29th of Frost, 4622
Being dead was a unique experience. Mostly void and expecting one of the gods to pick you up by your puppet strings and pull you into their afterlife. That void and darkness lasted mere moments for Volundr as he came to in the middle of a war camp just outside of Jarden, almost directly on the border between Daravin and Radenor. The bright light of afternoon nearly blinded the Kohrún, his Neverborn spirit once again bringing him back to the brink of life. Hovering over and around him were several soldiers, scouts just like him, checking vitals and making sure he had come back before a loud voice suddenly came from Volundr’s right, nearly deafening him.
“Returner, good to have you back! Been about three weeks since you died, but that god-given deathlessness seems to just keep kicking for ya! Come on, the Commander is going to want to speak to you regarding your notes from the last mission.”
Groaning, Volundr calmly glanced over at the brown-haired youth, barely in his 20s with a grin lacking a few teeth from whatever brawls he had been in. Getting up slowly, the dull aching of pain across his torso notified him to what looked to be a bolt sticking out of his chest, firmly planted a good four inches into the area and definitely the cause of his death. Grabbing it calmly, the sense of pain got stronger but never went further than a unique discomfort, pulling the bolt out with surprising strength for one who had just come back to life. The blood flowed a bit heavily, but a wad of bandage followed by wrappings around his chest made sure he didn’t bleed out. Seems like the Neverborn had at least repaired what was necessary for survival, meaning that he was in no danger of losing his life again.
Following the young soldier, most gave him a nod of morbid respect as a walking corpse, even if they were used to it. Seeing a dead body come to life as if nothing had happened completely defied nature. But of course, the magocracy of Daravin was most likely more used to this kind of thing, which is why most of the higher ups didn’t say anything. However, the youth kept talking as he walked, completely oblivious to Volundr’s amnesia.
“So! I’m a bit new here, got sent here by order of the Emperant to help retrieve you. Well, probably not by him, but still! Never seen someone come back from death, tell me. What’s it like?”
A look of grim silence stopped the young lad from speaking any further, Volundr colder than normal as he looked at the youth, being brought into a large tent meant for at least four soldiers. But for now, it was just Volundr and this… essentially a child at this point.
“Well then… the Mage-Commander will be here soon, get yourself reacquainted I suppose… that was all I was told to tell you, bye.”
And as awkward as the situation was, he was left by himself, the hustle and bustle of wartime efforts a bit muffled by the tent. Immediately, Volundr began calmly removing his brigandine armor, looking at the damage and noticing that the bolt had slipped between the third and fourth buckle between the fabric portions, surprisingly doing no damage to the armor himself as he huffed. The bandages didn’t restrict his movement, just a constant slight discomfort making itself a part of his life, for now. As he stripped down to bare skin on his upper body, he noticed all of the differing scars across his body, some small and insubstantial. However, a few around his vitals were large and deep, potentially meaning that he had multiple mortal wounds dealt to him. As he pondered this thought, a book slipped from a holding place in his armor and hit the dirt floor, a small puff of dust coming from it as he glanced down at it.
Picking up the book, he calmly sat down and opened it up to the first page. Right there, in the center of the page, were four words.
You are Volundr Strom.
Nodding to himself softly, he flipped to the next page, which began describing his nature as a Kohrún, and how the Neverborn kept him from succumbing fully to death. All of this was written in common, but a few more page flips would result in words beginning to appear in a different language, one he could read quite well.
Stol på ingen andre enn selskapet vårt. Trust nobody but our company.
The words of Skaldrúna were strangely familiar to him, scrawled on the edges of pages and in footnotes wherever he could. While much of the journal was written in common, the next couple of pages were heavy with the language.
31. av Searing, år 3999. 31st of Searing, Year 3999.
Ingen vet hva som skjer. Nobody knows what's going on.
Verden virker som den tar slutt, og vi ber alle til enhver gud som vil lytte, inkludert meg selv. The world seems like it’s ending, and all of us pray to any god who will listen, myself included.
Det ser ut til at monstre plager oss, og alt vi kan gjøre er å håpe vi blir spart. Monsters seem to be plaguing us, and all we can do is hope we are spared.
Volundr could hardly believe what he was reading. Year 3999? This was the same handwriting as the rest of the journal, but a written account that far back… if this was Volundr’s writing… Rapidly, he flipped to the last post of the journal, marked as the 6th of Frost, Year 4622. 623 years… he couldn’t believe that his life had lasted that long. Flipping back and forth, he could see gaps in ages where he had supposedly died and left notes right before, important information in Skaldrúna, information that could be shared in Common.
A few pages showed off various diagrams of practices with dual swords, quite decently drawn as well as he looked at them. Slowly standing, he drew the two blades on his back which felt so alien yet so familiar to him. Following the diagrams, he began slow at first, simply matching the drawings before going faster and faster, the sharp blades whizzing by his face and body until he stops in a ready pose, the blades perpendicular to each other in a block pattern. Placing the blades next to each other, he slid them back into each sheathe and stood there, still shirtless and bleeding softly through the bandage as his body took its time to heal as all human bodies do. Taking the book in his hands once again, he went back to the far back pages, most of which discussed enemy movement patterns, gear of the enemy, etcetera. All in Common. As he read the information, a clearing of the throat brought to his attention a new person in his space.
Glancing up, he was greeting with a smooth face framed in long dark locks, a gilded armor set denoting him as a higher up, even the Mage-Commander. However, Volundr looked at him cluelessly, his commander glancing down at him despite being shorter.
“Well… it took you long enough. We wasted resources on you to assist your return, but the higher powers that be find your undying nature useful. Come, show me what you have learned.”
Handing over the journal, he had the first part of the several pages of notes open to him. As he read, the commander smirked softly and said nothing for a moment, scanning over the pages rapidly. Gently pulling a blank scroll from his pocket, he began using magic to transfer the words from the pages to his scroll, leaving the pages in his journal blank, at least the ones that contained important information.
“Good boy, your service to the Emperant is always desired. If only we had more who were so willing to follow orders.”
Was that an eyeroll that Volundr saw as the mage spoke? It was hard to tell as he rolled up the scroll and left as quickly as he came. Immediately as he left, he checked the rest of the journal and saw the written parts that didn’t concern the enemy were still intact, perhaps as a way of keeping him subservient to the cause. Remaining solitary for the time being, he continued reading.
In the middle of the large chunk of normal daily accounts for himself was a huge scrawling of straight Skaldrúna, beginning to quickly and concisely explain some arcane knowledge. The two main magics that were spoken about were Necromancy and Nightfall. Necromancy was less about bringing back the dead and more about using magic to heal the body and graft various body parts, much more similar to wild experimentation of modifications on the body. While his knowledge was sparse in that regard, the pages regarding Nightfall were much more detailed, speaking of Umbraplasm and various abilities. By the time that he had gotten to this point, it was nighttime outside, and the Nightfall section spoke of his Mark of Control, a way to actually use the magic. It was located on his left wrist and illuminated by the moonlight, as the notes said.
Looking at the small holes in the top of the tent, he slowly pushed his wrist into the moonlight to see the mark illuminate as if obfuscated by a simple trick, the black rods of his mark forming three triangles set into themselves. Curious, Volundr kept reading, noticing a portion that mentioned how even death did not remove Marks of Control. Remembering how he wrote about only trusting himself, he figured that he would have to find someone who would believe him enough to get out of this situation. But for now, he closed the journal and laid down on his bed, looking at the top of the tent once again. Soon, sleep took him, a type of dreamless sleep that simply allowed the body to rest and relax before the next morning in which he would do his best to continue training and figure out how he could prove he had a capacity for magic.
