The Thane I
Chapter Two
A Vorpal Nightmare
He had still been called Lord Baron a fortnight prior, when Jeryth stumbled upon that Baethylic relic (in the very same forest), just as dawn mercifully broke on what had been a miserable night. It had been, by all means, the worst night of Jeryth Baron’s life.
The nightmare began at dusk as he skulked the wood amid a group of Thelemite hunters. The hazy vision of a prize stag emerged between the labyrinth of oak trees ahead and without a second thought, Jeryth vaulted into a doomed effort. The foolish chase proved long and costly, the encroaching darkness playing tricks on Jeryth’s eyes and clouding his judgment. Disoriented, he was pulled farther from his countrymen and deeper into the throttling blackness of the Ninewood Forest… all alone.
At that time, the massive shadow cast from Aurion’s rocky, orbital ring fell hard upon the bush, draping large sections of the southern forest in what’s known as the Vorpal Robe. The Robe was a severe darkness that meandered and stalked the globe (with varying regularity), at times guttering both light and hope. Although all Aurionites endured the physical wane of light caused by the Vorpal Robe, the hopelessness and mental decline were erratic phenomena suffered primarily by the emotionally unstable. Those subjected to this trauma have reported some disturbing episodes of bizarre bodily reactions and terrifying hallucinations. Lord Jeryth Baron could do little more than wander in that impossible blackness for hours. He called out to his countrymen once or twice, but Lord Baron had become unnerved by some responding calls from deep within the black forest and thought it foolish to draw any further attention to himself.
Still, stranded and defeated, Jeryth was overcome. In the pure blackness of the Robe, he blindly settled down on a rotting stump and wept relentlessly. Lord Baron wailed into the inky abyss inhabiting every conceivable direction. He was internally racked by a life of unattained potential; an existence most aptly marked by being outshined by his own name. He knew he’d never measure up. He knew he must’ve been a pitiful shell of the hulking and powerful men that were his proverbial forebears.
“Mine Ore! Cut down stirringly low in the dead black of this Vorpal freak.” Jeryth cried out through sobs. “Wrong you were, father. A pitiful Ore, I have. Darker than this damned forest!”
The crushing umbra went on blotting out everything around him. Gradually snuffing out all the sounds, besides the long-gone sights. Then, it came to thicken and materialize; physically adhering to all things in a damp muck of sorts and thereby wore away all sense of feel. Soon, no matter what he did or which way he flailed or moved; no matter how he screamed his lungs to ruin, Jeryth could only float there in an absolutely silent chasm of the pitch-black void. Paralyzed and entirely numb, his eyes were suddenly bewitched by shades of a luminous wraith. He watched as the ghostly vision soundlessly twisted into the shape of Lord Olyvar Baron, Jeryth’s dead father. Floating through the black nothingness, it met Jeryth, face to face. Then with a villainous chortle, Lord Olyvar’s hostile spirit broke the silence and erupted.
“End it now, me boy! So as t’never again leave this forest.. to never escape this night! And thine eyes t’spy His great star born, nevermore! NEVERMORE!!” Lord Olyvar’s booming voice and spectral laughter corrupted into a deafening white noise as the revenant’s vital facial features rapidly aged and deteriorated before his son. Aghast, Jeryth’s gaze was gripped until all that remained of his poor father’s visage was a chilling white skull, a shrill cackle still escaping its dusty, cobwebbed mouth.
In that bluster of sensory deprivation and bleak horror, Jeryth sunk further into his mounting despair. Burning with fear, he considered ending his fouled-up life for good and all. Lord Jeryth Baron crumbled into utter pieces as he drew his dirk and raised it to his throat. He eyed the sharp dagger, quivering there for a long moment; life and death balanced on the edge of a blade. Yet again, gleaming shafts of light emerged from the darkness and Jeryth could sense a quickening in the blood. This time it was Lady Baron, Jeryth’s mother. Illuminated, she sat at arm’s length from her son, hugging her knees; her face hidden in her lap. “Mother?” Jeryth dared to say.
Meeting Jeryth’s gaze, Lady Baron displayed vacant, weary features as tears of blood streamed down her dead face. Almost sweetly she said, “Do it Jeryth. Please... You must! Follow through with this one thing, if ever. End the pain, son... for thee... and thy get... forever!” Once more, Jeryth was thunderstruck by these morbid visions. He could only stare out at the likeness of his mother being overrun by the putrid flux that had taken her all those years before. She glared at him, heaving, vomiting her entrails and vital organs. Her bowels then loosened and rancid black bile spilled out, pooling on the forest floor. Lady Baron’s ghost wailed hysterically as her innards were expelled from every bodily exit. In the end, Jeryth’s mother had been reduced to a ghastly heap of blackened rawhide lain on the rank moss.
Abruptly, Jeryth was then yanked from shock and thrust headlong into peril as the sinister black muck was swelling past the breaking point. Growing ever more engrossing, he could feel its plunging weight soar. Jeryth grieved and wept again, this time even harder as tremendous pressure overtook him. He knew the spirits of his parents had spoken the truth. He sought to heed their cryptic words and end it then, at that very moment. But while raising his blade, Jeryth began choking and was ensnared by a sudden coughing fit. Hacking, he threw down his steel. In a desperate and writhing frenzy, his streaming tears fused with his phlegm and dripping perspiration. Then, that soupy mixture was met by the heavy mess of black air. It all thickened and coalesced into an oppressive gummy mask; a richly spun molasses of death. Unable to draw breath through the inky lather and sludge, Jeryth Baron truly panicked. He gagged and heaved, the umbra sloughing down his throat until he vomited. Though when he did, it was only more of the same fleshy blackness gushing out. Soon, Jeryth could not tell the difference between consuming the gunk and purging it. The Vorpal madness was snuffing him out. He knew it. He managed to clumsily cast himself off that decaying trunk and plummet down to the forest floor. Lord Baron could have easily let the cosmic blackness slay him there, while lain so low in the venerable Ninewood. He might have lifelessly lazed further and further into the sable abyss. Yet through the interminable substance of mind and matter, Jeryth defiantly threw his arms up and interlocked his hands atop a large, foliage-covered boulder. Jeryth Baron found within, strength enough to call upon his god, Father Baethyl...
“Please, my Lord. Please!” he shouted through thick self-loathing and asphyxiation. “Showeth the slightest shred of mercy upon I, Thy weak and frightened creation. I, whose faith hast never once wavered. I beg of Thee, Father!”
Then Jeryth dried his tears, dropped his head, and recited the words of the “Aurora Ore’’. (a common Baethylic prayer that every Aurionite, young or old, knew as well as their own reflection) With eyes tightly closed, Jeryth began...
”In Thy grace of name and Thy stark of state.
Showeth path and pace to resolve of rock and plate.
From Thy Holy Stone Altars to the humble dwelling caves.
On Thy Law, shan’t we falter. Hail! Thine Eun, repelling scathe.
Aurora Ore, borne from austral brine to northern rime.
Therein marble, as in oak; as in all creatures alive.
Aurora Ore agleam. Even the worm of drek, beloved.
Yet as below, so too the lords of land and loam above.”
With those primal words recited, Lord Jeryth, at length, opened his bleary eyes to one of the most beautiful sights he’d ever been afforded. During his prayer, morning’s first blades of starlight began penetrating the thick forest canopy. Blessedly, he had been liberated from that oubliette of black oblivion and brought forth to the circadian drama of Aurion’s great starbirth. Somehow, Jeryth had made it through that nefarious night.
Feeling more uplifted, Jeryth pushed himself up from the mass upon which his hands were resting in prayer. Something caused him to freeze there for a moment. The way his weight shifted atop the submerged boulder struck him as odd. He began attempting to free the engulfed essence of this ponderous forest-floor bulge. He removed immense blankets of leaf and morass, severing the prison of vines and ivy fetters that grew wildly unperturbed and ran rampant for thousands of years. Jeryth Baron’s eyes widened as the illustrious white surface of the marble rock finally came into view. In another moment, the ruddy carvings, restrained no longer, shone forth. Then, the unnatural cavity sitting at the sacred boulder’s crown finally spilled through the thickets and thorns. Afflicted, Jeryth experienced that transcendent flash of enlightenment one may feel only the instant destiny is thrust upon them. His rapt musings ran off in all directions until they all simply melded into one question… Could this truly be...?
It was. This was a holy Jeovoid; among the rarest of natural gifts strewn throughout the surface of Aurion. Jeovoids were mysterious Baethylic relic stones, endlessly sought out and thought to be millions of years old, if not older. They were priceless and powerful. Doubtless, this was a gift from the god. Father Baethyl had answered Jeryth’s late-night, desperate plea. Such a finding traditionally affixed the title of “Thane'' to the Jeovoid’s discoverer. Thus, Lord Jeryth Baron became Thane Jeryth Baron thenceforth, the nineteenth Thane in all of recorded history and the first since the infamous “Pauper Thane” nearly two thousand years before. But more than a mere changing of titles, chancing upon this holy symbol meant that Jeryth might finally have the sort of life he’d always envisioned. This was an opportunity to prove Seer Solomyn and his drab Hi Council wrong; a shot to prove everybody wrong… to prove even himself... wrong. This was to depart his meek existence and inscribe his name into all writings of Aurion’s vast history, forevermore. While the original purpose of Thaneship and Jeovoids had become shrouded in mystery, finding one in the era of the Ryder Orb would assuredly mean one thing: crystal glory. Once anointed with the Father’s Holy Sacral Seal, carrying just a dusting of the stone served to limit the danger in transporting extricated Ryder crystals. In truth, it was the only known hope to stave off disaster and placate the volatile lunar crystals during transport. Small pouches of the dust, called the Ore of Evermore, were sold for fortunes all around the planet, beginning during the Cerulean Rush, two centuries ago. And although presently unsealed, House Baron now possessed an entire Jeovoid. Without question, this mystic stone’s union with Jeryth Baron would greatly elevate his life and legacy. But it would also stain his ancient name in blood, for to capture that holy Seal, House Baron would have to invoke the grisly blood ritual of Stella Benediction.
