Silence lay heavily over the remains of Hollowhearth, seeping through the cracks in the walls and hovering over the flagstones like a malignant fog. Darkness had fallen as quickly as predicted. Faint stars made feeble attempts to provide some semblance of light to the ruin through the thick clouds that come naturally with the moons of frostfall. Alwyn tore into a chunk of bread from where he sat, mere feet from the humble fire they had managed to light within what remained of the great hall. Sir Harris, already having finished his serving, leaned casually upon one of the crumbling stone pillars as he went through the routine sharpening of his blades.
Sir Nathaniel was nearly through a second ration, which he had anticipated needing prior to departure and therefore packed prudently. Sir Heinrich was already busying himself with laying out his bedroll. After finishing a humble ration for a man of his size, Sir Zachariah rose and made his way outside for - what Alwyn had assumed - was his nocturn prayer. He had come to learn that the man was of a rather strict religious inclination. Lastly, Sir Nemian sat nearly absorbed into his cloak and stared deeply into the crackling fire.
As far as Alwyn had observed, the elder knight had partaken in neither food nor drink. Visible from just over the old man's shoulder was the primary source of the disquiet: the blue ball of flame still flickered in its abode, emanating a deafening hush. Though there was a secondary source of their unease in the form of Sir Nemian himself, who, just under an hour ago, had uttered his first words to the company in which his life had been entrusted. Just before the sun had set, Alwyn had returned to the rest of the men along with Sirs Harris and Nathaniel from their investigation of Hollowhearth. He had attempted to explain what they had witnessed within, eliciting a contemplative apprehension from Sir Zachariah and Sir Heinrich - neither of whom had heard of such a phenomena before.
It was just as he was about to suggest setting camp outside as an alternative that something very odd happened. Gathering up his belongings from his mount as if he had not heard a word that had been said, Sir Nemian lumbered over to the entrance they had made, and hauled himself inside. This was done with much protest from Alwyn, but the shrouded silhouette simply strode forth unwaveringly. Growing frustrated and frantic with fear from the potential danger, Alwyn made one last attempt to reason with his senior as they once again came upon the great hall. It was then that Sir Nemian stopped suddenly, slowly turned to face Alwyn and the trailing members of the Drake's Tongue behind him, and uttered a few simple words.
"No harm will befall you."
Then he turned back to unburden himself from the scant belongings known to him. Though the words he had uttered had been odd in and of themself, it was not what had stopped Alwyn dead in his tracks. It was the voice in which they were uttered, a harsh and grinding bass that sounded almost painful, that caught him in a trance. This voice was one reminiscent of ancient summits and yawning caverns of unknowable depth. There was something in the way that the sound's echo seemed to linger in the air that suggested their creator trod a path on the fringes of mortal reality.
It was, in essence, a manner of speech that was not entirely human. All of these thoughts came to Alwyn's mind as a shiver crawled up his spine so quickly that it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. Despite his now compounding apprehensions, it took Alwyn but a moment to regain his composure. This was partly due to his roats of arduous training, but also because there was something in the weight of Sir Nemian's words that compelled Alwyn into believing them. It was then that the matter was settled; Alwyn began assisting with the setup of camp without another word of opposition.
That was how the knights of the Drake's Tongue found themselves as they rested and supped, the ghostly pale glow of the blue flame battling for control of the chamber with the yellow warmth of their own. All the while, Alwyn had been working out a way to discuss the matter further with their mysterious companion. Sir Nemian, staunchly unspeaking since their day of meeting, had opened the floodgates of conversation at last - albeit by a margin of five short words. Nevertheless, Alwyn found himself with a more insurmountable amount of unanswered questions than he had ever been made to deal with. Up until this point he had been able to compartmentalize them - they were not answers he needed in order to do his job.
Now things were different. He could not rest beside an unknown and possibly undiscovered source of magical energy. He would not subject his comrades to that danger.
"Sir Nemian?"
Alwyn began hesitantly. Sir Heinrich paused in the arrangement of his furs, and Sir Nathaniel watched him carefully. Though he was out of view, Alwyn could hear that the whetstone that Sir Harris was using to sharpen his kopitar had momentarily halted its rhythmic melody. Sir Nemian gave no indication of hearing, yet Alwyn persisted.
"Forgive my asking, Sir, but you said that no harm would befall us. I need to know this is a certainty."
What ensued was a long and uncomfortable silence as Alwyn's words hung in the air. There was no visible response; not even the slightest shift of a limb or twitch of the eye. With a defeated sigh Alwyn averted his gaze, uncertainty with how to move forward clouding his thoughts to the point that he almost didn't catch Sir Nemian's reply.
"She does not will such a thing."
When Alwyn raised his head, he found the elder's gaze meeting his own.
"I-I am not sure I understand," Alwyn choked out, "what do you mean 'she'?"
Sir Nemian's eyes bored into his, forcing Alwyn to answer the question himself.
"The flame?" He asked at last.
A small, slow, and nearly imperceptible nod was given in response.
"That's not- I mean … I've never heard of anything like this. There is not a creature in Regganor - or in any land in which we have a written history of, for that matter - capable of producing such a thing."
"Why not?" Sir Nemian asked, in a gravelly wheeze.
His question took Alwyn aback. It was an answer so obvious to any knight of his position that he felt akin to a teased child. "It is a flame devoid of any of its natural properties. It makes no sound, emits no heat, and yet appears to burn and provide light. There is no source of lumen for it to convert or even to subsist, and no caster within range to maintain its existence."
"Are you certain there is no caster?"
Alwyn made to answer, but his words could not get past the sudden lump in his throat. There was something about the question that made Alwyn incredibly uncomfortable. A caster? Less than half a nock's ride from Rivengarde? Casters had not been seen amongst the Regganorian public in cades.
Every last one of them - the few that were left after the war - were accounted for in case of an Arcane Infraction. Alwyn knew of the few that resided within Rivengarde and the degree of their former abilities. They were all old and many incontinent, lacking the capacity to even make it to the privy on their own, much less weave the little lumen they possess into something substantial.
Perhaps someone was taught, someone younger?
Nearly as soon as the possibility crossed his mind, he dismissed it. Some of the casters of old had begun to teach younger generations, it was true. It wasn't even uncommon for a couple to turn up here and there every few roats. Typically an infraction was due to an apprentice grown old and unable to let go of the past. Other times it was some caster's grandchild that found an old tome and read a few passages thinking it harmless, only to find that she has filled her house with toads and cannot flee because her shoes have turned to lead.
Alwyn preferred the ladder of these infractions because most of the time the caster themself had been long dead, and therefore no arrest was needed. Although protocol dictated that the residence be searched and all grimoires and tomes associated with the arcane arts be put to the torch. It was through his dealing with these many infractions that Alwyn knew, despite having a hazy grasp of the eight classifications of mortal magics, that no mortal lumen was capable of such a feat. Active use of lumen was a massive strain on the body that, if not done by one with a high enough concentration and the ability to control it, would quickly result in death. Not to mention that experienced casters could only maintain spells for a few minutes at most, and Alwyn's company had been resting here for close to two hours.
Even if there was a way, elemental control was not something a human caster was able to accomplish. As far as he knew, only the Elves were capable of wielding the seven elements. Whichever way he looked at it, Alwyn came to the same conclusion.
"That isn't possible." Sir Harris sneered. He had said it before Alwyn could.
Sir Nemian craned his neck just enough for Sir Harris to enter the corner of his vision. "Why is that? Because you searched the ruin?"
"Because I would have sensed them," Sir Harris's voice turned sharp and cold, "there isn't a living thing that doesn't leave signs."
"And if the caster isn't living?" Sir Nemian croaked.
Alwyn was dumbstruck. Sir Nathaniel choked and coughed on a mouthful of dried pork.
"Are you daft?" Sir Harris asked quietly, after a moment.
"Harris!" Alwyn snapped, reeling around where he sat to face his fellow knight.
"What?" Sir Harris scoffed, "That's the most batshit mad idea I've ever heard! Ghost-casters, we'll be worrying about the zombie-pirates and vampire-luminaries before this journey is done!"
Sir Nemian shook his head and expelled a subtle rasp which Alwyn imagined might be a sigh.
"Members of your order … have much less open minds … than I recall …"
"My apologies, Sir Nemian. Many of us like to think ourselves experienced, but in truth have much to learn. What you are suggesting … it is something we have never heard of before. If you would enlighten us …" Alwyn trailed off, shifting uneasily.
"Are you aware of the source of lumen?" Sir Nemian queried suddenly, "the energy from which the arcane is channeled?"
Again, Alwyn was reminded of his days as a squire, "It is what makes up the Sol of any living thing."
"And what becomes of the lumen when bereft of the Sol?" Sir Nemian continued his academic interrogation, to which a response was promptly given in a deep rumble from the former hallway.
"Sol and lumen are one. When the Sol departs, it is either guided by the Solvane to Eternium, or left to be claimed by the Reaper. To remain is to be corrupted, and to use lumen after death would rend the Sol into stardust."
Sir Zachariah, for a man of his stature, silently slid into the room like a shadow. His presence, only now having been announced by his assured response, made Sir Nathaniel start with nerves. Sir Zachariah moved almost mechanically to his claimed corner of the ruin, allowing himself relief from the massive war hammer that had been astride his back. He leaned the glinting head of polished steel against the stone, preparing at last to rest.
"Accurate to the Astraean faith, but erroneous."
Sir Zachariah froze in place, but Sir Nemian had not even bothered to turn to face him.
"Before a Sol departs it can fragment, leaving a piece of itself behind. It is not common, but it is long lasting."
"Why in Luv's Lillies would someone want to do that for?" Asked Sir Nathaniel, visibly captivated by the idea.
"A wish. A regret. A promise. It can be one or many. This remnant is one of those. An Oathflame."
"I'd call it heresy." Sir Zachariah grumbled, lowering himself at last upon his bedroll. Sir Harris snickered. Sir Nemian ignored them both.
"Do you know how this one came to be?" Alwyn asked.
Sir Nemian nodded somberly. "A tale long and full of sorrow. Though now my throat is parched and raw. I must rest."
It was true that the elder's voice had become so cracked and hoarse that he could barely be heard. Alwyn watched as Sir Nemian pulled a waterskin from deep within the folds of his cloak and unscrewed the top with his gloved fingers. Carefully raising rim to his mouth, he hooked a single crooked finger over the cloth that covered his face. As the man took delicate sips, Alwyn caught the first glimpse of the scar-warped flesh that lurked beneath the mask, crinkling as their owner pursed his lips. Alwyn quickly looked away so as to not be caught staring.
It was perhaps only for a moment or so, but when he raised his head, he found that Sir Nemian had returned to his original position, only now his eyes were firmly shut. Alwyn shared a glance with Sir Nathaniel, who shrugged. It was only with the steadiness of his breathing that Alwyn realized that the mysterious knight had already fallen fast asleep.