such had greatly changed in his time here. Once he might have died for his honor, but now he found little honor in dying. He no longer believed that the halls of Valhalla awaited him. He was creature of fire and wyrmblood. Surtr's spawn. In fact he sometimes wondered how Ingwulf tolerated him. Did he think him as a victim of his 'condition'? Eldur had inflicted it upon himself because he wanted it. Craved it. Perhaps Ingwulf was just as lost to the gods as he was...

Now Elissa had risen again through some sorceries. After his time with Ingwulf, she also came by the mist camp and spoke to Eldur. Only then did he hear her name, but she had appeared to him before, much more timid. When she spoke to him at this later time, it was if she had put a smiling mask on her face, a face indeed pale as ice. She was hairless and Eldur concluded that mustn't be the head that was chopped off. He did not like it, but he played along. He drew whatever information he could from her. The results were that she believed the wyrm below was not the real one, but just a shadow, and that it was only a matter of time before he would be free to ravage the land, manifold as powerful as his shadow was. She said she wanted to prevent that, to free him and then properly defeat him. She also said there was a chance of a phylactery beneath the Ghakis mountain that had something to do with his state. She also knew of the shadow crystal in Dvergheim and added it into the sum. Eldur wasn't sure if she knew the crystal had once been used as a portal to someplace he knew not, but he was loath to share the information either way. He didn't believe the nature of the dragon was as she said, but even if she was right, he would want him to live. The dragon would lay ruin to the land and the chaos would bring good opportunities. He might then be able to communicate with him, draw out much sought after knowledge, or else he might have the opportunity to consume his heart and gain his might.

Ingwulf mentioned a woman and a child he had staying in Degannwy, and for their sake he didn't want to see the dragon run rampart. If they held value to Ingwulf, they held at least some value to Eldur. However, his selfishness and greed ran hot in his veins and the danger always remained that it would blind him from the subtler and perhaps geatest of values.

What he believed in actuality, that the dragon was indeed what he appeared to be in the depths, albeit bound by a curse that both kept him down there and filled him with such rage that he was impossible to reason with. The curse was so potent that it defied death itself. The dragon would always reform down there.

What else Elissa told him was of her world before this one. It was a world where dragons and humans lived together. The dragons needed the humans to kill other dragons because no dragon could harm another dragon. They tamed the dragons to be good and punished those who behaved badly. No wonder  she was interested in the dragon below, Eldur thought. What a peculiar world. Little else was talked of, but he was sure they would not see eye to eye. Ice and fire seldom mix.

Ingwulf also told him about a vampire they called “Father”, one was now no more. He had taken Ingwulf under his control and bitten him. Eldur shuddered with disgust and silenced a shameful memory where he gave his blood in a similar manner, albeit voluntarily. Vampires always irked him, not just for his bad past with them, but because now that he was as he was they repulsed him on a very fundamental level, as did most walking dead. To him they were cold and lifeless, creatures of Hel, an opposite of his burning life. He felt relieved that this vampire was gone. It took too much effort to destroy one. Another thing I hate about them.

He couldn't help but think of Ingwulf as himself in his earlier times in Barovia. Back then he was weak against the monstrosities he never knew existed before. He feared them and hated the blight the feeling brought upon his honor, so he had vowed to overcome it however he could. Then he took to applying the little of the sorcery he knew from his homeland, which was there thought to be honorless and cowardly. The situation justified the means. Later the practice woke up far greater power in his blood that had lain sleeping all his life.

Ingwulf had never taken to sorcery that he knew. He seemed to possess every bit of himself that he had when Eldur first saw him. A true warrior of the homeland. The thought bothered him. He raised up his right hand, looking at it. Its backside was covered in tiny crimson scales, black sturdy talons extending from his fingers, and on the underside his skin was all red. He felt like he had lost something, some purity that Ingwulf possessed. To Hel with the homeland. He would've been in Valhalla now as he was back there, hadn't the mists taken him as he was pushed off the cliffside. Why would he strive to be his homeland's ideal if he was spat out? He wanted only to be himself, unbound by birthplace, but no one can be without roots, so he couldn't entirely shake off this bitterness.

He gave Ingwulf a gift as he parted. A vial which held a glowing red liquid which he made from a poison gland of a giant flame snake in Har'akir. It could be used to cause his enemies severe burns or to protect himself from stinging frost. With that they had parted and would later meet again.

He stood up and took a deep breath, then walked off the rock with clinking sounds from the chains in his boots, to find a place to set up his tent and rest somewhere at the edge of the camp where he wouldn't be bothered.

[Telkar]

The mist camp was the surest place to meet old acquaintances and it did not fail to deliver. A familiar soul Eldur remembered from the sewer depths of Vallaki had noticed him. He couldn't remember his name, but he wouldn't forget his face. Caliban faces had the one upside of being unforgettable in their misshapenness. This one had a long nose and impish features, his body thin and agile. He looked surprised to see Eldur in this place, probably because he had only seen him in the sewers. Eldur certainly couldn't remember him from elsewhere. He used to stay in the Drain one time, a haven to those who would hunt down unusualities such as them. There he had sold weapons, armor and other metal gear crafted with his own hands, along with potions and various trinkets from the plunder. The caliban and other shady folks had been his customers, thereamongst this one. That one liked shortswords.

The Drain held various memories, all from pleasant to painful, but it had a homely feeling to Eldur, however absurd he found the thought. The place stank of the waste from above and the ubiquitous uncleanliness did little to promote health. He asked for news from these parts from the caliban and it turned out the place was in "shambles" as he put it.  For some reason he had stopped working with Knives, the ruler of the Drain. A ruler of a sewer drain, what a pathetic existence. Knives was in a bad enough position that he endured the presence of vrolocks, the Barovian term for vampires. A threat loomed over his rule from one named Gretch, the old founder of the Drain and ex guard from one side, and on the other an old red vardo trader Cristo from another. Eldur didn't care what happened to the place. It held little value to him anymore. He could stay with the vistani now or in Har'akir without being persecuted. The Drain had been more useful in his earlier days.

The caliban also mentioned that the Red vardo merchants had been having it hard, that the last of their old members had been killed off. That meant there was a big market to fill in Vallaki, something Eldur could do, but that meant more work than he was willing to do, besides, he had enough coin to buy just about anything he could think of. He wouldn't have to gather much coin until that supply was depleting too much for his liking. It seemed an opportunity had risen to deplete it. An upcoming auction in Port-a-Lucine of various goods stirred Eldur's treasure hunger. It was held by the Clockwork Goose, an entity run by the dwarf employing natural philosopher and adherer of science Doktor Drukker, according to the caliban. Eldur hadn't heard of him nor this entity, but if it could provide gear of the scale it claimed, it was of interest to him. The notion that it was held in one of the theaters in Port-a-Lucine didn't excite him however, but there were few things he wouldn't do to get what he wanted. He could cover himself up enough to not draw a lot of attention. He hoped more violators of the proper Dementlieuse dress code would be there.

In other news, the caliban told him Banites were nigh extinct in Vallaki now, that they had been too bold for their own good and even killed a caliban, antagonizing the Drain. It had prompted a hunt for them that he led, killing three in one night. Eldur was impressed, since he knew them to be fairly capable, having faught them once and defeated. In fact that was just outside the Drain and due to a dept of coin unpaid that he demanded of an undead creature they kept for its grievance of attempting to steal away Morrighan's corpse he was to burn. They chose to fight over the minor amount, so a fight they got.

After his meeting with the caliban, Eldur met with some old raiding partners, Tredow and his shadow, as he called her sometimes, his wifeLaila. They looked much as he remembered, in dark, mostly black attire and leather. Eldur found the monotone black dull. He liked colors, especially red. To him it meant fire, life, passion and the spilled blood of his foes. To him they were valuable companions, Tredow offering his combination of sword and sorcery and Laila her stealth, bow and way with locks. They also had some knack for sensible combat tactics. He deemed most important in such a team was trust, but he wasn't sure if he entirely trusted them yet. He felt he didn't know them very well outside the raid. He wondered how much trust they put in him, if it was comparable to his, or whether they deemed him more disposable. They certainly had more ways open to them in selecting allies.

They spoke together of things that they had been up to whilst parted and their agenda now. Tredow was no longer in the Red Vardo, where he had become captain, obvious now from the caliban's tale since he was still alive. Eldur still remembered how the Red Vardo hunted him for the bounty on his head a long time ago. Two thousand fang. He always found the amount laughable, and the bounty was still hanging somewhere in Vallaki, albeit few would recognise him from the description. Eldur the smith, has a reddish beard and pale skin. He had changed his name to survive and the pair didn't fail to remind him. Kolgrímur. It had been the name of the man who led his first and last raid in Midgard on Ireland's shores. The change never sat very well with him, but survival was always critical.
Tredow told him Ashfire, the elven bow-woman had been missing for a while. She had accompanied them sometimes and was a fair shot enough, Eldur found. When they spoke he confused her with one that had also accompanied them some times, Alexias the mage. When he had realized that, he felt better about it. The mage was a more valuable asset.

Although the couple seemed much as they had been before, Eldur spotted one significant change. Laila either had become better at hiding her fear of him, or she didn't fear him anymore. She lightheartedly shared some of her Dementlieuse cheese with him as if he were a good friend. Eldur wasn't sure if he should take this change as a good thing. Did they possess something that voided him as a threat, were he to turn on them? Or had her opinion of him somehow improved? Her past timid attitude had been irritating to him, causing him to view her with contempt as he viewed most things that showed fear, so in that regard it was an improvement. The thought occurred to him that the initial fear may have had something to do with Vasile who had shared a similar monstrous ancestry as him, but who was now dead. Had her experience of him been so terrifying? He didn't deem it unlikely. Vasile had likely shown Eldur the less darker side of him than he did most. Eldur knew his schemes reached deeper than he'd have ever let him know. It had been a while since he passed away, so if he had been the reason, then this stood to reason.

The cheese was a welcome change to his usual diet, of which the couple seemed a bit shocked. He didn't really find the scorpions and lizards that bad. If they found that strange, he wondered how they'd find his occasional gem snacking. In return for the cheese he offered a bottle of falkovnian roulette, a potent beverage, something Laila didn't seem fond of, but Tredow seemed of differing taste.

They had little else for news to tell. Greater number of sewer bugs and reaver attacks in Port-a-Lucine. They also shared a few alchemical discoveries. Eldur had a feeling they had much more to tell, but he figured he probably wouldn't tell them much either. Tales shared were proportional to trust and closeness, something he told himself he didn't really need. He wanted capable companions for the raid and that part of them they could share.

[Telkar]

The wagon started moving, slightly rocking its lone passanger. Trotting on a gritty ground sound could be heard outside, but it wasn't long until such background sounds became muffled and distant as the vistani captain drove the wagon into the mists whose secrets his kind were among the privileged to glimpse. Inside the wagon was pitch black, but Eldur's eyes could see through it the insides of it in a glum greyish and colorless way. He sat in his seat, clad in his ruddy armor with his helmet sitting in his lap, shaped to the likeliness of flames and with holes for his horns to loop through. Before, he had worn helmets in a shape customary of the vikings in his lost world, but such had started to become uncomfortable due to the slightly elongated shape of his head, so he made a new shape better fitting, not just to his head, but to who he felt he was now.

In the palm of his taloned hand, he held a talisman with a large gem set in it, enrcircled with small engraved magic symbols in the metal around it. He couldn't see it in the darkness, but he knew the gem was deep blue, the likes he had never seen before, and the metal looked like iron, but probably wasn't. He knew such a thing would require a special alloy. The talisman had great protective powers, so he knew and felt just by handling it. Truly precious. He clasped it tightly in his hand. It had come at a great price that cost him the most part of his coinage at the Clockwork Goose auction in Port-a-Lucine, which he was just arriving from. He had thought his wealth so great, but now he had been proved otherwise. He seemed to be among the wealthiest at the auction, but at the rate of such prices he would soon be poor. The notion hurt his pride, and ignited the fire within him that ever craved more. He decided he would need to find a way to acquire more gold. Usually that meant to raid and pillage, or to make use of his skill with smithery, herbalism and alchemy. It could be profitable, but it took time to amass any serious amount from such. His mind wandered in other directions, where the most wealth was. Obviously in the banks. Both Port-a-Lucine and Vallaki in Barovia had banks with very large amount of coin, but he knew it was madness to even try such a raid. Even besides the folly of turning a whole city against him that seemed to at least tolerate him, he knew it would open a can of other worms. There were often very powerful people who kept their money there and Eldur knew his limits. He felt he begun to understand the upside of Vasile's schemes now. To control a city was to control its flow of coinage. However, all of his schemes led up to his death, so he was not sure what to think. All pointed to the raid of more uncivilized beings and craftsmanship as being more profitable and survivable in the long run, so he decided he would tread that path as he was wont to do. Before he would turn to that, he had decided he would go to Barovia to fetch the gold he had stored in the Drain to purchase yet another trinket from one of the Goose's members. He was loosing gold, but at least he was getting what he had been seeking for a while.

He leaned back in his seat and sighed. He reflected on the auction and the people it drew to the theatre it was held in. The place had been lavish, with white marble floors, fine paintings on the walls, statues and other decorations. He had almost forgotten the living standards of the Dementlieuse upper class. As much as he appreciated riches, he had never held any real appreciation for such displays. He preferred things simple, but he supposed variety was good at times. To his disappointment there had been next to no attendees as unusual as him, so he garnered his share of attention. There had been humans, elves and halflings. All the dwarves seemed to belong to the Goose. Many tried to adher to the accepted clothing standards. He just wore his armor, a cloak to hide his wings and a helmet to hide the source of his horns. At least it sufficed to circumvent any hostility, which was all he asked for.

He hadn't known anyone there, but one person was familiar to him, and that person he had labeled an enemy. He sat in front of him, in a fine black coat and with a black feather hat on his head. His hair was black as well as his shortly cut beard. A way to fit in. He well knew who Eldur was too, but he was quiet and did not start anything. Neither did Eldur. He was there on a specific errand. The man's name was Cervantes. Eldur viewed him as he did for a slight most would deem minor, an insult Cervantes threw at him a while back concerning his capability as a leader for a raiding flock he was forming then. Despite the truth of his words, Eldur had taken it very badly. With time that seed had sprouted, twisting his view of them man into something ugly. After the insult, he had craved a payback, which led him down a more insidious path than he had ever considered before. He had noticed the uneasiness in his relationship with his woman. She was of vistani heritage, by the name of Tarja. She seemed of totally different personality than Cervantes, open and curious with a taste for the exotic, which made seducing her all that easier. However, she hadn't proven loose enough to lay with him lest he told her his intentions were for more than only her body for a night. Eldur hadn't been able to bring himself to lie due to some sentimentality he still possessed. Some of her charm had rubbed off on him in their time together and it hadn't seemed fair to her that he used her to get back at another. He didn't look back to that moment with pride. It made him feel soft. However, a single kiss and the knowledge that he could have had her at that moment had been enough to sooth his indignation. Eldur really failed to acknowledge how petty he sometimes was.

He hadn't known anything about those other people, but after a while a bidder sitting on the bench behind and to his left drew his attention. She had worn a yellow dress, and he had noticed to his surprise that her visible skin was all starkly red and scaly. She hid her face beneath a hood, but two horns stuck through it, extending backwards. She had a visible bulge on her back underneath the restraints of her dress. He could even smell the similar sort of odor from her as he had smelled from the few others of his kind he had met. Could it really be? There were so few who possessed the blood that it was hardly a given one who looked like this really did. Demonkind took many forms that could be similar, and people often confused Eldur for one, but a feeling told him she was different. He had become very excited, but he had to focus on his purpose there. She had left before he finished, but he decided he would need to find her again. He wanted to know everything about her. Only one such female had he come in contact with before, Emelina, but she wasn't nearly as far developed as this one seemed to be. Besides, he never liked how she made her unnatural experimentations on her body, he felt like it might corrupt the process. Perhaps this one was more natural. He didn't want to get his hopes up as he wasn't even sure if some trick of the mind led him to think her of the blood. Even if she was of the blood, as an afterthought she didn't really look his type. He found her clothing silly, a Dementlieuse dress as if she was struggling to fit in when it was still obvious she didn't. However, Eldur had tried that once as well, so he thought perhaps she had just yet to realize. He didn't want to draw more conclusions. He would know when he would meet her.

The wagon finally came to a halt, and he heard calls of greetings between the vistani outside. Seems like this is my stop. He tucked his talisman safely away and held his helmet in a one handed grip as he left the wagon and took a step into Barovia.

[Telkar]

Raid and plunder. At last such endeavours had pulled Eldur in again after a long break. He had traveled with old comrades and new, to an ancient underground temple in Har'akir guarded primarily by old mummified undead. Tredow and Laila had been along, as well as three new people. One was a woman called Enlil, a friend of Laila. He had seen some similarity between them both, light of step and friends of shadow and holding a preference for a bow in battle. Enlil had seemed a bit more outspoken, but less experienced in the field. Another was a halfling of Rokushiman speech whose name he had never given. The third was a man who called himself Saul, black clad and wielding a big sword pulsing with some dark sorcery. Eldur had a bad feeling about him, mostly because the bit of his past that had surfaced in their conversation before the trip. He had been a follower of Ezra and had been in her fourth sect, but was no more, so he had claimed. That fact and the whole of his personality reminded him of Unuldor who had with Marle the saint tried to hunt him down once. He and Unuldor had traveled together often before that and Eldur even considered him a friend. But that had changed when he begun to get involved with the Ezrites. The insident had done little to improve his view of the church, and had generally made him more suspicious of people who seem to mean him well. The trip had went without such insidents however.

On the endeavor, Eldur had noticed that the blade Tredow wielded held greater level of sorcery than usually seen, enabling him to breach the surface of the undead. All the while he had to apply his varnishes to his halberd. Waste of resources. The discovery had given him a pang of envy and the desire for such a treasure had led him to seek out an enchanter. After a while of wait, one had taken notice of him in Port-a-Lucine. She called herself Anastacia the Grey and was appropriately clad in grey robes, and accompanying her was a creature who called himself Luca, one whom Eldur remembered from the Goose auction.

He couldn't determine what sort of species Luca was, but he had seemed to him elven, and he smelled like one, except he sported feral canine teeth and taloned fingers. Eldur hadn't minded that he accompanied them, especially since earlier on Luca had helped heal his wounds after a fight with sewer bugs dwelling under Port-a-Lucine, which made for an excellent first impression. He had claimed to be a nature mystic, receiving his powers from nature itself. It had pleased Eldur to know he shared his preference on relying on no god. Eldur gleaned other interesting information from him regarding things he called Dragonspawn from his homeworld Krynn, of which Eldur reminded him of. They were beings  created with a shard of a dragon's mind fused with the body of a human, making them puppets of a red dragon lord. Another tiny piece of the puzzle.

Eldur had never experienced the likes of infusing items with magic in the way he did with Ana, down in the lower levels of a university building in Port-a-Lucine. He couldn't say it had been pleasant, for the greatest price to pay in the making of the things, a halberd and an armor carefully forged with his own hands, was a part of his very soul. He had to place himself in a circle of various arcane symbols meant to direct his energy to a device that held the equipment. Although he had felt his energy sapped, receiving the results had made him feel whole and empowered. It didn't occur to Eldur, but the experience could be compared to that of a mother giving birth. The labor is hard, but once she holds her child in her arms, a wash of relief ensues. The halberd he had named in his mother's tongue Ormshjarta, or Dragonheart, for it held the pulsing, burning life of his own heart.

As for Eldur's search for the potential dragonkin that he had seen on the Goose auction, Port-a-Lucine was a large city. He regretted not to have taken the opportunity while she was in reach, but he knew there was no way he could have let his purchase wait. However, he had recently encountered two others who claimed to be of draconic heritage like him, each in their own words. One was Grog whom he had met in the camp of the vistani and who was also a part human and part orc and claimed to be from Sigil, a place with doors to many worlds which Eldur had heard of before. The other he had met in the Drain, a more human looking man of deep dark skin tone claiming to be from a place named Chult. Eldur was unsure about the validity of either of them as neither showed much sign of the blood in their physique, but he would be watching. He knew well that it took time and effort to unlock its true potential.

The dark skinned one told him of a mythical dragon called Salas in Chult, sleeping beneath one of twin mountains and Ubtao the god who keeps Salas' curse at bay, which Eldur surmised was the awakening of the dragon blood. However, he claimed now that he was here, that Ubtao could no longer withold the curse. And yet another piece of the puzzle. Eldur wondered if that could be true in his case too. Had the gods of Midgard witheld his gift when he was there, and had the spell been broken when the mists snatched him away? If  so, then he might be more thankful for having been taken, but he knew that if he had had any choice between staying and leaving, he would have stayed. It was just the sort of man he had once been.

Eldur had decided to stay more in the Drain after that, for the place was seldom static. A plethora of colorful beings made their way down there, and he wished to be there to see their story unfold. After all, he had his bardic tendencies and thirsted to witness the rise of mighty entities. He was doubtful that such might come to pass at first, but then he reminded himself that he himself had had this place to look to plenty of times. He could also support such a rise by selling the goods he had to offer down there and profit in so doing.

What new things he discovered down there, was the change of bosses, which made him wonder whether any drastic changes were on the horizon as to how things were usually run there. There was no sign of such yet. A group of Loviatans had made their home there, humans most of them, but one that had the smell of drow, their leader by the name Meleth. She had someone who seemed like her slave, named Sable whom he witnessed willingly taking the pain inflicted upon her. Their faith could after all shortly be described as the worship of pain. Being something of a naturalist, Eldur found it repulsive. An animal avoids pain for a reason. He kept such opinions to himself. He knew better than to provoke the place's residents. The strangest sight down there was a mulani woman, a resident of Hazlan who looked like one of their mages, bald and covered in tattoos. Aside from them, he noted two who apparently were of some fiendish bloodline. One of them directed him towards a tribe of tanarukk called the Black Leaf that had caught word of him from Grog.

Tanarukks were rather hideous and beastly to look upon. Stooped, tusked, massive and red eyed, a mix of orc and demon. He had little doubt they were fierce combatants. Their leader was a female by the name of Swertha, and by her side a smaller one, Shota who Eldur assumed contained at least orc in him. Shota communicated with Swertha in some language of the hands for he was likely unable to speak for some reason. Their conversation came down to that he would be providing them with equipment in the near future, and he was happy to. He decided he liked their strong spirit and ambition for power and would look forward to their development. They had already brought down a desert troll which did impress him, as they were among the toughest creatures he knew of. They did so with the help of the tanarukk Rudd, of the Blood Rain tribe whom he remembered from the Drain a long while ago. He would be watching their rise with anticipation.

[Telkar]

I thought I had it figured out, my desires, worldview and vision. But it has easily been swept away by a clash of principles and heartfelt longing. "Follow your heart in all things", these words of my mother as I left the shores have stayed with me, all this time. Often I have not heeded them, in the illusion that my stubborn adherence to some abstract concepts of what is right and what is wrong somehow makes me better. I was wrong.

I was faced with the option to ally myself with a powerful undead entity. Once I would have stalwartly refused on principle, but I accepted. The feeling of need and hunger for more and more seethes within my heart, all the time. What are dry, tasteless principles compared with such force? I violated this belief I have stood for all along. A belief that moved my hand to actions with great consequences. It felt good and it feels right. A necessary adaptation.

Love, hate, fear, lust, greed, pain, desire and more, are as a whirlwind within me. They hold wisdom, truth and power. Only they will move my hand now. In which direction is a matter of their whim.

Good and evil are concepts I have only considered of late. They are still an enigma to me, but things I have discovered places importance in them in relation to the nature of this whole world. I have never seen the use in such things, and thus have ignored them, but now my mind is left open. What do they say of me?

[Telkar]

Yet again, Eldur returned from his solitary existence to look upon a world much the same, but with new history written. He attended an advertised "Undermarket" of the Drain, in part orchestrated by Nevazut, or Yuri as Eldur had known him. To Eldur he seemed more than double the mass since last time he saw him. He remembered him as bony thin, particularly in the old days, as a customer who bought short swords from him in the Drain. He was now a part of the gang in power, headed by a fiend blood called Black. Earlier, they spoke together about him offering merchandice on the auction, but after they parted ways, he had decided he did not like their taxation so instead played only the customer's role

He acquired some meagre trinkets from the market. He was not as rich on gold as he used to be, so he could not compete for the most valuable items on the auction, but he was thankful there was none of it he especially craved. He might have felt poor if it weren't for the fact that an amulet identical to the one he wore, went for 350,000 pieces. He took special note of the one who claimed it, a man wearing white clothes and a hood. He made a mental note to remember him. He knew riches were a good indicator of power, and distribution of power was good to be aware of.

He left early, shortly after the fights with strange exotic beasts commenced. He might have stayed had view not been so constricted, but what freedom can sewers allow for such events?

A few days afterwards, he found himself in the Mist Camp of the Zarovan vistani. He sat on his usual rock, licked by thin mists and away from the traffic. The rock provided a generous vantage point, while its location was somewhat inconspicuous. A few people passed through, thereamong a dwarf shape, wholly covered in black armor and two women, one of which took to play with a doll made of bones. She accidently dropped a severed, human-like hand from her belongings, which contributed to a comically awkward situation as bystanders noticed. Shortly after, the dwarf shaped figure turned around to look at him, almost as if he sensed Eldur's presence. Following his gaze, the other woman asked the "dwarf" who he was, but he dismissed her and alone walked over, bringing with him the familiar smell of the draconic. He invited him to talk to him privately, and Eldur followed into the mists.

Therein, the figure revealed his red, scaly face, which to Eldur seemed still in development towards the lizardlike. Eldur didn't find him especially pleasing to look upon, but at least he was no Tanarukk. They spoke together for a while. Morgan revealed three names of people who shared a similar ancestry, two of which he had "taken under his wing" as he so humorously put it. The third one, Halthor, he said much like him, "in the shadows". He said him involved in the cult of Nerull, of which Eldur knew little else than Nerull being a god of death. As for Morgan himself, he had been involved with the Vallaki Drain for a while, under Fredek, whom Eldur had seen once. He had risen through the ranks next to Fredek, and through old ties with Black, seemed confident in starting his movement there. He revealed his goal to be the conquest of Vallaki, and then to spread "their", or the dragonkins' dominance from there. His offer to Eldur was a place among them in that endeavor.

To Eldur, his goals sounded beautifully bold and naive. Although he did not know the full extent of his plans, he was very skeptical he had a plan that might work. Remembering Vasile and the 200,000 fang bounty on his head, eventually leading to his demise, how could he not be? Eldur hadn't known the true circumstances beyond that, but he knew a force that could topple him was a force to be reckoned with. The Count would stand in their way, a centuries old vampire who likely had more hidden, time tested powers and tricks than he could imagine. But he understood Morgan's frustration with the Barovians' treatment of their ilk and his desire to lay them low, but he no longer felt his hatred burning as it once did. He did not want the kind of power Morgan seemed to seek. He did not want to control people and protect territory. He wanted to be free to travel the lands, free from the shackles such dominance requires. The only dominance Eldur valued were the creatures dead at his feet, and their valuables in his personal hoard. Like an ever moving predator, climbing up the food chain.

Despite his different stance, he wished to meet the other blood relatives, and that is what they agreed upon before they parted ways, shortly after getting lost in the mists which seemed to have twisted the landscape around them while they spoke.

Later on, he met Tarja in the same spot he met Morgan. She seemed a bit different to him from the last time they met, more solemn. She said she thought he was dead, an absurd thought to Eldur, even though he too assumed others lost, like some kind of Abber nomad. She told him of recent troubles she got into, in Vallaki. She told him of her "moon madness" that those of partial vistani heritage suffer on full moon, in her case manifested in unhealthy tendency to violence, sexual arousal and memory loss. It proved to be partially responsible for two tortures she endured at the hands of the Barovians. Aside from that, she admitted her recent, self-destructive tendencies in general, by alcohol, opium and fighting.

It occurred to Eldur she might be trying to get him to sympathize, why else would she be telling him this, he thought? He was not so moved, but felt some agitation over her mindset. As beautiful as she was right there, he found her soul weak, and knew that her end was not far off because of it. He blamed no one but herself for her mistrials, but it made him feel a tinge of sadness, the fact that the world had made her so.

They ended up journeying to Port-a-Lucine eventually, on a "whiskey trip" and ended up in a bar by the docks. They talked further on her time in Vallaki, and Eldur took special notice of her tale of red scaled person who attacked the guards at the time of her public torture. They killed him right in front of her. It was reminiscent of the time he lashed out for Joey, and the unlikelyhood that a blood relative would attempt such another time invoked suspicion in him. Did she know more of him than he knew? Did she spin her tales to sway him?

Eventually, she brought up the time they shared in Har'akir. She had told Cervantes about that, and it had stoked his hatred. Inside, Eldur rejoiced. He had hit his mark. He hadn't gone as far with her as he could back then, for she was still committed to Cervantes, but now they had parted ways. Although Eldur had no intention to further pursue her to begin with, she easily charmed him to spend his night with her. Once he would have denied his love to someone with a fate so clear, but bitter memories compelled him to cherish her in the moment, even if it was but a spark before the darkness that followed.

Not long after, Eldur took notice of her 100,000 solar bounty in Port-a-Lucine.

It is closing fast ...should I?

[Telkar]

Another long period had passed where Eldur was alone. It seemed as if whenever he became close to anyone, he began to become more distant, until all connection seemed lost. Such had been the case with Tarja, who was still alive and with the bounty now cleared. There was something in people's faces that always irked him when they looked at him, as if they pitied him or viewed him as some curious object. He knew it wasn't the same as when he was human, when people looked at him as the person that he was and past the mundane exterior. He still needed people in his life, but he always told himself it was more for their utility than a social need. It was easier to think that way. As far as he was concerned, it was all for riches, power and self gratification. It was a convenient self-delusion, reinforced by a look into the mirror.

He gradually started to meet people again, for raids, exploration and trade. He finally saw Sithicus with all its dangers, and had yet to see more. He made some mutually beneficial professional relationships.

One day he went on an urgent mission to Barovia's Krofburg with Monica the bardess, for whom he had made vampiric looking silver teeth plating, professor Locke, Rand the swordsman and Zachary the paladin. It was a rescue mission for Monica's daughter Carmen who was being held by the Bellegarde. He came for gold, but seeing the severed hand of the child and the mother's worry gave a curiously heightened purpose to his step. He wondered whether he could turn around if it was guaranteed there would be no payday.

Seeing the broken child after the trade with the Bellegarde, he was taken aback by a wave of sadness and rage, but smothered it by turning his attention away. Who were they to evoke such feelings in him? He hardly knew them. But this was true evil, and only the truly vile would not be repulsed. It reminded him of Vasile's torture of a certain halfling in the Drain long ago. He imagined there could be a point to such a thing, for the extraction of information, but what would that child possibly know? Even if she did, could he do such a thing if the stakes were high enough? He didn't want to think about it.

Eldur always carried with him two books with theories about the mists. One explains that the evil will never be able to leave the mists and that they seek to imprison them, ones such as Strahd and Azalin. If the world truly followed such laws, of which he was becoming increasingly convinced, he would have to avoid that path to save his own freedom. But where did the line lie?

Monica led them to slaughter the Bellegarde after the exchange. Need for revenge was something Eldur knew well. Had it been his son, he would have acted similarly. He made sure to dispose of their mage swiftly and otherwise kept himself hidden. He didn't want to risk a bounty for all this.

Back in the mists, the child was taken to a vistana who would help in her recovery. He gladly accepted the coin taken back from the Bellegarde as his reward, but he discovered the far more important pearl which they had taken back as well, which they had initially traded for the girl. Hearing of its powers made his heart skip a beat, and a deeply felt, draconic desire manifested itself in him. He knew he couldn't keep away. Even if it was all a lie, he would have to find out.

After a desert run with two calibans, Razvan and Grit, and an older woman Dorisa and Monica, a coal black and burning humanoid appeared to them on the sands. It was Henri, a cursed man and Monica's lover, there to say his last words before he would fade away. He pitied her for not being able to touch him as he could have. It felt strange to him, to see so much of this nigh stranger Monica in such a short time in so trying moments. She elevated from a stranger to someone he felt he knew very well.

[Telkar]

Eldur lay on his left side in his tent, his horned head accommodated on a pillow and his right wing laying extended behind him in a splinter. He watched the fabric of the tent silently with his slitted eyes, running through recent events in his mind while the occasional chatter from Vladimir and Monica could be heard outside. He had seldom hated himself as much as he did now.

It had all started when Monica became paranoid about her daughter's safety when someone who looked like she could be of the Bellegarde walked towards the vistani campsite in the mists. The vistana Violca who was supposed to take care of her wouldn't direct her to her daughter's location, but assured her she was safe. Eldur had his suspicions, given the unnamed deal the vistani had made with Strahd so long ago. Earlier Monica had informed him and Hunter of Strahd's agent who was looking for the pearl, which meant Carmen was ransom material to someone far worse. Perhaps she always had been.

He had gone with her and others among them some strangers to Port-a-Lucine to find professor Hunter to find out more about the pearl. When they discovered an eavesdropper, things spiraled quickly out of control when they tried to interrogate him about his employer, or more specifically when the sorceress Marji did. It ended in two dead and an ensuing scene of gendarme storming the place. The others quickly withdrew from Marji's side when she crossed the line as well as Eldur. Seeing as he couldn't possibly better the situation with his presence, Eldur decided to withdraw and wait for them elsewhere. They never came.

It had turned out that while Monica was being interrogated, she had been kidnapped through the machinations of someone they called Hex, as well as Dorisa and Calandra. She had been brought to Barovia because of her bounty. Eldur closed his eyes. He felt stupid to not have even thought of the bounty. Could haves and would haves went through his mind. If he could have prevented this, he could have prevented what just ensued. From a nearby bag, he drew out a single Tarokka card, the Artifact card he had received from Madame Eva some years back. He watched it as he lay and thought on. His mind had been fixed on the pearl. Hunter had it allegedly locked away somewhere. It was the main reason he had stayed around these 'Hounds' as he did. Now it was gone into the grasp of Strahd himself, which was an entirely different and more difficult matter.

He had followed Hunter, Zachary and Vladimir on a rescue mission for Monica. He had to keep an eye on Hunter. He just wanted this to be over with so they could continue where they left off. He hadn't even had the chance to participate in the experiments on the pearl to see whether it really contained the power they said it did. Apparently there was no peace to be had for that. They found Ceryn on their way over Tser Falls who joined them and trudged up towards looming Castle Ravenloft as a possible location. The sickening feeling that crawled into his stomach was almost unique to this place, a feeling of helplessness and dread over the seemingly insurmountable vampire that stayed behind its walls. Many had tried and many had fallen. The place was riddled with unknowns and the secret to his demise kept well hidden. Nothing was as certain that if Eldur confronted the Count, Eldur would perish by his hand or those that would pursue his bounty.

...which is why he let Hunter do the scouting. If he fell, he might have been able to surmise where he had locked the pearl away. If he came back? He hadn't decided on that part yet. It would have depended on what he had to report. It never occurred to him that Hunter in fact carried the pearl and that he would get himself captured. Had Eldur become so selfish as to not even being able to imagine self-sacrifice for a loved one? In any case, he again felt stupid. When they saw a flash of light by the main gate, they decided to take it as a signal from Hunter and followed. When they finally arrived, Eldur saw a guard by the gate across the bridge. He had Hunter in chains and was taking him inside. Had he known he had the pearl... he ran his taloned hand across his face sighing. At that moment, it was simply one possible outcome. He had been determined to leave risk at minimum. The gates closed, and he had an idea he wished he had never had.

The flight had been exhilarating. He had only meant to scout to know more about the situation so he could have decided what to do. He had decided to fly invisibly over and around the castle grounds. He had noted a strange winged beast moving on the walls for a brief moment. Confronted by a seemingly oblivious screeching bat swarm he had ascended to a level with the top of the dark castle spires, only to see the massive gargoyle statues on the walls and spires suddenly leap down towards him. They could see him, it was time to abort! He was a clumsy aerial fighter and knew the risks so high off the ground, not to mention it would have been a confrontation to the Count himself. He had swooped down towards Tser Pool at incredible speed, but they had cough up to him. It had happened quickly. They collided and grappled, but Eldur somehow managed to break free. The gargoyles pulled back and like a comet he had fallen from the night sky, crashing into the pool below. It was only after he pulled himself out that he noticed the shape of his wing. Eldur weakly wagged his splinted wing where he lay, feeling dim pain course through him.

He had burst out in anger and pain right then. He hated to endure heavy losses with nothing to show for it. He eventually had started back on foot towards the castle. He hadn't even sure for what, but he eventually came across the others, but accompanied by Marji, a Barovian guard and black and red dressed Monica, severely bruised with her back stripped of skin. That sinking feeling that comes when you imagine all the painful trials of a loved one. It was there. He hated it. Monica had claimed they were not victims, but they were, clear as day now. In his time in the misty realms, Eldur had made a point of clawing himself up the food chain, to prevent just that.

When he realized Hunter was missing, and was told that he had sacrificed himself with pearl in hand, Eldur had exploded. He lost the pearl to Strahd and broken a wing. He imagined the gods laughing at him, beyond the miserable cage they put him in.

He opened his eyes upon hearing Monica's voice outside and put the Tarokka card back into his bag. Her back was healing, but would mostly be scar tissue after this. They were out in the desert with Vladimir to guard them. He grinned at the absurdity. A Barovian man guarding someone like him. He had a feeling he wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Monica. They were engaged once and it seemed to him he wasn't over that breakup yet. Eldur couldn't blame him. She had a unique kind of fire in her, and despite her bodily damages still held her beauty. Despite his own attraction, he didn't approach. The feeling was all too familiar to him. She was the kind of woman who would hold a man by the heart and drag him through Hel by endangering herself through her recklessness, impulsiveness and general weakness. A while ago, he had decided to, from then on, to let his mind be in charge of his heart. He would focus his possessiveness on treasure, and let the people pass by like the wind for pleasure and utility in each moment. Despite that, he had always been a man of his word. He felt he owed Zachary for his healing of his wing, and he told him to protect Monica. Why couldn't he just have taken money instead?

He closed his eyes again. He could only rest and heal for now. What would be the next step? The pearl was lost. He would do further research on the Count and determine the steps needed to end him or simply steal the pearl back. He would focus on those who thwarted his plans, Hex, Dorisa and Calandra. He wanted their skulls. Revenge was never merely a want to Eldur. It was a necessity, so taught to him by his people in Midgard. People must expect retaliation from those they pester.

[Telkar]

After his time of healing, Eldur set out to travel the mists again. It was night. His wing had shed its splinters, but was still weak and stiff. Near the vistani caravan, he met a man that would late leave his memory. The vistani had pointed him to go away in a heated argument and so he did. The vistani claimed that his like had been attacking towns and villages seemingly at random and that they seemed drawn to old temples and caves. They claimed they came from the mists, bringing storms. Upon spotting the shadows of the flock of men and some large horned beast to which the man returned to on a sandy hill in the distance, intrigued Eldur warily followed. He struck a conversation with the man. He spoke in a very broken dialect. He called himself Magi and called Eldur Nec'chim. What little Eldur gathered from the conversation was that they, the Teflae'tchim were looking for a fugitive who either spilled or was himself Gan'sar blood.

Finally, with the raising of his hand towards Eldur, Magi caused a stinging pain in his chest and his vision blurred. He had tried to kill him and just laughed when he would not die. He raised his hand towards the dark sky, causing the sand to swirl around him and his followers and they disappeared into a growing sandstorm. He left him with his words: "Nec'chim, we are all coming."

In the events that followed, the description of the battle at Hazlan's border begun to give credence to the thought that these were the same beings. It left Eldur wanting to know more. Even though they had tried to kill him, the thought entered his mind that this is what should happen. He 'wished' to see such nations as Hazlan burn and to be thrown into chaos. It was a view underpinned by the image he saw of himself mirrored by the people of such nations. What side could he possibly belong to but the one that would turn the world upside down? For now he was just on his own side, watching history unfold.

He had met Zachary and Monica again in the mists. He had begun to take a curious kind of liking to Zachary after his work on his wing. He knew they were vastly different, but so few had ever helped him in such a significant way. Eldur had taken Monica to the side for the purpose of inquiring about Hex, then still frustrated about the loss of the pearl. He later decided his intentions were purely based on the need to vent, of which he got plenty on his walks. Hunter was to blame, and he had himself to blame for not seeing it coming. Monica had a furtive air about her as he inquired. It turned out she had gone looking for Hex for an explanation or some kind of payback and wound up bedding him in the heat of the moment. It took Eldur by surprise. After what he did, how could she possibly? The absurdity of it elicited a laugh from him. Then blinded by the obvious view that Hex was the enemy, how could he not? He later decided Hex's move had been a smart one, if his intention was to free Monica of her bounty, which it obviously was from the look of things. That fact, and the one that Eldur had his primary focus on Hunter for the pearl on their rescue mission, might have made an omniscient bystander view what ensued as rather twisted.

The attraction was there. She confirmed it with a peck on his lips. The heart and mind fought. Why did his mind try to resist? She was just the kind of woman to get attached to. It might make him do stupid things and risk too much for her. It might... it might... he kissed her back. Life was short. People disappeared so quickly. Only the moment mattered. He thought that if he could not live with his own heart, then he didn't deserve to live.

After an interruption of a pathway appearing nearby to a cult worshipping a sea creature of an alarming size, they continued, two souls in the moment, enraptured. They continued seeing eachother. He didn't feel attached, but enjoyed each moment. He was learning to tame the flames of the heart and heed them when it was sensible to do so. He was almost certain this relationship would not continue indefinitely. The unavoidable truth was that he was an outcast almost anywhere. He thought she would become tired of his lifestyle, she who had so many other doors open to her. He told himself it didn't matter to him. He would live on. He was free.

Something was in the air. Magi was not done. Eldur would observe. He needed to know more.

[Telkar]

These days were quiet. Eldur had gone to Port-a-Lucine with his elven friend Rae to do more research on the Magi's people. Thankfully Foucault had an ancient looking journal from a traveler into their lands. The readable parts didn't reveal much, but it could serve as a piece to the puzzle. He made sure to tell Monica and Zachary of their findings. The more information they had, the more likely their survival of what was to come. His primary purpose was to find out about something that might benefit him, but heightening the chances of survival of the people that he cared about was a good bonus.

He spent more time with Monica and got to know her further. He enjoyed those moments and didn't wonder much about his future with her. What stood out in his mind now was when he bit down on her finger after a mildly annoying flick of the nose which surely was meant to be playful. He bit harder than he meant to, falling briefly into a strange feral state of mind. He drew blood. It tasted good. He could sense the beast reaching out within him. It was a terrible reminder of what he was truly capable of if he let himself go.

He spoke with Zachary and inquired about his faith and motivations. Eldur had become increasingly interested in people. What made them tick? Furthermore, how could he predict or influence their actions? Ever since Hunter's antics with the pearl, he begun to see clearer his own weakness which lay in his lack of people knowledge and application of it to produce viable deductions. In this case however, he also wanted to know more about his healer that he had come to like. Even after his explanations, he couldn't understand his willingness to sacrifice himself and suffer so for strangers with such disregard for his own well being. He was intrigued, and wanted to truly see things from Zachary's perspective, but the memory of Sera served as a solid reminder that he should steer clear of his friendship. It was peculiar how the selfish were more lovable than the selfless. They did not make their friends worry for them.

There was a smudged message that Rae left for him some days after their research. Someone or something was chasing her. When he came upon her with the elf Ae'ver at Tser Falls, it turned out that she had decided she didn't want his help in the matter. She seemed to want to do so for his own protection, which struck him as odd, given their difference in survivability. They had a relationship which had involved both the dance of attraction and denial, friendship and a purely mutually beneficial business arrangement. He would likely have helped her, but he did not care enough to pursue the matter if she didn't want his help. Eldur was quick to dismiss the worry that arose in him. He had become an expert at that. When it all came down, it was simply the way of the world. People came and people went like leaves in the wind. What was left were but memories to be cherished. Only the strong survived and persisted. He wanted Rae to be one of those, but only time would reveal the truth.

[Telkar]

A lapse of nearly a year, gone in the blink of an eye. This is what could happen to lone wanderers in the mists that did not watch out for where they delved. This is what happened to the wyrmblooded veteran. When the realization came, he had felt a rising panic. Were the people he had gotten to know still alive? What had transpired with the Magi and his forces? The panic quickly dissipated as the thought went through his head, that maybe he did not care so much. He felt both dreadfully and wonderfully alone.

The good thing about being alone, was that there was no one to influence him. There were no poisonous words to play tricks on his mind, to sway his perspective. Indeed, as time went on, he came to realize that is what very likely did happen. However much truth may have been in those words, they had been made to manipulate, darkening the view of those he had come to have some inkling of care for and darkening his view of his own self, seducing him to want to be someone else. He felt it odd to realize this, and still be taken in by it. He had been changed, and he liked it as much as anyone who is forced out of blissful ignorance.

His position was radically different now. He had revealed his true motivations to Monica, however skewed he had made them seem. He had still felt things, but they were dulled by poisonous words, festering over time. His heart was hardening, and it felt right. How she must hate him now.

He felt it was something of a madness that was wont to come over him. There were so few of the shunned creatures of the world that he could both count among his equals and that would not seek to end him the first chance they would get. Lacking such allies, he would seek out others as if he were the man that had been before his transformation. It was easier, but he felt they could never truly understand him, not just in terms of his appearance, but his mentality and ambitions. How often he had to tip toe around their misguided moral sense to function in their company.

To progress, he needed not just allies, but resourceful companions that shared his vision and could act like a unit. It was a challenge to find the right people, but one that he was ready to undertake. Was Xhal right for this? Time would tell.

A person by the name of Chira had come to see him as he was visiting the Drain. She was still discovering and eliciting the power of a similar draconic bloodline as him. She was still underdeveloped, but the story of how she started down her path was of interest to him. She found her to have a rather cringeworthy, bubbly and cheerful personality. Could she share his vision? He doubted it. Aside from that, he had had his fantasies about a wyrmblooded female many a time, but she did not match them.

He had conversed with an old soul Cat recently. It had been several years since he saw her, but he didn't remember both of them ever seeing eye to eye. However, her presence elicited a strange feeling of nostalgia from him. She was one of the few people that he knew walked the domains today that had seen him human. She had suffered the loss of the same person. They were as two relics, finding themselves sharing a strange new bond through the distant past. But could she share his vision? He doubted it.

I will continue on my path, towards my vision, however long it takes. It is a vision of power and wealth, as I was taught by my people in the world that once was, as my blood now burns for. Power has many forms. I will not forget them as so many of the fallen have.

[Telkar]

Studying, contemplating, reminiscing, dreaming ...

That is what Eldur had been spending much of his time on. He had been told that were he to live on in peace, he could expect to live five hundred more years. Although he could intuitively feel the undying vigor of his blood, it still sounded comical to him. Indeed, he had just about stopped worrying about time, letting months go by whilst studying his topic, something that would seem unhealthily obsessive to any normal person. The topic was on the nature of the misty realms, or the Demiplane of Dread as he had seen mentioned. He had attained new sources and new insights.

What particularly got his attention was the phenomenon of how each realm was ruled by a master, more than just with the title of Count or King, but with a strong bond to the very land itself. Indeed, he had heard that Strahd 'is' the land. What was more interesting was how this arrangement came to be, that the more evil you are, the more stuck you become in this so called Demiplane. But with this loss of freedom came great power. One would attain power over others, but also become the tormented, with that which one wanted the most always out of grasp. If it was true that the powers of this world fed on dread and fear, this seemed to Eldur like a surefire way to inspire that.

Having considered more carefully these foreign concepts of good and evil over the years, and with this information, looking back over his own life and actions became inevitable. Eldur feared what he might see, yet his mind kept returning to it. Like a child knows instinctively what is wrong and what is right, it was blaringly obvious where he would have gone wrong. All the killing and pillaging strangely in his mind, paled in comparison to this taint that seemed to sit on his soul to this day. He had always been the strong one, with a powerful mind and the ruthless dragon to guide him towards success. But beneath the chatter of the mind was the more innocent calling of the heart and soul. Every living being had this part. It didn't matter how vile and wicked they were. It was there however faint. Eldur could still hear it in himself, but it had never been quite the same since he decided to plunge that stake through the heart of a woman he loved. No matter how often he told himself it wasn't really her and that he was protecting her honor in doing it, no matter what the reality of it all was, his core, heart and soul had already decided what the truth should be. It haunted him still to this day, no matter how deep he tried to bury it. But this time he was facing it. After the incident, there was a distinct heaviness that settled upon his being, but at the same he felt stronger in his senses, sight and hearing. This gift had something of a predatory quality to it. It had been hard to distinguish it from the rollercoaster that were his draconic changes at the time. It felt slightly as if he was getting born again, but dying at the same time. Nightmares followed, and he had become numb to them over the years.

This was evil. It was contextual and subtle. It was beyond the materialistic view of the world. A cleric that destroys a vampire they have no connection with, in accordance to their faith does not create the same situation as the person who loves this vampire, where the vampire might even reciprocate this love, where there is a sacred bond of trust. If the person takes advantage of and violates this bond to destroy the vampire ... that is a sin against a more universal force: goodness itself. It made the world darker still.

Eldur had come to some understanding of this now, after all this time. Was this the beginning of entrapment within the Demiplane? He knew, that no power was worth such loss of freedom and that freedom went hand in hand with true power. His draconic warrior of a mind had begun scheming again, the protector of the heart, the one that forever seeks more power and control. His connection with the universal good was almost severed again. For all the power that his mind commanded, it could not connect to it. But could he, when it mattered the most?