V M Stories from Ranvier (Flashback)

Sigmund Vrell

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Sigmund’s hands gently rested on the frame of the window as he gazed out over the temple city of Amygdala and into the night, mesmerised by the sight. The sky itself seemed to ripple like waves in the ocean, the stars flowing back and forth between the auroras in a hypnotic dance. Though he was but a boy, the young scion couldn’t help but feel the weight of the world on his shoulders, knowing that one day the fate of the entire Mindbreaker Order would lay with him. When he gazed out into the cosmos, however, he felt his worries fade away, allowing his mind to drift off into the infinite.

Abruptly, the youth’s attention was drawn away from the sight as the light of a torch shone around the nearest corner. The watch already? How long had he been staring? He briefly considered making a break for his room, knowing full-well that he wasn’t meant to be up this late, but quickly dismissed the thought. As long as it was anyone besides his father, there was little they could do beyond a brief chastising. And if it was Erik, the worst he would get was a stern talking too.

“...Sigmund?” A concerned voice asked as a figure rounded the corner, the long black hair and pale skin immediately familiar to the boy. Oh. Perhaps he had been a little too arrogant in his assessment.

“Hello Morgan.” The young scion said sheepishly. As the older cultist drew closer, guilt struck into Sigmund’s heart as he saw the worried look on her face. As the youngest member of the Vrell family, the future scion of the Mindbreaker order, many of the cult’s members had a hand in raising him to some degree. However, with the exception of his father, none of them were nearly as close to him as Morgan was.

“Come, step away from the window, we don’t want you catching frostbite.” The woman said softly, gently taking Sigmund's hand and leading him away. Sneaking one last glance into the night sky, the boy allowed her to lead him back to his room. “You’re up so late… are you feeling alright?”

“I’m ok. I just couldn’t sleep.” He replied. It was the simple truth, though he didn’t feel inclined to share the reason for his insomnia. Morgan pursed her lips and furrowed her brow, sending another pang of guilt through the youth, but proved no further.

“Well, we can't have you staying up all night.” The senior cultist said quietly, kneeling down to Sigmund’s height as they reached his door. “Here, I know what’ll help you get to sleep. Go get into bed, I’ll be back in just a moment.”

The young scion gave a somewhat sheepish nod to the older cultist. Smiling warmly, Morgan gave him a pat on the head before ushering him inside. The future high priest gave a little sigh as he climbed into bed, pulling the fur blankets tight around him. A short while later, the door creaked open and the elder Mindbreaker stepped inside, raising a book bound in red leather with an excited grin.

“What’s that?” The boy asked, peering curiously at the tome as Morgan sat on the edge of his bed.

“It’s a book of stories.” She replied, her voice quiet but eager. “They’re all Mindbreaker tales. I’ve wanted to read some to you for a while but you’re always so busy with Erik...”

Sigmund visibly perked up at this. He had always been intrigued by the stories of the cult but had only heard the most basic, those of the world’s creation and of Aster Vrell, the first scion of Gal’skap. Morgan’s smile grew when she noticed the young scion’s interest, but she quickly cleared her throat and did her best to put on a stern look.

“Now, I’m happy to read to you whenever you want on one condition. No more staying up so late, ok?”

With a hint of reluctance, Sigmund nodded to the older cultist. He wasn’t convinced that his insomnia would suddenly come to a halt, but the promise of stories in exchange for her peace of mind was a deal that the boy was willing to take. “Ok, I promise.”

“Ah, I was expecting more of a fight. I’m glad you’re so cooperative, though. Now, let’s see here…” She replied, visibly relieved as she began flipping through her book. “Alright, I think I have just the story for you. How would you like to hear one about a lost scion?”

Sigmund raised an eyebrow at this. It was certainly relevant to his current situation. Perhaps a little too relevant. He knew that Morgan would never read his mind without asking permission, so it was either a bizarre coincidence or he must have been far easier to read than he expected. Slightly embarrassed, the future priest gave the older cultist a shy nod.

“Great.” She said happily, clearing her throat. “Once, in the land of Ranvier, there was a lone scion of Gal’skap, lost in the woods. This scion had heard that there were mages in the woods, and went to vanquish this evil, but had found themselves outnumbered and fled.”

The future priest couldn’t help but wonder just how truthful this story was, but already felt a sense of worry for the one that could very well be his spiritual ancestor.

“Lost and alone, the scion wandered through the woods. They didn’t know how to handle this, they didn’t know what to do. But Gal’skap wouldn’t just let one of Their children wander alone. The lost scion came across another child of the mad one. It watched them with many eyes, grinned at them with many maws, and greeted them with many voices. ‘My name is Du’radia,’ they said, whispering with many voices while screaming with one. ‘What troubles you, little madness?’”

Sigmund said nothing, simply sitting and listening intently, deeply intrigued by what he was hearing.

“‘I am lost and alone, great one.’ The scion replied. ‘I came to defeat the heretics, but instead I was outnumbered and chased into these woods.’ And Du’radia laughed, carrying mania on the wind. ‘Whatever do you mean, little madness?’ They asked. ‘Gal’skap is always with you.’ ‘And what if I make the wrong choice? What if I disappoint Him?’”

The young scion froze up at this, hanging off of Morgan’s every word.

“And Du’radia laughed again. ‘Why, little madness, you are the scion of Gal’skap! As long as you hold your faith, you can never disappoint your patron. There will never be a wrong choice. Do you still hold faith in the Madness Within?’ And the scion stood proudly. ‘Of course I still hold my faith!’ ‘Then I will help you. Together, beneath Gal’skap, we will cleanse these woods.’”

“And so, the two children of madness confronted the magi, holding their patron in their hearts. ‘Why have you returned, cultist?’ The leader of the magi asked. ‘Have we not already proven that you cannot beat all of us alone?’ But the scion was no longer afraid. You magi may be many,’ the scion said, ‘but I am never alone.’”

Sigmund felt a little chill down his spine at this, a tiny tingle in his mind as he felt the latent spark of Gal’skap in his soul stir for just a moment. The young cultist, so invested in the story, had forgotten his worries and was beginning to drift off, the late night catching up with him.

“The magi laughed at first, and then they screamed as Du’radia opened their greatest maw and devoured their leader. Together, with joy and terror, the children of madness freed those woods of the magi until only they two remained. ‘Thank you, great one.’ The scion said. ‘The day would be lost without your wisdom.’ ‘Do not thank me, little madness. Gal’skap would never abandon one of Their children.’ Du’radia replied. ‘If you ever feel lost or scared again, simply call for me and remember: you are never alone.’”

Her story finished, Morgan glanced up at Sigmund to gauge his reaction. To her pleasant surprise, the youth was fast asleep. “Guess you liked it, then.” She said, quietly easing herself off the bed before wiping a lock of hair off of his face.

“Goodnight, my little madness.”
 

Sigmund Vrell

Cosmic Brain
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“Now, young Sigmund.” The young scion’s instructor Ormund said, his arms held behind his back as he paced back and forth. “All you need to do is produce an illusion of a wall to hide the stones.”

Sigmund glanced forward sceptically, wondering what exactly the purpose of the exercise was. A bowl filled with simple pebbles was laid in a small alcove before him. All he had to do was produce a wall to hide them? The youth cast a quick glance off to the side where a number of the older cultists watched curiously, his father and Morgan among them. Erik simply gave his protege a smile and a nod, while Morgan gave an eager grin and a thumbs-up to the boy.

“If you wish.” The young scion said, raising his hand and gazing at the entrance to the alcove. All he had to do was impose a wall over the empty space. But why? He knew that it was intended to be a test of some sort, but it was such a trivial act that he didn’t see the point. Oh well… taking a deep breath, Sigmund called upon his bond with the Madness Within. The world didn’t change visibly, but something seemed to change in his perception, as if everything he was looking at was a mere illusion. Which, compared to the spark of Gal’skap that lay deep within his psyche, it was. The future high priest imposed the idea of a wall before him, and with a thought it was so, the bricks simply appearing in place as if they had always been there.

“It is done.” Sigmund said, releasing the breath that he suddenly realised he had been holding and lowering his hand.

“Very well done.” Ormund said, striding forward towards the wall, nodding approvingly. The instructor reached out appraisingly, moving to reach through the illusory wall. “Very convincing, it looks just like the real thi-“

His words were abruptly cut short as his hand pressed against the wall, blocked by it. A pregnant silence hung in the air as not a single sound was made, not a single person moved. “Oh my…”

With the silence broken Sigmund caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, turning just in time to face Morgan as she scooped him up, excited laughter ringing through the halls as she hugged the younger psion. “Sigmund! That was amazing! It takes most mindbreakers years to learn to change the world itself!”

The youth glanced around, more than a little caught off guard by the whole situation. Desperately, he cast a glance towards the group of older cultists, searching for an explanation and receiving only a series of excited looks. His father in particular was beaming with pride, as if he had never seen anything more incredible. Huh…

~~~~~~~~~~

Sigmund sat at the desk in his study, resting his chin on his hands as he slouched forward and onto its surface. Everyone else was relentlessly excited about his psychic talent, but for reasons he couldn’t place, he wasn’t quite as enthused as they were. The future scion was pulled from his thoughts by a knocking at the door, scrambling to take a less forlorn posture. “Come in.”

The door creaked open and Morgan stuck her head in, smiling at the youth. Her expression was warm, but there was a hint of worry behind it that she couldn’t quite hide. “Hey there, Sig. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” Sigmund sniffed, struggling to meet the woman’s gaze. The elder cultist was clearly unconvinced by his answer, slipping in through the doorway, closing the door behind her, and crouching beside the youth.

“Come now, little madness. Talk to me.” She said, her gaze fixated intently on him with a mix of sternness and concern. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I- I don’t know…” The young priest sighed. “It’s just… everyone seemed so proud when I made that wall earlier. I know I’ve always been rather good with the arcane, but this was different. It’s like my fate has been set on this path.”

“I see.” Morgan said, her brow furrowing in deep thought. “Do you not want such talent? Such a bond with your inner divinity?”

“No, it’s not that I don’t want it.” Sigmund said, doing his best to put his feelings into words. “It’s just… I don’t know. It doesn’t seem as glorious as I’d like. Just look at Father, he’s so strong in every way. But my body…”

Silence hung in the air as he trailed off. Both psion knew that the youth had simply been born weak, almost supernaturally so, as if his atrophied form was carried forward by mental strength alone. Any attempt that he had made at anything even remotely athletic had ended in disaster.

“Well…” Morgan started, picking her words carefully. “Yes, it is true that your… physical form is weak. But if glory is what you’re so concerned with, then physical strength is far from the only way to go about things.”

“Is it?” Sigmund asked curiously. So many of the stories he had been told recited glorious tales of legendary warriors, it felt bizarre to imagine glory being gained any way but with a sword in hand. Sensing his skepticism, the older cultist grinned and produced her tome of stories from within her robes. There was a wordless agreement between the two in that moment and Morgan flipped her book open, clearing her voice as she found the right page.

“This is a story from the time of Ragnarok, when the Old Gods rose to sweep the Pretenders from their lands. In the Whispering Valley between Ranvier and Balmir, the Pretender of war had placed his army to block the passage of the first priests between the sacred lands. Leading the army was a mighty magus, blessed with the runes of war, nigh invincible in the martial ways. He stood ahead of his army and challenged all who wished to pass to single combat, a trial that few were capable of overcoming.”

A mix of emotions washed over Sigmund. The champion did sound like a hero that the bards would sing of for generations, but to waste his strength in service of a Pretender god. It made his stomach turn.

“One of the first cultists, a blood brother of Aster Vrell himself, wished to lead his armies through that valley, but found himself blocked by the Pretender’s champion. Knowing that he and his army couldn’t match the magus in single combat, the cultist began to devise a plan to defeat the champion. The two armies encamped on opposite ends of the valley, with the magus awaiting his challenger in the middle. Day and night passed as the cultist created his plan, and as the sun rose it was ready.”

“The cultist and his chosen champion crossed the valley until they reached the magus, blades in hand. ‘Which of you will be my opponent?’ The magus asked, raising his giant blade, the size of a man, with a single hand. ‘I am your challenger, this is simply my shieldbearer.’ The first cultist’s champion said, raising his sword in turn. The warriors approached each other, and in one swift stroke, the champion of the true Gods was struck down.”

Sigmund was listening intently now, feeling hopeless about the whole situation. He couldn’t fathom how such an insurmountable opponent could be beaten by even the mightiest of warriors, let alone by a mortal without superhuman strength.

“The cultist simply frowned and took a seat on a nearby rock. Moments later the next champion approached from his army, raised his sword, and was cut down, just as the last was. As was the next, and the next. For hours, champions approached from the Mindbreaker army and each was cut down within moments of raising their swords. Hours turned to days, and not a single champion could survive against the magus. However, slowly but surely, the champions began to learn how he fought. A single stroke turned to two, turned to three, until they were beginning to last minutes against him in each confrontation.”

“It was now that the magus realised something was wrong. He started to notice that things were wrong with the cultist’s champions. Each seemed to fight identically, each seemed to know things that they shouldn’t from simply watching him fight, and no matter how many he killed, the army did not seem to be shrinking in the slightest. ‘You. Dog of the alien gods.’ The magus said on the dawn of the fourth day of combat. The cultist had not moved from his seat, watching each battle with a detached expression. ‘What trickery is this? Are these warriors even real?’”

Sigmund was intrigued now. Were the warriors real? Was… was this something that he could learn?

“‘Of course they aren’t.’ The cultist replied, resting his chin on his hand. ‘Every one of them was a construct. Made by myself, of course.’ The magus scoffed. ‘Pathetic. Conjure your most monstrous illusory foe, then. See if it can stop me from cutting you down.’ The champion of the Pretender stomped towards the first cultist, who simply shrugged. ‘As you wish.’”

“With a wave of his hand, he called forth a true nightmare to face the magus, a horribly tall beast, bristling with spikes and charged with the lightning of the mind. Even as the Pretender’s warrior charged towards the servant of the Old Gods, the nightmare raised one axe-like claw and swung for the champion’s neck. The magus didn’t even attempt to block the blow that split his head from his shoulders.”

The young scion was giving the story every ounce of his attention now. The use of the illusions for such a… direct use in combat had not crossed his mind. How… intriguing.

“The army of the Pretender shrieked as they watched their invincible champion’s head tumble to the floor and wailed as the cultist’s true champion crept towards them. ‘You who are so attached to this false reality should not be so quick to dismiss an illusion.’ The first cultist said, leading his cheering army against the servants of the Liars. ‘This is my illusory champion, my Imaginary Einherjar, The lies you cling to so desperately turned against you.’”

Morgan closed the book, turning to the youth besides her with a smile.

“W-What happened next?” Sigmund gasped, desperate to continue listening.

“Well, you know what happened next.” The elder cultist said. “You’ve heard the story of Aster’s campaign against the Pretenders many times before.”

“What about the first cultist. What about his champion?”

“The cultist was one of the founders of the Mindbreakers and the Imaginary Einherjar was passed down through the cult as one of its most treasured rituals.”

“Do you know it?” Sigmund asked, starry-eyed.

“I do.” Morgan grinned. “I don’t mean to brag, but I’m quite good at it.”

“Can you teach me one day?”

“Of course I can, little madness.” She said, gently ruffling his hair. “Now, come on, the others want to celebrate and they’ll probably be wondering where you are. I… I probably got a little carried away there.”
 
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