Old Grey Eyes

“Shhh shh, calme mon petit. Nous sommes presque en sécurité.”

The young woman whispered to her baby daughter as her beautiful silver wings faltered and spasmed, their elegant feathers bloodied. Having been pierced by so many arrows, she found unable to stay aloft and began plummeting through the fog and darkness in her tattered silk dress and heavy traveler's cloak.

She wrapped her wings around herself and the little child, crashing into the forest floor. The injured angel rolled, sweeping the old, overgrown cobblestone path behind her. Her injured body came to a painful stop, battered against an old and rotted tree trunk.

The Celestial struggled to her feet, checking on her precious package as she listened to the hound's yelp and snarl from somewhere behind the mist, they hadn’t quite reached them yet, thank the Gods.

Screams, calls, and a faint glow of torches floating through the soupy black quickened the young mother's pace. She ran a few steps, flapping; once and then twice. She managed to lift herself from the dirt but quickly realized that they were too damaged to be of any use now.

As she made it closer to the old ruined Keep, she crossed through the thick veil of fog, bright red beams of light, and golden balls of flame pierced the tree canopy at random intervals. Her brothers and sisters swooped through the skies raining hellfire down on the swamp and surrounding battlefields.

The brilliant fireballs and scorching rays helped light the old, overgrown, cobblestone path in front of her. She stopped and turned, looking for her attackers. A great wall of mist formed before her eyes. It swirled and churned behind some unseen force like something was keeping the fog at bay.

The screams and calls of her trackers grew closer. The young woman flung a random spell into the mist, then ran as fast as she could in her bare feet. Leaving bloody foot tracks behind her. She pushed through the pain and fatigue, onwards, towards the towering structure with the single candlelight in its upper window.

She leaned against the great stone wall for a moment, trying to catch her breath. Her lungs and chest hurt. Arrows began to whir past her, bouncing off the stone half-walls with dull clanks and burying themselves into surrounding tree trunks.

The snarling hounds drew closer. The young Celestial turned to shelter her baby from an incoming volley, wrapping her wings tightly around herself. The mother let out a pained scream, swatting at another volley of arrows. She ran up to two giant, iron-banded, wooden doors that blocked the Keep’s entrance.

The Woman pulled her child close, sheltering her. She felt the pressure of another slew of arrows penetrating her dying body, they had made it to the half wall. She grimaced in pain, as life slipped from her. Slowly the Celestial fell into herself, collapsing onto her side as golden blood drained from her wounds.

Snarling Mastiffs encircled her, snapping and yelping at the little one swaddled in blanket and cloth. While a group of Levies pushed their way carefully through the fog wall in tight formation.

A giant of a man stepped out from the middle of the defenders and walked over, pushing the hounds aside.

“What do we have here?” the giant mumbled, “We will not let the Unclean near this place! Get ready to hole up and grab defensive positions!” The captain screamed the orders over his shoulder as he pulled a large stiletto from his belt, turning the small baby over.

Her skin was a soft silver colour. What little hair she had on her head was a shimmering gold. The mercenary stared into her eyes. He felt strange. The Half-Giant stood up with the baby in his arms, dazed.

He shook his head and snapped out of whatever trance those pulsating, green-hued, pupils put him under. It was like they hypnotized him somehow. Strangely, the face didn’t look human. This baby was something else, something beyond Humans.

“What is this thing?” He turned towards a nearby spearman, confused, running his huge hand through the orange tangles. A little shaken from the power the child held.

“I know not, Sir. It looks like a Nephilim. They are abominations… Crosses between Celestial and other races. They must be killed. The Holy Texts say so,” the Levy man struggled with broken English,

“She’s actually half-dragon, half-celestial… A very powerful Nephilim.”

An old voice spoke from nearby, startling the group of onlookers. The Half-Giant man turned and readied his knife.

“Half-Dragon? Like a Celestial and a Dragon… Celestial and Human, sure. But Dragons?” the mercenary turned and laughed heartily, the small group was silent. The Half-Giant eyed the old man up. Wondering what the hell he was doing out here and if he was a threat.

The man was small in stature and his skin hung loosely off of his bones. He was dressed in baggy grey robes which seemed tattered and worn. They appeared out of time and place as if he was some sort of sorcerer from the Dark Ages.

White strands of hair spilled out from under his hood and his grey eyes shimmered in the low light of the full moon above them. His white ash walking staff was gnarled and twisted, and he seemed to lean heavily into it.

“Yes… She’s more powerful than any of us here,” the old one replied hobbling closer to the Half-Giant,

He struggled past the line of soldiers that had formed a protective barrier between him and the Captain. Then he placed a grey-skinned hand on the girl's head.

The Soldiers backed off, leaving the Half-Giant mercenary standing alone. The Levy men seemed terrified now. The Captain looked around in confusion. He couldn’t help but think he was missing something.

“Who are you old man? You walk in here without my dogs ripping you apart and terrifying my soldiers.” The mercenary placed the child down, moving closer to the Sorcerer.

“Ser, I am Old Grey Eyes. My real name you wouldn’t be able to pronounce. It’s not important anyway, I’ll be taking the girl into my care. You go and help in the human’s fight. I fear you don’t have much time, however.” Old Grey Eyes pointed toward the sky with a gnarled finger, everyone looked up.

Shofars echoed through the sky, and a crack of light broke the darkness. Legions of Angels poured out. The group of soldiers seemed to waver, letting out yelps and cries of fear. Some running for the trees.

“You’re far from home Half-Giant. I would suggest you take your hounds and what remains of your fighters and go. The Angels will take the High Castle and the realm will answer to them, now. Funny, Humans have prayed for intervention for thousands of years and now that it has arrived, they resist. I will never understand them.”

Old Grey Eyes went to pick up the girl but was knocked aside by the massive man. He fell prone and the walking staff clattered to the pathway.

There was a sharp intake of breath from what was left of the soldiers. They looked at each other with wide eyes and then took off every which way, leaving the mercenary and his hounds alone in the dark.

“Cowards…” The Half-Giant mumbled. “No, old man, I will be taking her with me. I will rule the whole of the Winter Islands with this one. We Giants have long lives you see, if she is Nephilim she will need my guidance. Run along old one, I don’t want to kill you.” He smiled, showing off his gold-plated teeth.

“You will not… She will stay with me.” Old Grey Eyes responded calmly

He sat himself up slowly, grasping for his staff. The Half-Giant kicked it further away, laughing.

“What’s the matter, those old bones having trouble moving? How do you wager you’ll stop me when you can't even get up on your own? Leave it you old fool, she's mine now.”

The Mercenary turned and knelt to grab the cooing child. A great rush of air kicked up and almost pushed the half-giant from his feet. He turned, pulling a great sword from his back and readying it.

Old Grey Eyes hovered above the ground, great silver bat-like wings beating rhythmically, his face shrouded under his hood. The silver locks that spilled out were gone, and what looked like an elongated snout with rows of sharpened teeth protruded. He held up his hand, it was clawed, and the skin was like some sort of overlapping silvery plate armor. His staff lept from the ground and back into his palm.

“What in the Hells are you? a Warlock? All the unclean are to be killed!” The Half-Giant shouted, stepping up to the hermit. He swung his massive blade in an attempt to strike Old Grey Eyes down. The Hermit pushed himself back and to the side with a great flap, parrying with his staff.

The Mercenary used the momentum to continue the swing, the back sweep of the blade collided with Old Grey Eyes. To the Half-Giant’s surprise, it felt like the old man was wearing some sort of heavy plate mail.

The Hermit opened his maw and took a deep breath, exhaling. A blast of wintery wind and sharp ice knocked the mercenary to the ground, piercing him and almost freezing him solid.

“I warned you Half-Giant. I warned you to leave, but you didn’t listen to me and now you will die here. Tell me who you work for, and I will consider letting you live.”

The Half-Giant crawled backward,

“King Allaire Marseille! He's the one that hired us. Please just let me leave. I was following orders. We were to slay the Unclean. The woman and child as well.” he spouted quickly.

“Thank you…” The hermit inhaled again, unleashing a final stream of ice from the depths of his chest.

The Half-Giant was entombed by the crippling frost. Old Grey Eyes landed gingerly and waved his hand. The Dogs took off into the trees, he shifted back as he hobbled back to the little girl.

“My sweet daughter, I am so sorry for what the humans have done to you and your mother.” Old Grey Eyes said, scooping the little one up. He walked to his tower, stooping to touch the dead angel.

“I am so sorry my love. I wasn’t here when you came, I wasn’t quick enough to save you… I promise Allaire will pay one day.”

Old Grey Eyes lingered a moment, then turned and headed down a path marked with a wooden sign that read “Old Tranor Road” and “Ulric”. The sounds of battle slowly dissipated the deeper Old Grey Eyes walked into the Forest. Then simply ceased to be. It was over for the humans now, he knew.

Years passed as Old Grey Eyes watched from his solitary tower, sunrises, sunsets, moon phases, and seasons. For a timeless being, these all came and went without thought.

How long had it been since he had left his daughter on that family's porch? How long had it been since the Half-Giant was entombed for his crimes and his beloved buried for hers?

The Humans had lost the war against the Angelic Host, as was predicted. This wasn’t surprising to Old Grey Eyes, Humans had a nasty habit of misjudging their abilities when it came to these types of things. There were beings out there that were ageless and timeless. Things that left the weaker races alone unless provoked.

The comings and goings of the lesser races didn’t matter to them. Every so often, however, small parties of mortals who believed themselves more than they were would venture out to conquer these timeless, ageless, things. Be it for wealth, or fame.

Tonight was no different…

“Well, what the hell are we going to do with this kid? Why would you take her and not kill her and be done with it? We don’t have enough food or water for another.”

Both the white and the brown Cheval’s hooves thundered in unison against Old Tranor Road’s cracked and overgrown cobblestones as two men dressed in tattered black cloaks and golden auroch masks pressed on, fleeing down the winding path that disappeared into a darkening treeline.

A swathe of firey red and orange light licked at the skyline behind them.

“Fire and ashes, Northen. That will show those bloody DuPonts they can’t push us around. We sell the girl… she’ll bring a pretty penny to the cause.” the Frenchman's accent was thick as he spoke,

“You stupid enough think she’ll cooperate when she comes to, Frenchman? Think again. We should have slit her pretty throat and been done with it.” His partner’s accent was that of the Norselands,

“Watch your tongue, savage,” the Frenchman responded coldly. “Remember to whom you speak. I am the great Duc Francios De Marseille, Dread of the Graylands.”

The two pressed on in heavy silence, galloping through the copses of black trees that lined the old pathway. Suddenly the Chevals reared whinnying into the sky. Their eyes were wide in terror.

Before they knew what was happening, Francois and his companion were flung to the side of the pathway. Their prey, however, was still firmly tied to the back of the Norseman’s steed. Both of which had disappeared into the dense treeline that Archimonde Keep stood in silent vigil over.

Francois rolled over, groaning. His auroch mask had a massive gash across the front that split the metal. His shortened Estoc had slid down the hill and out of his reach.

“Northen! You alive?”

Francois reached across his face and yanked the mask from it. The leather sinew that held it in place untied itself easily enough. He didn’t know the Northman’s name, it didn’t matter. He was nothing but a servant to the cause.

The want-to-be despot's face was a chiselled masterpiece of the Gods that very few had ever seen. It was strong and sharp, and his beard with moustache combo was well-groomed.

Though his family had been forcibly deposed from rule years ago by his brother's skullduggery. Francois still acted, dressed, and looked as though he still was a member of the Monsieur le Roi’s Court.

His hair was tied back in a tight black ponytail with a blue ribbon and his body was skinny from the years of living as a rebel. He wore a dented and scraped half-plate, painted with the fading Marseille crest of a black swan against a water lily.

“Northen!” he called again, sitting up and tying his destroyed mask to the belt he wore.

His companion lay unmoving on the pathway, neck twisted at an awkward angle. A pool of blood slowly grew around him.

“Merde… unfortunate.”

Francois brushed himself off, walking over to the Northen’s body and taking the mask laying next to him. He tied the new one onto his face, then knelt and grabbed a hold of the beautifully carved Ulfberht from it's sheath. The Duke drew it with a flourish and swung it around.

“I’ve always liked this sword, mon Amie. Til Valhal, or whatever your people say.”

Francois turned, leaving without a second thought. Not caring that the dead man was going to rot on the path. He grabbed the gold pommel of his Estoc from the dewy hillside and shoved it back into its resting place. Francois stood in silence for a moment, looking back out where the burning village smoldered on the horizon.

“Un spectacle de beauté, la plus belle dame de tout le royaume ne pouvait pas se comparer…”

Francois bowed towards the glowing town of Ulrich, with a twisted smile on his soft face.

“I best go find my horse,” Francois mumbled to himself heading towards the imposing Keep of Archimonde,

He had heard stories that something powerful lived here, but he had never believed the nonsense Peasants came up with to scare their children away from dangerous places.

“That your doing?” an old man’s weary voice spoke from the darkness around Francois, startling him into drawing the Estoc.

The Duke whipped around and grasped the hilt tightly with both hands, readying the sword. A hooded traveller, it seemed, had shown up out of nowhere.

“Enfer! What are you doing out here old man? Don’t you know this is a dangerous road to be traveling? No one patrols it anymore.”

Francois sidestepped slowly, cautious of the old beggar that had manifested himself out of the darkness. The stories spoke of a terrible demon sorcerer that lived in Archimonde Keep. The Duke kept telling himself that he never believed the tales of peasants. They were uneducated and liars. But this thought cycle did little to abate his growing terror.

“No need for weapons. I’m but an old hermit who calls Archimonde home.” the man pointed towards the looming tower that jutted up from the trees where the chevals had fled,

The old traveller hobbled forward, holding his long-fingered hand out. Its nails were sharp, like some sort of animal claws.

“They call me Old Grey Eyes. May I ask Ser his name?”

Francois was silent, something wasn’t right. He could feel it but answered anyway lowering his sword a bit.

“You should bow before me hermit, I am Duc Francois De Marseille, of the Marseille family. The rightful rulers of the Greylands.”

The old timer bowed his head slightly, placing his hand back on the ash staff.

“Forgive me, Monsieur le Duc. I did not know the Marseilles were still around. I was under the impression you were all killed by the DuPonts. Did the Monsieur attack Ulrich?” the hermit questioned in his low voice, tapping his fingers against the staff.

“Yes, I attacked Ulrich. It is strategically important to the Marquis DuPont and the Host that pulls his strings. We will move our forces into the town at sunrise and take it for ourselves. Then we will control the trade hub through the Greylands and my brother's wealth.” Francois spoke, saying far more than he expected.

He shook his head in confusion, It was almost like he was compelled by some unseen force to speak his plans

“You are the leader of the Aurochs, yes? You plan an offensive against High Castle?” the old hermit rhythmically tapped his walking staff with his fingers again.

“I am their leader… we have... ” Francois stumbled, losing his footing a moment and putting a hand on his head. Everything seemed hot as wave after wave of energy pushed through him.

“Go on…” the hermit spoke, his voice echoed in Francois' mind, more compelling now. The tapping grew louder.

“We have already infiltrated High Castle. We are poised to…to… Stop this.” Francois protested, as that unseen force pressed against his skull. He collapsed to his knees, and a ringing began to fill his ears.

“You’ve infiltrated High Castle, and planned an insurrection from within the walls. Smart. If your agents succeed, they will open the gates and your Aurochs won’t need to lay siege to the strongest castle of the Greylands. The Host won’t let you take their seat of power, however. What do you do when they come with wrath?”

The Old Hermit walked closer to Francois, kneeling next to him and placing a hand on his chiseled chin. He pulled the Duke's mask from his face, tossing it aside. With his other gnarled hand, he lifted the young ruler's head so they were staring deep into each other's eyes.

“That peak is so high, I doubt any mortal has been able to take that place for thousands of years. Not since the Celestials took over so long ago, of course. I’ve been here a long time, Monsieur. I knew your Great Great Grandfather, did you know? I may be old and wise, but I do not forget even when others do.”

The little girl Francois and the Northen had kidnapped stepped up beside Old Grey Eyes. Her face twisted and contorted, changing into some half-dragon-half-human creature. Her white skin rippled and transformed into silvery scales.

Old Grey Eyes stared at Francois for a second, putting a hand on the girl's shoulder. The power that had been compelling the Duke seemed to alleviate, it was like whatever force gripped him had let go. He fell to the ground, panting.

“You aren’t the first Marseille to slight me… You’ve destroyed my daughter's town, her guardians, and all she held dear.” Old Grey Eyes spoke slowly, pacing back and forth.

“That slag pit deserved it Old Man.” Francois laughed, getting to his feet. “The only reason I kept the majority of it standing was that The Aurochs need a place to live while we assault High Castle.”

The would-be Prince dusted his clothing off and collected himself. He wasn’t about to let an old hermit man with petty conjurer tricks best him, he was a God chosen. Francois was already planning his attack.

“Funny, I was going to take your daughter as a personal slave. She isn’t human, and I think I will sell her at a high price on the slave markets. I don’t know where you found an Unclean child, but I thank you for delivering her into my hands. She will fetch a pretty penny. I suggest you give her to me, you stand before a God Chosen, and I will kill you.”

Duc Francois De Marseille picked up his mask, tying it to his face. The golden Auroch visage glimmered in the moonlight. The Duke raised his Estoc, quickly thrusting to strike. Old Grey Eyes moved aside with ease, his staff connected painfully with the Prince's head, ringing his ears.

“My face! You disrespectful peasant. How dare you strike your King!” Francois’ hand trembled as his fingers touched the mask where a bruise was forming.

The boy lashed out uncontrollably with a wide sweep from his weapon, missing both the girl and Old Grey Eyes.

“You are no King, child. You are a boy play-acting…” Old Grey Eyes moved fast, dodging the subsequent assaults and transforming at the same time. He stood with his hands on the staff watching the young Frenchman thrash about.

“I will not take your insults, old man!” Francois secretly pulled his knife from his belt, a smirk crossing his face.

The Duke turned, throwing the dagger at the young girl. Giant wings unfurled from the blackness, and Old Grey Eyes stretched to shield her. It seemed he was too slow, however. The knife struck her chest and the girl fell to her knees. Golden blood seeped from the wound. The Hermit dropped his staff, rushed to the young Half-Dragon, and pulled her close to him.

Francois took the opportunity to move into position, raising his Estoc and readying to stab the Sorcerer in the back. Old Grey Eyes looked at his scaled hands, gold ran through his fingers. The girl's face seemed to lose colour as she slipped into oblivion.

“You will pay Marseille, this is the last time your family takes my happiness from me.” Old Grey Eyes growled in rage.

Francois struck, plunging his sharp tip deep into Old Grey Eyes' flesh. The Sorcerer's scales weren’t strong enough to stop the tempered weapon. It had been forged to pierce plate and chain, so the Estoc easily slipped in between the natural armor.

Old Grey Eyes let out a great roar that echoed through the forest and Francois pulled the sword back. The Hermit turned and raised a hand. A powerful force radiated outward, throwing the would-be King into a nearby tree trunk and stunning him.

“My daughter, I shall do for you what I could not for your Mother…” Old Grey Eyes said in a low voice, standing.

The cloak, robes, and staff all collapsed into him. His body stretched and grew 20 times. Silver and black scales radiated across his flesh, rippling slightly to interlock themselves. This granted the dragon a stronger armor coating.

Old Grey Eyes stretched his hands and legs into massive muscle-bound extremities. Those sharpened fingernails grew into massive claws and his head stretched forward with his tail. The dragon stood up on its hind legs and tensed itself in a stretch, Francois crawled backward in horror.

Great silvery wings unfurled and flapped, kicking dust and rocks up around them. Old Grey Eyes had a frill of skin and spikes around his powerful neck

“By the Gods!” the Duke recovered from the push, gasping. He grabbed his sword and scrambled to his feet readying the weapon again.

Francois hadn’t ever seen a Great Wyrm before, but he had studied them when he was younger. He noticed Old Grey Eyes was slim for a Silver Dragon but seemed to keep himself in peak condition. The Duke guessed the beast was about 4000 years old or more.

He brought his sword to bear, running at the Dragon to get within striking distance of the monstrous opponent. A tail swooped out at him, causing him to stop and move backward.

“Back you devil beast! You’ve not faced modern weaponry, I will kill you!”

Old Grey Eyes reared up and let out a great roar that shook the treetops. Francois ran at Old Grey Eyes’ stomach and thrust forward, knowing that was where the thing's armor was weakest.

He felt himself lift off of his feet and get thrown backward again by Old Grey Eyes magics. This time, the blast was followed up by the dragon’s powerful tail. It slammed the Duke hard into the ground. Francois felt his breastplate cave in under the force. Leaving him with broken ribs and gasping for air once more.

Old Grey Eyes turned and nuzzled the dead body of his daughter. A brilliant light swept over her, sealing her wounds and pushing the dagger from her chest. Francois heard a sharp intake of breath as the young Half-Dragon pushed herself up from the ground and moved backward.

The Great Wyrm said something to her in their Draconic language. She nodded and ran off somewhere.

“Now! Duke Francois Du Marsielle! Do you think yourself a God? For this will be your doom if you are not!” the dragon's booming voice echoed far into the darkness as he turned to face the young leader.

“I am God's chosen! I will slay you beast!” Francois wiped the blood from his mouth and moved in to strike.

He ducked the Great Wyrm's tail, feeling its mass pass above him. In came a second attack, a great claw slashed at him, but the dragon was slow in his true form. Francois moved to one side, then thrust into the nearest target.

The sword easily pierced the dragon's side. Weapons had come a long way since Old Grey Eyes had been in a proper fight. This felt like a small needle had poked a hole in him, the point so fine it was able to slip between the metallic scales. Silvery blood came rushing out of the wound and down his side.

The Silver Wyrm moved back and reared, roaring. A cold unlike anything Francois had felt before, engulfed the area. Ice formed on the tree’s trunks, and frost painted the ground around them.

The Duke felt it creep into him like some sort of frozen sickness, he screamed in pain as frostbite took his hands. Old Grey Eyes beat his wings, pushing himself off of the ground and into the air. He took a deep breath and exhaled a thick fog around them. Effectively obscuring Francois’ vision.

“You coward! Stand and fight!” Francois screamed, squinting to try and see through the mask's eyeholes and penetrate the thick fog.

He eventually pulled the Auroch from his face and tied it to his belt, affording him better vision. The Duke laid his estoc on his forearm, readying it to strike. He decided to slowly move forward through the dense air, but It was like smoke obscured everything around him. He could hear the great beating of the dragon's wings, however, and knew that it was nearby.

“You will not win this, stubborn fool… I am powerful beyond your understanding! Flee and you will not die here today. Never darken my doorstep again.” Old Grey Eyes' voice carried through the trees, echoing and making it seem he was everywhere at once.

“Unclean must be wiped from this world. You are Unclean, devil beast. I shall slay you as did my forefathers of old. The Gods demand it!” Francois whipped around, eyes wide and darting back and forth as the adrenaline surged through his veins.

“So be it…” Old Grey Eyes replied,

In an instant, the fog around Francois became thick and chilled. He felt himself turn sluggish as he pushed his way through the frozen haze. It was like he was caught in some sort of blizzard, but there wasn’t any wind or snow.

Old Grey Eyes hovered above the frozen field and could see clearly through the fog as if it wasn’t there. He had been watching as the young human moved slowly, unable to see. He knew this boy had no chance of defeating him on his own.

The Wyrm healed his wound with magic and there was a sharp intake of breath. Francois heard it and dropped low trying to decide which way to run. It was too late when he made his move. Old Grey Eyes, swift as an eagle, moved position and unleashed a stream of black gas onto the fool below.

Francois attempted to roll as the gas permeated the fog. He wasn’t able to move fast enough and felt pressure on his lungs as he inhaled the sooty black, dragon's breath. His body convulsed, stopping him cold. Francois felt all his muscles tense up and spasm as he fell painfully to the ground, paralyzed by whatever gas he had inhaled.

There was a great rush of air, and everything went dark. The Marseilles were no more.