The Conquest of Mytheyr

What first appeared to be an average four walled windowless cell, with a solid door and no furnishings to speak of, quickly became what Morgan dreaded. A prison made of Blood Iron. The stone walls were covered with the stuff. It smelled like the dragon blood that had created it, a sharp metallic smell, like ozone. Morgan woke up feeling exhausted, a deep set lethargy that made her very bones seem like lead. The effort it took for her to sit up and lean against the wall was ridicules.

“Fuck.” she muttered. “Shit. Hell. Motherfucker. In Tyr’s name, of all the…” she threw in some less-than-polite Elvish and Dwarven adjectives, and a bit of German, “places I could be right now.”

She ran through a mental checklist. She seemed uninjured. Her heart beat steadily. Her head hurt. The only thing really wrong with her was her lack of magic. She wondered why she had even woken up. Morgan figured that her body’s first response would have been to remain inactive until her magic returned. She supposed she was just lucky she didn’t shut down completely. Typically, an elf’s body didn’t know what to do without magic. It was hard to distinguish between what their body could do itself and what their magic did for them, but really it was one and the same. It was a part of their blood, as necessary as water.

To no surprise, when the door opened not too long after Morgan awoke, Semele entered with an infuriatingly triumphant smirk on his face.

“It’s been much too long, my poor girl. I missed you. Although, I was not expecting you to be in such… undesirable company. After all, a queen should not fraternize with the simple plebeians. She especially shouldn’t feed them such atrocious lies against their king.”

“I didn’t feed them anything.” Morgan said, as loudly as she was able, which was barely above a whisper, “They formed their own opinions. I like the title they gave you. Usurper.” Though Morgan tried to sound confident, in her mind her retort sounded pathetic. She was too weak to dish out the fire, as Raven would have said.

The thought of Raven brought the thought of Vath, and Morgan’s resolve almost died right there. What happened to his body? Did Morgan get the chance to take care of him? She couldn’t remember. She didn’t want to see him as a thrall. But… Teren… and Asa. Were they still alive? The company… did any survive? Did they make it to Rimcenter? Was Raven even in Rimcenter? Was Raven okay? Bas, what happened to Bas? Morgan didn’t know what happened if a Merax’s charge died, so what if…

“You seem distracted, love.” Semele said, tilting his head in a mocking manner. Morgan shook away her fears, and focused on what was before her. She had to be in the here and now, she could worry later.

“Just contemplating how I’ll kill you. My weapon varies the options quite a bit.” Internally, she nodded at her comeback. If she wasn’t so tired, her old wolfish grin would have returned. Semele chuckled lightly.

“Yes, the fabled blade, Trinity. One of only four weapons of its kind. Daggers of Moonlit Silver that can take any form its owner so desires. I would love for you to show me how it works.”

“Sure. Just give it back to me and I’ll demonstrate.”

“Oh, no, we can’t have that, can we?” Semele laughed, “I don’t think it would be very useful in here, anyway.” he added, indicating the walls. “I’ve coated these in Blood Iron, just as a precaution. I only have a finite supply, you see, and I need to use it sparingly. However, I thought this use was justified. You don’t seem to really realize your situation, Morgan.”

Semele approached Morgan, lowering himself on one knee as to be level with her face. He was inches from her nose. Morgan matched his gaze fiercely, and he smiled unsettlingly.

“There’s something I’d like to show you, Morgan… you see, a few weeks ago was not the first time I’ve met you… You and I go farther back then you think…”

With a terrible smile, he took the sides of Morgan’s head in his hands, and a stream of disjointed memories hit her.

A black snake, crawling through the roots of her trees, killing everything it touched… voices went silent… her forest was dying… and she didn’t know why. Her people were in a panic, the North and South countries rushing to her to demand answers. Answers she couldn’t give.

“Markus?” a Sylvan Elf yelled, searching for her husband.

“You don’t want her to lose you, do you?” a horribly familiar voice whispered in Markus’ ear, “After all, you are a mortal. Doomed to die, before your daughter even reaches adolescence. I can help you.”

“Markus…” Morgan gasped in horror. A black wraith, a man who used to be her friend, stood before her. Her forest, once so full of life, lay in ruin, dead trees, Aracne Spiders and imps taking over. White nightshade now was the only growing thing. Her people, the Dragonkin, stood in a ring around her, all trying to break the invisible barrier Markus had put up, trapping Morgan in with him. Morgan was in her dragonish form, the ever constant wind rippling in her hair, murmuring encouragement. Her blue insectile wings were replaced with grand silver dragon wings, and dusty grey scales studded her face and arms.

“Why, Markus?” she asked in the memory. “Did I do something? Please… I’m your friend. This is your home. Don’t do this.”

This wasn’t her memory. She was watching through the eyes of someone else… someone watching within the ring of Dragonkin Elves… It hit her like a freight train. That first day in Mytheyr, that familiar, heavy presence. The trees, not singing for fear of Semele’s black tendrils. Markus, a man who was once her friend had become a monster, destroying the westernmost part of Morgan’s land. He had power far beyond any normal wraith. A man like Markus didn’t have the knowledge of black magic necessary to perform the unspeakable acts of destruction he committed. Not unless someone else was pulling the strings…

“You.” Morgan gasped as Semele slowly pulled his hands away. “It was you. It was always you.” She breathed heavily, her mind filling with images of Vara, Markus’ elvish wife, and Valerie, his daughter. She remembered the blackened, twisted forms of the trees that used to be the western forest. She remembered the expressions of her kin, her people, when they had seen what had become of their home.

“I’ll kill you.” Morgan whispered hoarsely. “You’ll pay for all those lives you took, all the lives you ruined. You’re going to pay for those months I spent in a guilt-ridden daze. You’re going to be regretting every drop of blood that was shed.”

“I’m sure I will.” Semele cooed. He took Morgan’s left wrist, running his thumb down the scar on her forearm. Morgan shuddered in disgust, but her attempt to pull away was answered only with a painful tightening of his grasp. Semele leaned forward and kissed her forehead gently. Morgan reeled back in shock and loathing, but still couldn’t break his grip. He gave her a small, twisted smile. “Face it, Morgan. You’ve lost. You’re mine.”

With that, he stood, and turned away. The door clanged shut behind him, and Morgan was left to seethe in her loathing, rethinking everything she thought she knew about someone who betrayed her, who had become the most hated name among her people.