The Nullus Compendium vol. 0

Castor II

Castor was still holding in his first inhale of the morning when he heard the sound of twigs cracking underfoot, immediately followed by the familiar wheezing of the short, round man known as Normann. His years in the smelting pits had ravaged his poor lungs. Norm had been employed by his father as Master Blacksmith for as long as Castor could remember and was only recently redeployed as a soldier when father forced most of the able-bodied citizens of the empire into fighting this bloody war.

To his credit, Normann was a formidable warrior who was excruciatingly lethal with the battleax and had slain many men since taking up arms for the Empire. From seemingly nowhere in particular, Norm was always able to produce a freshly baked sweet-roll to share, in what seemed limitless supply. Perhaps Normann also possessed ‘the gift’ and simply hid his magical abilities. Castor had his doubts, however, as Normann was superstitious and was always expressing his dislike for conjuring. Castor liked and trusted Normann, that was certainly true but if he was hurrying it meant that he had bad news. Normann always dressed it up somehow, so it was to be seen as not that bad of news. ‘Putting makeup on the slug’, Normann would always say.

Castor had grown tired of the endless fighting and the constant bloodshed. He longed for peace and stability, for a world where he could focus on building a better future for his people rather than constantly fighting for survival.

As Normann approached, Castor turned his head to look over his shoulder at the approaching man, raising an eyebrow as he let the smoke from the dragongrass trickle from his nostrils with a long-drawn-out sigh, as he greeted his old friend,

“Stormin’ Normann!” Castor jovially bellowed.

"Good morning, sire," Normann replied, bowing slightly before handing Castor a sweet roll. "I brought you a treat, as always."

Castor took the roll gratefully, savoring the sweet, doughy flavor. "Thank you, Normann. You always know how to make my day a little brighter."

"It's a beautiful morning, isn't it?" Normann said, breaking the silence.

Castor nodded, taking a deep breath of the fresh morning air. "Yes, it is but it's also a reminder of all that we're fighting for."

"Aye, that it is," Normann agreed, his voice heavy with sorrow. "But we'll keep fighting, sire. As long as you lead us, we'll follow wherever you take us."

Castor looked at his old friend with gratitude and respect. Normann had always been there for him, through thick and thin. He was a loyal and reliable ally and Castor knew he could always count on him.

"Thank you, Normann," Castor said, clapping the blacksmith on the shoulder. "I don't know what I'd do without you by my side."

Normann smiled, his round face creasing into a web of wrinkles. "You'll never have to find out, sire. I'll always be here, sire."

Normann continued on to say, "A letter came last night that bears the seal of..” when he was abruptly cut off when the ground started to violently vibrate beneath their feet for a brief moment, accompanied by the sounds of metal scraping against metal. The droning, hollow ringing of a humming note seemed to bellow all around them.

“Rumblings again? What has become of this wretched world?” Castor solemnly thought as he tapped out the ashes again from the old pipe. His conjured ball of flame quickly elongated into what appeared to Normann as a horizontal string of fire that wiggled and stretched until it vanished in a blink of the eye.

“.. I'll never get used to that..” Norm said of the conjured fire that Castor always used to light his dragongrass. “Whatever happened to using firesticks as the good goddess Seraph intended, ah?” he joked.

The two men stood in silence for a moment, watching the westerly winds blow through the camp. Castor could feel the weight of the day ahead bearing down on him. As the heir to the Imperial throne, it was his duty to lead his troops into battle against rebels and any who threatened to overthrow the Polaxi Empire.

Castor bellowed, “You mentioned a letter? Let me guess, father is ordering the battalion to a new location?” These plains were becoming dreary and he was itching for a change of scenery.

Norm was still regaining his footing after stumbling from the quake. Dusting off his leggings, he replied, “Nay, I think not. This scroll bears the seal of the Severed Claw...Zellok the Oppressor, m’ lord”

Castor spit on the ground between them and scornfully grumbled, “Now what sort of lies does that bastard piss from his mouth?” He looked with melancholy at the now empty dragongrass pouch and frowned. Securing the pipe inside a worn satchel, he slipped it back under his breastplate. “Continue, my friend.”

“The scroll..it tells a tale of his quarrymen finding veins of bloodstone in the caverns deep below the sands of the Salvan Desert. It could very well be a ruse to lure the battalion into a trap, m' lord.” Normann explained. He went on to continue, “The scroll claims they have also found ruins of unknown origin..ancients who do not look like us, nor the ones that we know of..” Normann was cut off, startled, by Castors’s commanding voice.

“That will be all, Normy. Please, I need a moment to contemplate this news. See to awakening any men still sleeping, alert them and the others to await my command. We're leaving this place, at once” Castor ordered as Normann shakily held out the scroll for him to take.

"Yes m’ lord, at once sir.” said a nodding Normann as he hurried off, wheezing back down the way he came, leaving Castor on the hilltop with the message and his thoughts. Normann was correct in describing what the scroll had said.

Castor sat on the hilltop, staring out at the barren plains stretched out before him. The letter from Zellok weighed heavily in his hand and he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about the entire situation. He had heard rumors of bloodstone before, a rare and valuable mineral that was said to have powerful magical properties. If Zellok had truly found a vein of it, it would be a huge boon for his kingdom but Castor couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story than The Oppressor was letting on.

Castor's eyes narrowed as he unfolded the parchment, its wax seal still warm from Normann's grasp. The paper was strangely coarse, almost pungent, as if it had been made from some exotic reed found only in the fetid swamps of Zellok's tyrannical dominion. The writing was impeccably penned in a script that only hinted at the malevolence lurking beneath the words.

"Bloodstone," Castor mused, the utterance of the word as foreign to his tongue as the taste of the smoke still lingering in his mouth. The notion of such an asset, found under the cruel sovereignty of Zellok the Oppressor, twisted his insides with both avarice and apprehension. Bloodstone, after all, was no ordinary mineral; its existence was the stuff of ancient texts, half-credited tales whispered by old men who smelled of moldy leather and sour ale. It was said to be a jewel born from the very marrow of the Earth, a concentrated essence of magic and elemental fury that could amplify the abilities of any who harnessed its power. Many an old tome spoke of the stone as if it were a living entity, responsive to the whims and wishes of those who sought to control it.

Such a mineral, if it indeed existed and was not just a fabrication of Zellok's twisted imagination, could turn the tides of the war. Castor's father, the Emperor, would surely be interested in such an advantage, as his legions were becoming ever more embroiled in the battle to maintain the Polaxi Empire's stranglehold over the known world. Yet, Castor pondered, what cost would this prize exact from those who seized it?