William’s army was quick to begin its siege of Weirstein, surrounding the settlement on all sides and blocking many of the region’s gullies and canyons. Shut off from support and supply, Weirstein would eventually be starved into surrender. But whether it fell or stood, Vorador cared little.
Inside the city he prowled, slipping from shadow to shadow like some ephemeral ghost. It had been quite easy to simply fly over the walls in the form of a raven. No one had suspected him of being anything other than a filthy carrion bird and now he was inside, keeping himself to the darkness and well out of sight.
He supposed that he could use his current position to open the gates and deliver the town to William De’Segnir on a platter. But he had no reason to do so. The newly crowned king was polite enough, for a Human, but Vorador was not so foolish as to let himself become involved in the politics of Man.
In point of fact, he was not even sure why he had chosen to infiltrate Weirstein at all. There was nothing of material benefit to him here and only the weirdest sense of compulsive nostalgia had brought him to this place at all. He had discarded such pining for a forgotten history as foolishness and of no consequence. Yet it still had some power over him, enough to have forced him to venture into the city.
He reasoned that perhaps if he saw for himself what there was to see, that would silence the ghost of his forgotten mortal life once and for all, put it all to rest and allow him to move on with more important matters. He disliked justifying the trip even then, annoyed that the mental weakness had compelled him thus.
Weirstein’s streets were all narrow and straight but ran in a spiral towards the central plaza where a square tower stood high above the other buildings. Most of the settlement was made of grey stone with no windows at all, the roofs of matching grey slate. A thick forest of chimneys grew out of the rooftops, showing that illumination for their interiors came from hearths within. The thick snow was piled up in the narrow alleys, leaving the streets mostly clear to the square, pale red paving stones beneath.
The Eastern soldiers he had observed earlier heavily patrolled the streets, and the populace was certainly not welcoming to their presence. Doors were all shut and locked up tight and hardly any sound at all came from the buildings, the only sounds being the thud of boots on stone as the occupying men made their patrols – watching over the stout walls of the settlement down at the army encircling them. Down below, clearly visible from the walls, the campfires of the besieging army flickered in the dark of the night.
Occasionally the soldiers would come to the door of a house and bang on it with a fist, demanding to be let in. More often than not, the door was immediately opened but if not, the soldiers simply knocked the door down. They took from the people of this settlement whatever they wanted, whether it was more food, extra clothing against the cold of the night, more kindling for fires, bottles of various alcoholic beverages or, if the mood took them, women were taken back to their garrison for enjoyment of another kind. Anyone who tried to prevent these excessive requisitions was lucky if the soldiers merely beat them to a bloody pulp.
There were perhaps only a thousand men defending Weirstein but with such a vantage point, the walls high and thick, they could hold the settlement for some time. Perhaps it was their desperate situation, surrounded by an overwhelming force, which drove them to be so cruel and oppressive. But given the frightened and cowed looks on the faces of the people they abused, it seemed more likely they had been at this for quite some time.
Vorador left the bullies unmolested for now. He had neither present need for blood, nor any need to play the hero and the disappearance of one or more of their number would immediately be noticed. Once more, he firmly reminded himself the affairs of Humans were not his.
Instead, Vorador turned his immediate attention to obtaining a replacement shirt. His original had been completely shredded by repeated battle with the arctic Werewolves and had had to be discarded. While he could quite practically function without such a garment, Vorador did not really feel inclined to be bare-chested. It was too much like Kain’s current style and perhaps it was petty of him, but he was loath to follow Kain’s example in anything.
Obtaining new clothes was quite easy. Even in the East, where a different culture presided, there were still shops of all kinds: bakers, butchers, tanners and clothiers. The soldiers had taken what they wanted and had left a simple clothier alone. Vorador was easily able to flip the lock open with the merest use of telekinesis and slip inside, carefully relocking the door after him. This way he could take his time to obtain a new garment without fear of being disturbed.
Another locked door barred the stairs leading up to the living quarters above the shop itself. Vorador could sense several people above, perhaps the owner of the shop and his family. He would not bother himself with them. Given Weirstein’s precarious state it was unlikely they would venture down even if they did hear a noise.
The shop itself was quite plain. The floor was made of the same grey slate as the rooftops, swept and kept free of dust and grime. The ceiling was held up by preserved wooden beam supports, well varnished to keep the cold and damp from rotting it away. The clothes that were on sale were preserved inside wooden chests on stone shelves, wrapped in leather to keep them from being exposed to the wetter climate.
In the cold grip of winter, especially along this icy northern coast, warm garments were utterly essential. As such, a lot of the clothing Vorador found within these boxes was made of wool or padded leather, insulated but also waterproof to keep out the damp. As a Vampire, Vorador had a greater tolerance to extreme temperatures than other beings but decided that perhaps he ought to invest in such garments anyway to keep himself from being slowed down. It could make all the difference if the fights he had endured so far were any indication of his future prospects.
As such, the shirt he took was woven from fine cashmere wool and stretched quite easily to fit over his chest. Over this, he took for himself a darkened leather jerkin, padded with sheep’s wool across the shoulders and back. It was rather surprising to find one in his size. He considered taking a fur cowl with which he might hide his inhuman facial features, but then looked down at his tridactyl hands. Such an attempt at concealment would be a painfully wasted effort.
Instead, he found inside another box a pair of padded, reinforced leather bracers, thick gloves up to the elbow with holes for the fingers. They were more like light armour intended for scouts than actual gloves. Vorador usually did not put stock in armour of any sort. It was an encumbrance and more often than not slowed the wearer down. However, he recalled quite painfully how deep into flesh the claws of the Werewolves could sink. In battle with them, he could not afford to have his arms exposed. Of course, they had to be adapted to fit the shape of his hands with their talons but that was no difficult chore.
With his new garments in place, Vorador paused for just a moment to check himself over. The plain clothes were quite the step down from the robes he had so often worn before, but these were far more practical to the journey he now undertook. Satisfied with the additions to his wardrobe he quietly left the shop, leaving the clothier to discover that he had been robbed in the morning.
Most of Weirstein was built onto the edge of the bluff and was relatively modern in construction, but there was an older part of the settlement that seemed to be made out of the looming cliff itself. These were natural fissures and caves, widened out with their entrances bricked up to make crude shelters.
In this era, these hovels were used as supply or animal storage, with the occasional vagabond hiding out in them. They ran up a natural crevice in the rock towards the top of the cliff, a Human rabbit warren. The guards did not come here. They could not be bothered with patrolling the crags and its meagre collection of goats, sheep and the homeless.
As the old Vampire surveyed these rugged slums, perched in the shadows atop a stone precipice that jutted out from the side of the cliff, he seemed to see everything in strange double vision. All at once, he saw this place as it was now and how it had once been. This remembrance of the past did not come easy but the more he stared the stronger it became. Some Human memories, buried deep down by his overriding Vampiric existence, leaked through steadily. He could almost take in the long gone smells of cooking fires, drying animal skins and the copper tang of early metalworking. Sounds came less easily to mind, only faint slurred voices spoken by people long since dead. The memories of faces were almost gone entirely, some clearer than others but all blurred like an old oil painting.
It was to here, these caves of tribal age Man, Vorador had found himself drawn most of all, almost bypassing the modern settlement entirely. This was why he had made the trip here. This was the oldest part of Weirstein and, he supposed, the original settlement that had existed when he had been Human.
Perhaps he had lived in a cave near the bottom of the crag, or perhaps further up? He could not be sure, the memories that came back were not that clear.

But there was one thing that was and it stabbed uncomfortably in the back of his head. His gaze wandered up to the top of the cliff. Sure enough, as his nagging mind had told him, it was there: a large cave with a perfectly smooth circular entrance. In the dark of the night it was almost hidden in the shadows. It was as forgotten a cave as the rest of these ancient shelters but showed signs that it had once been preserved with the utmost care.
He ascended to it swiftly and silently, his feet making no sound on the rocks. Soon he stood before the cave at the apex of the short ravine and paused to simply stare at it. There was no reason to go inside; it was only a few feet wide and high. It was perfectly round like the inside of an egg. This was no simple cave used for shelter or storage. The walls were covered in faded, crude drawings and paintings. These images showed animals that were to be hunted in the region, such as elk and deer, as well as an odd, lumbering animal that seemed like an elephant that Vorador had once seen; a creature native to the southern lands. This animal seemed larger and was covered in thick brown hair.
Other images depicted events in the life of the primeval settlement: successful hunting trips, important marriages between neighbouring tribes and representations of one or more rituals to appease some spiritual entity. Vorador could not remember exactly what these people worshipped but the images depicted it fancifully as a snake in the sky.
A dull, empty pit was in the direct centre of the space where once a ceremonial fire had burned. In primitive societies, these fires would be used as places of worship, minerals of various kinds cast into the flames to produce gaseous effects to awe the spectators. This cave had clearly been used with a cultural or religious intention.
-0-

“Here at last was the last remnant of my Human life, the crude remains of some primitive shaman’s shrine.”
-0-
Vorador stared at the setting for a long time, simply letting the memories it evoked come in and out of his awareness without challenge. The images were becoming clear now, focusing as if through some corrective lens into sharp clarity. Some details were gone, lost in the flow of time but he remembered this place although seen from the different point of view of a young Human boy.
In such an ancient time, before the formation of the feudalism that dominated Nosgoth in this era, men had lived in close-knit tribes and clans. These small communities had been watched over, or outright dominated, by shaman seers. These supposed wise men interpreted dreams and other signs from the heavens to tell the people whatever their culture’s spirits, gods or personified ancestors wanted of them. For some reason this usually turned out to be actions that benefited the shaman personally.
Scepticism of their claims was never allowed, let alone encouraged. The worst punishment for a man in those days was to be cast out of his tribe. On his own he had little to no chance at survival, so a shaman caught lying to his tribe was in serious danger. As such, they would brand any scepticism of their words as an affront to their patron entity, be it god or spirit. Men were intelligent in their own way but also too easily swayed by superstition.
-0-
“It was here, as a young boy, I had been taken. It was here I had been pronounced acceptable as the young replacement for the tribe’s elderly mystic. But in order to become such a candidate I would have to endure the loss of my manhood.”
-0-
That was not overly surprising to recollect. Shaman and tribal mystics were always prone to primitive mutilating rituals of one form or another. Such markings set them apart from ordinary men, putting them above them with a clear sign of favour from the gods. It would seem that in the tribe in which he had lived, only eunuchs were permitted to be shaman.
He could remember being brought up here by some male family member. Was it his father, a brother or an uncle? Impossible to remember. The current mystic to survey him had been an old man, eyes nearly white with cataracts and withered with age. Clearly nearing the end of his life, he had been looking for a successor. After a lengthy examination, the old shaman had decreed that the young Vorador had been acceptable.
Then, he had been told in very blunt terms that he was going to lose his genitalia in the initiation ritual and that the ‘surgery’ would take place the following morning at dawn. In such a primitive culture, the chance to be elevated to a position of authority would perhaps be worth the price to such people living in a hand to mouth existence.
Vorador had not been of that opinion.
-0-
“Even at such a young and pliable age I was unwilling to endure such mutilation. I ran from this place and never looked back.”
-0-
Now he remembered what had driven him from this place, why he had come so far away. Fear and horror at the idea of what they were going to do to him. He had crept from his family’s cave in the middle of the night, descended the cliffs to the ravines below and fled into the wilderness.
He had run for days, purely fuelled by the fear of a fate that disturbed him even in his adolescent mind. He did not know if his Human family looked for him, or even cared that he had run away. Perhaps they had merely selected another of his family to fulfil the role and not given him a second thought. He had no way of knowing.
Nor did he really care to know.
The memories of his Human life began to quickly lose their appeal and compulsive edge. Everything now seemed duller, more grey and empty and Vorador blinked away the rose tinted impression his mind had tried to give him. His face began to crease into a disgusted sneer. This place suddenly offended him immensely.
-0-
“Rediscovering my past had left me feeling soured. This was no legacy to be remembered and cherished. It was a squalid, barbaric culture, relegated to the garbage pile of history and best forgotten.”
-0-
Sharply he turned away, a far more symbolic gesture than he intended, banishing the memory of this place from his mind. Now he was just angry that this rotting excuse for a past had drawn him so far from his own journey. He ought to have been stronger than this.
-0-
“My future is what matters, not my past.”
-0-
The image of Umah’s face, her affirmation and acceptance of him as her father, came into his mind unbidden and her appearance seemed to strengthen his resolve. She, along with Janos, had been his true family. Not related by blood certainly but still bound together over the centuries with ties that were far greater than a mere accident of birth.
Suddenly this place had no hold on him whatsoever. It was just some ruins of a long dead and forgotten culture and faintly he wondered what he was even doing here. He had work to do, a Lost City to find and an elusive Arrow to recover. When all that was done, then he would make sure that the Seer kept her word and assured Umah’s resurrection. It would be best if he got on with the truly important things and left this place to whatever small, irrelevant fate awaited it.
He was about to change form into the raven once more and take flight when suddenly there was a pale dot of white luminescence from the more modern settlement just below. The flare caught his eye and he turned to look down. There it was, right on top of the central square tower. As he watched it, he could sense the energy radiating from it. He knew instantly what it was.
When a being translocated itself from one place to another, often it was in the form of a shimmering of light that came when distance between two distant locations was ripped open. The sensation of power from that spot and the light itself was clearly recognisable. Someone with considerable magical power had arrived there.
Vorador frowned as the light died away. There was someone standing on the tower but it was too dark and far away for him to make out whom it was. But it did not bode well. Very few with magic could master translocation, especially in this era.
For a moment he paused, considering what he should do. It might be the course of prudence to simply fly away and leave whoever this was to their business. However, there was also something to be said for investigating and discovering who had come before they became a potential hindrance. Forewarned was forearmed, after all.
He weighed the options for a moment. Then, with the swiftness of the decision, he began to leap from stone to stone down the side of the cliff towards the tower. He had decided to at least find out who was there. Simply remaining ignorant of potential dangers because it was more convenient was the epitome of stupidity.
Gaining the rooftops of Weirstein was easily done. Shifting to the form of the spider, Vorador scaled the cold stone walls easily and scuttled across. Even in such an enlarged form, the insect body was silent and quick. None of the guards even looked up as he slunk from rooftop to rooftop towards the tower.
As he approached the tower, there was another sudden eruption of light. Vorador knew it instantly to be another translocation spell. There was now someone else there in addition to the first arrival and that made it all the more imperative that he learn who they were and what they were doing here. Powerful mages able to translocate rarely meet for a simple cordial chat and social interaction.
The occupying guards around Weirstein had not noticed the flare of light that signalled the arrival of users of magic, too occupied with watching the campfires of William’s army below. But, however dim they might be, they would certainly notice a spider the size of a pony climbing the outside of the tower. Vorador tried to keep himself hidden from their sight as best he might but soon it became necessary for him to squeeze his insect body in through a window he came across before he was spotted.
Most of the tower was empty, the guards preferring to stay down on the lower levels where they had a cooking fire to keep them warm. The rest of the tower was left dark and frigid. Shifting back to his regular form, Vorador paused and listened intently.
Just above him, he could hear voices speaking.
“And just why did you feel it necessary to set our meeting in this frozen land in the middle of the night?” A very familiar voice asked in annoyed tartness. Vorador frowned at the sound of it. What was he doing here?
“The view, mostly.” A second voice replied. “You can see all the way to the static locked ice of the pole from here on a cloudless day.” Then the voice chuckled. “But also because I like causing you discomfort.” It added mockingly. “It gives me a warm little glow to see you out in the cold without your mittens.”
The voice was breathy and harsh, as if the speaker couldn’t quite catch his breath and rasped hoarsely. Vorador began to edge silently towards the stairs that led up.
“In other words, you wanted me irritated and distracted when we met?” The first speaker snapped back.
“Shrewd, very shrewd.” The second replied in that same mocking tone. “But I’m sure you just picked that information out of my head.” There was a pause. “So I’m sure you know what I intend to say to your question.”
The top of the tower was not quite as flat and featureless as it had appeared from a distance. Repair work was being undertaken across one side of it and scaffolding was erected across its width. When Vorador tried to look, coming up onto the roof he could not see the two he knew were here at first.
“So the answer is no?” The first speaker asked. Vorador turned to where the voice was coming from, making out two shapes standing on the far side of the tower’s roof, partly hidden by the scaffolding.  Quickly and silently, he moved towards the source, keeping himself in the shadows and listening with his ears pricked forward.
“It was no when you asked me before.” The second voice replied and this time it was decidedly unfriendly. “It’s still no, now.” Vorador came up to the scaffolding and paused. “And it’ll continue to be no when you ask later.” He could make out the figures now a little more clearly. One was tall, wearing a wide cloak and the other was stouter and wrapped in furs of some sort.
“I don’t think you appreciate...” The taller figure began again with resentment clearly being suppressed.
“You made your predicament quite plain.” The shorter said, cutting him off. By now Vorador was moving around the scaffolding, keeping himself out of sight but putting himself into a position where he could make them out. As he did so, the smaller figure raised a finger and waved it angrily in the other’s face.
“It’s your mess, Nupraptor. Quit trying to shift the burden of responsibility for it.” Vorador frowned, looking the two men. He had recognised the voice of the taller. It was indeed the Mentalist Nupraptor, wrapped in a woollen blue cloak. His enlarged head still emitted that alien green glow from within the skull. He was glaring with barely concealed animosity at the other man, so distracted that he did not even sense with his supposed vast mental powers that Vorador was less than twenty feet away from him.
This other one Vorador did not recognise. He was short but also wide shouldered; body well developed and heavily muscled across his back and exposed chest. He had long tangled black hair and a beard, the ends of the moustache braided together belong his chin in a very elaborate style. His eyes were a bright green, standing out even from under the matted bangs of hair that hung down over his face.
What set the man apart was his garb. He wore furs, wrapped tightly around his legs and midsection and more loosely over his chest, which despite the cold was only kept warm by a vest. A long fur cape ran from his shoulders to hang behind his calves, the garment clearly made from stitched together fox hide. Stranger still was his headdress, a full deer’s head converted to a hood with the antlers still rising up high. It had been preserved well and seemed almost still alive. What truly made the attire stand out was that all the creatures from which the fur had come must have been albinos, for it was leached of all colour and white as snow.
In the man’s right hand was a staff made from a twisted stick, knotted but straight like a pole. Tied to it in various places were other smaller furs and even a few feathers. It ended in small root-like limbs curling around a pearl-like object that caught the light of the campfires below Weirstein, even at this distance.
“You fouled up your own experiment. So go fix it.”  He was saying with contempt, rudely jabbing Nupraptor in the chest with the finger of one meaty hand.
“I can’t, you self-righteous fool!” The Mentalist snapped finally, slapping his hand away. His eyes were wide with anger and somehow the green pulsing glow from within his cranium seemed to grow brighter. “You think I would be asking for help if I could deal with the situation by myself?!” He gestured vaguely off towards the south with one arm. “If this process is not stopped, it could have wide ranging repercussions...”
The man in white furs laughed; the sound more like the nasal bark of some small dog and shook his head.
“Don’t spew that dribble at me, Mentalist!” He advised Nupraptor with a wide grin, showing off his teeth. He raised his staff and tipped it back so it rested over one shoulder. “The only thing you care about is not getting scolded by Mortanius for causing such a calamity!”
Nupraptor paused pointedly, regarding the man with a sudden cooling of his temper. His frustration seemingly spent in the one outburst, he was now coldly annoyed.
“Unlike some of us...Druid.” He began with heavy contempt, turning the title into a remark of derision. “I actually think about my obligations to Nosgoth, the trust that was given to us to serve the Pillars and the land they protect.” He folded his arms into the sleeves of his robe over his chest.  “While you dabble in nonsense and project your own faults onto others.”
Vorador’s expression tightened into a scowl at the use of the word ‘Druid’. There could be no mistaking the identity of the man in the white furs now. Druids and other shaman had once been common in Nosgoth during the tribal age, but they were all gone now. In this era, there was only one Druid.
-0-
“Now I recognised him. Bane the Druid, Guardian of the Pillar of Nature. A cantankerous sort, Bane had often dwelt in the wilderness, scornfully refraining from residing in the civilised world. When the madness and corruption set in, Bane would join his magics with those of Anarcrothe the Alchemist and the Energist DeJoule to create an expanding dome of unspeakable perversion, Dark Eden. His murder at the hands of Kain would halt that spreading abomination.”
-0-
Those corrupting events had yet to occur, an incident some eighty years still in the future. Here, Bane was in full command of his reason and power. Control of the elements of nature was not a skill to be underestimated and now Vorador was glad he had stopped to see who had come to this unusual discussion.
He had not seen the Guardian of the Pillar of Nature this close before, had not cared to either, indifferent to whichever Human was chosen by the Pillars in the absence of the legitimate governing species. The Druid’s manner seemed ill-suited to his role, his personality colloquial and earthy, his commoner phrases and speech disguised by a wide vocabulary. However, there radiated from him an undeniable sense of confidence. He was well-experienced with his power and boldly assured in his control.
Despite this Vorador knew him, along with every other Human Guardian, to be nothing more than a pretender. Their species had never been intended to be Guardians, the energies and bonding between Guardian and Pillar too complex for Human biology, mentality and even spirit to competently administer. Every moment that Humanity governed the Circle of Nine, the binding holding the Hylden in their prison rotted further. Eventually it would fail altogether, allowing the Hylden to migrate from the Demon Realm and resettle in Nosgoth, albeit in the far apocalyptic future.
“Take your condescending accusation and insert it forcibly up your rectum.” Bane spat with scorn, once more his commonplace curse disguised by fancy words. “I know better than to get involved in this nonsense.” He half turned as if he were about to leave.
“And what nonsense do you find more appealing?” Nupraptor asked him tartly. “The training of your dogs must be tiresome.”
Bane stiffened and turned his head sharply to glare back at the Mentalist over his shoulder. 
“They’re not MY dogs.” The Druid said flatly. The Mentalist kept his gaze fixed on him.
“They seem to flock to you like lambs to a shepherd.” He remarked. Bane barked his laugh again and lowered his staff.
“Not really.” He disagreed with an ironic wistful grin. “You can eat lambs.” His gaze turned to regard the horizon, an expression of displeasure creasing his face. “I keep them around because they’re useful, not for the questionable pleasure of their rabid company.” After a silent moment he grunted and turned back. “And yours is no more pleasing to me.” He straightened and his words were rigid and final.  “Now I’ve given you my answer, Nupraptor.” The Druid began to turn away once more, his tone dismissive. “Take your high and mighty airs and be gone. I’ll not lift a finger to deal with the mess you’ve made.”
It was then that Vorador decided to show himself.