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tildeathiwillwrite · 8 months ago

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What's Left of the Draigo

The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure Chapter 3

Tales from Valaria Masterpost

Fandom: Original Work

WIP: The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure (Tales from Valaria)

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Words: 3100

Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion @scaewolf

@the-ellia-west @libraryofcirclaria @syncopein3d @galactic-dragon-pathex @ashirisu

@writingphoenix

CW: panic attack, mentioned attack, mentioned fire, mentioned death, mentioned blood, held at sword-point, swearing, self-deprecation, mentioned magic whump, distrust

A/N: Sort of lore and worldbuilding-heavy, but fantasy lives for this kind of stuff, y'know? Octavian does get held at sword-point so there's that for you whump lovers too.

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Ten years.

Give or take a few months, but still. A full decade.

Ten years and the stench of smoke and ash still hadn’t fully faded. Octavian could smell it as he emerged from the swampy woodlands surrounding the Draigo stronghold. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Ten years was a long time, even for elves and Draigo and their long lifespans, a lot could change.

Draven had mentioned that the Draigo had barricaded themselves in their stronghold shortly after the outbreak, so Octavian had hoped, prayed that this one would be no different, that the damages from the explosions in his foggy memory had been repaired. That there would be solutions within its walls. Perhaps they had withdrawn to find the cure for the plague, to devote all their efforts to the research.

He should’ve known such hopes were baseless.

Octavian’s breath caught in his throat his eyes fell on the ruined stronghold. The once-majestic walls had crumbled, the stones not covered in ivy and moss blackened from the flames. With the walls gone, he could confirm that time had taken its toll as he walked between the destroyed buildings on shaking legs.

The Council Hall, which he vaguely recalled having sustained the worst damage in the attack, was little more than a pile of rubble with a sapling peeking out from between a pair of stones. The other buildings weren’t nearly as destroyed, but they all had been abandoned long ago.

No sight, sound, or scent of another living person.

Just dust.

And smoke.

And ash.

Octavian fell to his knees, his entire body shaking, as the blurry memories assaulted him.

Graves. A supposed Draigo from the far east stronghold. Nothing more than a liar, thief, and arsonist.

The dead devar in the archive explosion. The injured and dead Draigo in the Council hall.

The mission.

Maelyn.

Oh celestials, Maelyn.

She’d trusted him, and he’d failed her.

Lead her straight into a trap.

He had no choice.

No choice….

Did she even survive? Everything right after the enchantment broke was a blur. Maelyn had the pendant, it was in her hand. He didn’t know what happened to Graves, but if the thief had survived Octavian would take it upon himself to hunt him down for what he did. As for the Watchers….

He didn’t know. He hadn’t even returned to the stronghold before being intercepted by Kenta. And then….

Octavian reached into his bag and pulled out the slim metal object. A ‘gift’, as the Draigo had put it, before shoving Octavian into the lake. “You will see the world broken beyond your comprehension,” he’d said, closing Octavian’s fingers around the object. “See that this message is delivered.”

Octavian never had time to ask who the recipient would be. He flipped the metal object between his fingers, thumbing the carved symbols. Much of the archives had been salvaged after the fire was put out, he remembered that much, even if the memory itself was about as clear as a muddy puddle. Perhaps the books and scrolls had clues to deciphering the strange language?

It was worth a try.

Wasn’t as though anyone was around to stop him.

Taking a deep breath, Octavian rose and started towards the archives, one of the only buildings still mostly intact, although ivy had attempted to take over its walls. The outer doors were torn off their hinges, a mess of splinters now covering the marble floor inside. The elements had taken their toll on the immediate interior, the shelves and pedestals, devoid of their contents, rotting and worn away by time and water.

The faint noises of small, skittering creatures reached Octavian’s ears as he stepped inside the dim building, the only light coming in from the door and the high windows. Much of the light had been magical in nature, stemming from a certain artifact. Without an archivist to maintain them, they had long ago winked out of existence, the artifact stolen or destroyed by now.

Octavian wandered methodically throughout the depths of the archives, from the highest levels of empty shelves to the lower storage spaces, searching for something, anything, that could aid him. Eventually, his search evolved into one for anything left behind. Had the Draigo fled and taken everything with them? Or had they all been killed, and the archives sacked completely?

The longer he scoured the archives, the more certain he became that the latter was far more likely. Especially when he stood before the storage rooms. He’d ventured down there rarely, only once or twice in his memory to retrieve something for Skylyn when the rest of the archivists were busy, so he only had a vague idea of the sorts of items kept in the maze-like rooms below the archive.

The door, just like the entrance, had been torn from its hinges, and everything beyond was veiled in darkness, the natural light unable to reach. He hovered on the threshold, uncertain. The debris he could make out hinted that the door had formerly been barricaded.

Barricaded against whom? Who killed them all and took everything? Kenta? The humans? The lycanthropes?

Something else?

And the faint scent in the air… it was partially hidden under the cloying smell of wood smoke and burning paper, but it was unmistakably metallic, coppery. He shouldn’t be able to smell blood, not after so long.

Octavian’s stomach churned and he turned away, unwilling to investigate any longer. “Coward,” he muttered to himself disparagingly as he stalked back through the archives to the entrance. “Damned coward.”

“‘Damned coward’, hmm?”

Octavian jumped and whirled around, drawing his borrowed knife, and found the point of a sword centimeters from his throat, wielded by someone dressed in dark clothing, their face veiled. Their voice was unfamiliar. Not Kenta.

“What have we here?” The veiled figure, teased, cocking their head. “You’re far from the border, elf. Are you an exile, come to seek sanctuary? A seeker of knowledge? A… traitor?”

Octavian swallowed, fighting the urge to back away as the sword lightly touched the veins on his neck. One thrust, and he would be dead. “My… my name is Octavian de Silv,” he forced out, heartbeat hammering in his ears, “I am… I was… a messenger for the Draigo, but I have been in captivity for the past ten years.”

The figure’s hand tightened on their sword. “A messenger?” they repeated, “hmm… your name is familiar to me, why is your name familiar to me? Are you perhaps a devar messenger?”

“I am, yes.”

“Ah! I remember now! You were sent on that mission to capture the thieving Draigo with Maelyn Sorro, correct?”

Octavian hesitated, but he suspected lying would do him little good here. “…correct. Is Maelyn…?”

The figure shrugged. “You both disappeared during the mission. But I would assume if you survived, she had as well. The question of her being still alive, however….” They rotated their wrist, the sword point turning, a constant reminder of just how quickly they could end Octavian’s life. “Everyone assumed you turned on her. Or, at least, that was Kenta’s theory when he left to hunt you down for treason.”

Octavian’s eyes narrowed. “The punishment for treason is execution. That is what I expected him to do when he found me wounded in the Fells, mind and will shattered by a magician’s runes.”

“Oh? And yet here you stand.”

The memories of Kenta were clearest. Octavian could almost see him standing before him, helping him to his feet and leading him to shelter. He could almost feel him bandaging the mutilated runes on his back, listening to Octavian’s side of the story. He had seemed disappointed when Octavian mentioned that he didn’t know where Maelyn had gone. “He did not kill me.”

Octavian slowly held out his hand, revealing the metal object. An artifact, perhaps? Whatever it was, he suspected it had been instrumental in implementing his stasis in the ice. “He gave me this, right before leading me over a lake and shoving me in. I remember the water freezing over, and I thought I passed out for a few moments before waking up and breaking free of the ice. Except Kenta wasn’t there.”

The figure slowly moved their sword away from his throat and sheathed it, but kept their hand on it as they examined the object. “May I?”

He nodded, and they picked up the object, running their fingers over the symbols. “A human lycanthrope hunter was nearby,” Octavian continued, “and he was kind enough to allow me a place at his fire in exchange for aid in tracking down his target. It was through him that I discovered ten years, not a few moments, had passed in my time beneath the ice.” He gestured at the ruins around him. “And so much has changed.”

“Much has changed, indeed,” the figure agreed, handing back the object. “This could be one of our artifacts, but I do not know enough about the inventory to confirm. It put you in some sort of stasis?”

“Yes.”

“And clearly it protected you from the fate of the other devar.”

Octavian’s mouth went dry. “I… what?! What happened to the other devar?”

The figure glanced around, an air of sorrow about them. “How do you think there are no Draigo here? We cannot be infected by the plague, little good that did us.”

“They… they attacked you?”

“…not of their own accord. Please, at least allow me to show you some hospitality. It’s not often I encounter other survivors, even if you missed the turning. Wish I had that luxury.”

The figure turned and walked back into the archives. Octavian hesitated, but soon followed, his curiosity outweighing his apprehension. They threatened me with a sword, he reminded himself, slowly sheathing his borrowed blade. They haven't shown their face, but I don’t think I know them. How can I trust them?

They already know what any Draigo would know. And yet even Graves somehow knew that. But I don’t think anyone would play at being Draigo now. Not when there’s no one left to fool.

“Your voice is unfamiliar to me,” Octavian said softly as they moved back through the archives, “you know of me but I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“Sounds about right,” the figure agreed, pausing before the door to the store rooms. They clicked their fingers twice, and light suddenly erupted from inside, a small fabric ball not far from the door lighting with an inner glow. The ball illuminated the dark corridor, revealing branching rooms with doors similarly destroyed and dark brown streaks staining the walls and floor. “To be fair, you got incredibly famous shortly before the attack happened. The Council made a big deal about your ‘trial’.”

The figure continued down the corridor, the fabric ball fading as they passed, but an identical one illuminated further along. The unmistakable script of runes decorated the surface of the paper balls. Octavian frowned at the artifact. “‘Trial’?”

“A mockery of justice is what it was,” the figure clarified, stepping through a doorway into another hallway illuminated by another paper ball. How many of those did they have? “They took your and Maelyn’s disappearance as confirmation of a traitor within the ranks, the person who admitted the thief who somehow caused the Council chambers and many of the other buildings to spontaneously combust. Kenta insisted that you were behind the whole thing, and murdered Maelyn on your mission.”

They stopped outside a door. Nothing remarkable about it, except it was the first Octavian had seen intact here. “He similarly insisted on being the one to go and exact justice. I suppose the stasis you describe is what he decided. He never clarified, everyone assumed execution.” Opening the door, they waved Octavian inside. He entered to find a surprisingly cozy hideout, decorated with glowing paper balls and a multitude of other artifacts lying amidst tattered blankets, carpets, and scorched cushions.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home, despite the… conditions outside,” he remarked as the figure closed the door.

“It’s not much, but it’s the only home I got left,” the figure agreed, unbuckling their sword and setting it on a nearby crate. “I don’t think anyone tried to hide here, otherwise it would’ve gotten similarly destroyed. Please, sit.” They followed their own instructions, plopping down on a cushion and unveiling, revealing a woman, younger than Maelyn, with dark skin and braids tied up elaborately to keep them from her face. Her markings were a light blue, almost white shade, scattered across her face like freckles.

She stuck out her hand in the human greeting. “My name is Aster Kyr. I was on retreat south at Loch Vika when the attack happened.”

On retreat. Loch Vika? Oh…. Octavian hesitantly shook her hand and seated himself on the cushion opposite her. “You had only just come of age?”

Aster nodded sorrowfully. “I was there with two other Draigo, Kassia and Leon, and a devar, Dorian. That night… my dreams won’t let me forget when Dorian started acting strangely, like he was in pain. Kassia was talking to him, trying to figure out what was wrong, when he suddenly transformed into his other form. His was an owl. But that time… it was certainly owl-like, but it was all wrong, like someone who only had a vague idea of what an owl looked like had tried to put one together and gotten some parts mixed up with a savage bear.”

Aster took a shaking breath. “She… she didn’t even have time to scream. Leon was the next closest, and the… creature… thing… pounced on him. He couldn’t get to his knife, but he was always better with his fire anyway…. I had to put it out of its misery. It was the only thing I could do. And Leon… Leon died in my arms as the sun rose. The moon turned red that night. I think that might be what had caused Dorian to… to….”

Her voice broke, and she turned away, tears glistening in her eyes. When she spoke again, her tone was harsh. “I buried them all overlooking the loch and returned here. I hoped… I hoped that whatever happened with Dorian was a fluke. I was incorrect.”

“What happened to the devar?” Octavian asked softly.

“Some of them had died while transformed, their bodies remaining in that cursed, twisted form. Some had managed to change back in the sunrise, I assume, and succumbed to the injuries by the Draigo fighting for their lives. The rest… from the clues I gathered and the garbled stories from the survivors, they ran off during the night and attacked the nearby villages. After that, I don’t know. We found out later that whatever curse befell them was transmittable to the humans. And thus started the plague.”

Octavian drank all the information in, his heart pounding. All in a single night? Transformed into some sort of monster? “There were other Draigo survivors?”

“Yes,” came the shaky reply, “all in varying states of injury. We regrouped, buried the dead, cared for the wounded the best we could. Since then, everyone else drifted away, keen to escape the reminder of that night. I stayed. Sometimes I go to Valdove for supplies.”

“What happened to the archives?”

“I don’t know. Vulir had his theories, that someone in the chaos stole what they could and fled using one of the artifacts. Whoever that could be, though, I can’t—”

“Kenta,” Octavian interrupted, hands closing into fists, “He knew something like this would happen, maybe he caused it.”

Aster gave him a quizzical look, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Octavian sighed and shook his head. “I can’t do anything about him anymore. I don’t know where he could have gone after imprisoning me. Some of the artifacts were left behind?”

“Yes,” Aster said, pointing to the paper balls. “Those, a few I can’t figure out that I keep in crates, a scattering of scrolls and books. I don’t think any of the archivists survived, none of us could make heads or tails of what was left. Part of the reason I stayed is to guard the ruins from potential looters and thieves, but when the others scattered they spread rumors about the stronghold being on lockdown, and that kept the humans away for the most part. The rest…” she waved at the sword absently.

“…may I look through them? The chance is small but they might hold clues about the object Kenta gave me.”

Aster indicated one of the crates leaning against the wall, a blanket and a paper ball resting on its surface. “Everything’s in there.”

Octavian rose to his feet, but before he could move over to the crate, Aster jumped up and grabbed his arm. Her gaze was hard, almost accusatory. “Wait. What happened to Maelyn Sorro if you did not kill her?”

“I…” Octavian remembered the moments after the runes had been disrupted by the Watcher’s hand, remembered when he finally came to himself after what felt like years of enthrallment when it couldn’t have been more than a couple weeks. It was all a foggy blur, he wasn’t fully awake until after Kenta found him, but one thing was certain. “The last I saw of her, she was alive. After that, I do not know. The runes the magician used on me caused my memories to be uncertain, but she was alive.”

“Do you think she’s still alive?”

Octavian hesitated. “…yes. It would take more than a magician and a thief to kill Maelyn Sorro.”

“What about the devar?”

“You said she disappeared before the attack? I think she either went somewhere to lie low or she just hadn’t arrived back when it happened. And after that, it doesn’t really matter. She could be anywhere.”

Aster glanced at the door. “If you’re so certain…” she let go of his arm. “I must apologize. I wasn’t sure if I was going to arrest you for treason or not. My people are… I must try my best to uplift their legacy. You understand, right?”

She’s so young. He nodded. “We are what remains of our peoples.” He glanced down at the artifact in his hand. “I do not know if I should stay for long. There is much I must investigate.”

“Of course,” Aster recognized, settling back onto the cushion. “I will welcome your company for as long as you choose. I can’t offer much, but I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you. For not arresting me for treason.”

She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.

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