Manipulation of Draken Part 1

Jp with Rosmary

Draken stood from the ground and offered his hand to the real Orla to help her up, "I don't think I should pull off the long haired king appearance just yet. Maybe in later years I'll let it grow again. What do you think?" He seemed a lot more at ease now that someone had spoken to him as Draken, not as anything else.

“I've always rather liked longer hair on a man, but I think a trim would be a good idea,” Orla agreed, trying to visualise him looking not quite so unkempt.

He looked at his matted hair, "My hair needs to be cut anyways, I can't really save it with it in this condition." He peered down at his hands, "I really hope this can be healed. The black staff did a number on my arms. I'm glad I shattered it when I got the chance, it was slowly killing me." He looked over at Orla, "I never actually got to find out, why did you come back to the Dalen ruins?"

Orla considered offering to cast one of her divine healing spells on him much as she had over a century ago, and was wanting to ask more about this staff when Draken asked her his question. She was not one to lie outright. “I... I wanted to see my old garden again, and felt drawn back here as if it was some place that I needed to be,” she answered, telling the truth in so many words. “I was raised to listen to my heart that way, and that it was through my heart that my deity speaks to me...” She trailed off at how personal the subject was becoming.

Draken thought for a moment, "I feel I should thank your god then."

An imp jumped on his shoulder, "My lord, I heard you speaking of the Black Staff, you forget sometimes, that not everyone knows it's origin."

Draken gave a nod, "Thank you Vilp." The imp nodded and curled up like a cat on his shoulder. He looked back at Orla, "He has a point, do you know of the Black Staff?"

“I do not,” Orla said, frowning slightly at the imp, unaware of the demonic creature's presence or that it had obviously been eavesdropping. “Please tell me about it.” She leaned forward attentively, her chin in her hand.

Draken petted the imp, "The Black Staff was one of many staffs that a group of mages created. Now everyone says magical staves are alive, but these staffs were literally alive, they were sentient, had their own desires and wants. The mages who created these staves believed they could become much stronger. They were right of course, but of course these staves wanted more, so they ended up taking over their wielders or trying to steal their life to reform. The Black Staff was a staff created by one of these living staffs and was made weaker than the originals. No one actually knows where the real ones are, but the staff I was wielding was just a poor copy of the real one." He looked at his arms, "Which you can see what it did as a parasite. I dread to see what the real one could do."

Orla's eyes narrowed in thought. Draken had seemed to have gone through more trials than she could imagine, experiences from which he no doubt had gained some hard-earned wisdom. “That is an incredible story, and not one that I've heard before,” she admitted. “So in their reckless greed for power those mages ended up creating something much greedier and more powerful than themselves, but these living staves were not so foolish as to make the same mistake. Whence did you come by this staff, and how long did you wield it? Are the scars the only lasting effects?”

Draken thought for a moment, "I found it here, in the ruins, among other magical items, however it called to me. So I took it. I wielded it for maybe thirty years, as for any effects, these scars are the only thing, besides the transformation I experience from destroying it." He flapped his wings, "It stunted my growth."

Orla smiled at the sight of Draken's wings stretching out and moving, but was otherwise at a loss as far as this belated growth spurt; what she didn't know about demon physiology would fill the old Royal Library of Thalia. She did recall though, mainly from statues she'd seen of Soularous rather than her personal encounters with him, that Draken's father too had wings, so it was obviously an inherited trait. “And it was under the influence of the black staff that you waged a war on humanity and created the Mark of the Accursed spell?” she questioned. “How did you finally realise the staff's true insidious nature?”

Draken thought for a long moment, "It was the staff, I found it before I slaughtered the marauders that ruined my life." He looked surprised, "Gelt knew about this staff, but when we fought, he wasn't fighting as if I was an enemy, more as if I was a possessed person he knew, trying to get me not to use the staff, he wanted me to destroy it." He looked at his hands, "Gelt helped me, in his twisted way."

“Gelt,” Orla murmured, the name striking a chord somewhere deep in her memory. “According to Severos, this man destroyed Miekrennis College in Aelmere, an atrocity resulting in the deaths of hundreds of students and faculty. Clearly he's capable of both good and evil depending on his objectives, whatever they may be. Meseems Gelt has a vested interest in your well being, or perhaps a personal enmity against the staff?”

She shook her head and gave a light shrug as if there was no way to know. Despite living for centuries, Orla was far from an expert when it came to understanding the complexities of human and other minds. Other than a notable exception like Maelwin, the people of her woodland society were straightforward and without guile, whereas the civilised beings of Dalen she had found to be a bewildering mixture of egoism and altruism, with the former to be the dominant motive more often than not.

Draken thought for a moment, "He wants to build an Empire. For a while I thought maybe it was so he can rule. However, I'm starting to think he just wants to build an empire, not rule it." He began to think for a bit longer, "Orla, what do you know of the Nine Lords of the Hells?"

Orla blinked at the change in subject or what she assumed to be. “Not a whole lot,” she admitted. “I can name them all, but I know little more beyond that. Infernal lore wasn't a terribly large part of my studies and training as a nature mage.”

He tapped his foot, "When my father arrived onto this plane, I felt something else, like a reply to his presence. It was faint, weak, but it was still there. The reason I ask is, do you know any other demon lords who arrived on this plane besides Aldous and Soularous?" He scratched his chin, "I ask because the staff Gelt used was one of the famed thirty Arcane Staffs. In the stories they said a demon helped create one, the problem is, no one knows which demon did."

"I'm just ranting at this point, aren’t I? You turn me into a flibbertigibbet.” Draken shook his head at himself. “I really should return to Soldor's palace as they are waiting for me even now." He unfolded and flapped out his two black wings, "Do you wish to fly as well, or do you want me to carry you there?" He was being gentle about it since he knew about her heritage and how she preferred to keep it hidden.

Orla had forgotten Draken was one of the few people aware of her true nature. She gave him a smile and a playful tilt of her head. “I appreciate the offer,” she replied, the air rippling as with a brilliant sparkle of magic she summoned her iridescent, insect-like wings. “But I think I can manage.”

Draken gave a nod, "Let's go, they must be a bit impatient by now. Especially Soldor, since finding out my family's story." He hopped up and took flight, waiting for Orla before he took off back to Soldor's Bastion.

Orla's wings beat like a hummingbird's and she shot through the air alongside him with an easy effort, briefly leaving an incandescent trail behind her like a comet in the night sky.

Crowding the Great Hall, crystal wine flutes and gold goblets in their hands, the wealthy nobles were still awaiting Draken's return when Tyrell Cartagan entered the room only to be greeted by many strange looks. "What is everyone staring at me for?"

Halfenstrafe and the Countess shared a look and laughed at the man’s expense. Before anyone could explain to the young noble, Draken suddenly made a dramatic entrance, flying into the room from the balcony, Orla walking in behind him, having already dismissed her own wings before anyone caught sight of them.

The hall quieted and Draken addressed the assembled blue bloods. "I've made my decision everyone. I shall unite Dalen, as it's new king. But before we discuss that I want to introduce someone special." He motioned behind him to Orla who looked surprised and uncomfortable in the spotlight. "This is Orla, she has aided me in many ways. She is a good friend of mine. I also believe I need a makeover, I'm a bit unkempt. She agrees."

There was a ripple of faint laughter at the attempt at self-deprecating humour and many were genuinely charmed. Orla smiled back a bit shyly at the nobles. She usually preferred to maintain a low profile and not bring much attention to herself. As the large number of people in the room looked at her she was glad she was wearing her best dress, an aubergine frock Joce Tailor had specially made for her.

That night the nobles enthusiastically celebrated Draken's decision to lead them with many toasts to the success of his impending reign. Draken was cheerful, telling Orla happy stories of his childhood, from juvenile pranks he pulled, to him accidentally eating poison berries, to him chasing a small elvish girl in a village. It was a joyful occasion had by all as everyone got to know Draken better, and they were joyful save for one noble who stared at him all night with hate.

The next day, Draken awoke and greeted everyone at breakfast. He greeted Orla, telling her he should be all cleaned up very soon and he hoped she would like what she saw. Soldor's liveried servants led the future king to a special room and he smiled to himself as he was thoroughly washed, groomed, and carefully measured by Soldor's personal tailor, a fussy man who along with a small team of seamstresses began sewing together a new outfit that would be ready for him to wear within the hour. He couldn't wait to see everyone's reaction to the new Draken Sainte, his Majesty the king of the Kingdom of Dalen, however not everyone would see his new appearance, for unseen enemies sadly had other plans.

***

It all happened so swiftly Orla was caught completely off guard. She was waiting for Draken to return to the room clad in his new kingly raiment and heard footfalls behind her. Before she could turn to look, a stunning blow was dealt to the back of her head and she sank into unconsciousness.

When she awoke the first thing she sensed was the motion of a moving wagon beneath her and that she was lying in the bed of one. There was a dull ache at the base of her skull where she had been struck. Her body felt weighed down by some unseen force. She twisted around and to her great surprise discovered she was in chains; her hands were manacled in front of her, and her ankles shackled together. In addition, there was a metal collar bolted uncomfortably tight about her neck.

“Wh-what's happening?” Orla called out to the wagon drivers, her shock giving way to fear. “Where are you taking me? Hello? Hello? Why won't you answer?”

When she continued to receive no response from the rough-looking men who pointedly ignored her, she pushed herself up onto her knees and tried to recall a cantrip she had been taught a very long time ago, one she had never needed before. It was a minor, but useful spell to free a person from bonds. She focused her memory and managed to correctly recite the exact wording, but upon completing the incantation it failed to take effect. She tried to magically summon her wings next and simply take flight out of the open wagon, but that too did not work.

With a sinking feeling, Orla realised the metal of the shackles was likely ferrous to some extent, containing a certain content of iron. Not enough to burn her, but obviously enough to stop her from working any magic. She fought down her rising panic and tried to take stock of the situation. Why in Aeran had she been abducted out of Soldor's palace? The only thing she could think of was that someone had not wanted her advising Draken and helping him take the throne. But the notion seemed a little farfetched, as no one tended to ever perceive her as a threat. She was clearly missing something as far as motives were concerned.

Orla turned her mind back to her immediate predicament. How was she going to escape and get back to her divinely sent mission? She had been so mazed by Fernoia suddenly renewing contact with her out of the blue that she had left Reise and Severos in the middle of the night without a word. They would have no idea where she had gone. Neither would Draken guess what had befell her. He'd likely think she had ditched him!

Desperately straining against the weight of her bonds, she raised herself into a half-standing position in order to see out of the cart. From where the snow-capped Alps lay in the distance, it appeared they were in southeastern Dalen and she saw the wagon was heading toward an encampment full of tents and cookfires. She wondered if it belonged to one of the nomadic orc tribes that lived on the plains of Sarnia and Haven, but by the time they drove into the centre of the bustling camp she could see the people were mostly humans. The general atmosphere was one of misery and hopelessness. Were they war refugees? The wagon halted at a huge tent where a tall, barrel-chested man with burly arms stood waiting outside the entrance.

“Ho, Tiberius!” one of the wagon drivers called to him.
“Look what we got for you!”

The big man walked over to the wagon and took in Orla, who was slumped against the rail of the cart, her thick bob of blonde hair disheveled with bits of straw sticking out in places. His cold, brown eyes moved over her with interest and it was all she could do to keep from trembling as he reached out and tipped her head back to better catch the light. Her face was very small in his large hand, and she was certain with one twist he could easily break her neck.

“Wh-what do you want with me?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly. “Why have I been brought here?”

Tiberius blinked at the sound of her accent, unable to place it. “Where are you from, little wench?”

“Verden, sir,” Orla said. “But I lived many years in Dalen. As a matter of fact, I only just now come from Lord Soldor's palace. Why have your men forcibly taken me from there?”

Tiberius frowned. “Palace? I don't know what you're talking about. And I care less. You're here to be sold, and for as much coin as we can get for you.”

“Sold?” Orla's mouth fell open and her heart started beating a fast tempo as she finally realised what this place was. “This is a slave camp?” she exclaimed with dread. “Please, there has been some kind of terrible mistake!”

The slavemaster appeared to have grown bored with the discussion. He lifted her out of the wagon like she was no more than a sack of feathers, and easily slinging her over one of his shoulders, carried her inside the large tent.