Lore/Story The Final Day

Heyo, Fruma coming about has got me all excited, so here's a drabble.

The Final Day

“Countless praises to the walls, which guard us from the fallen hordes.
Countless praises to the guards, whose pride and honor have no blemish.
Countless praises to the priests, our great bulwark against Corruption.
Countless praises to Her Highness, the honed blade of her subjects Fruman.”
- Final Stanza of Hymns 13​

A knock at the door brought Diutansel up and out of his meditative trance. His bones groaned as he twisted himself out of the small stone alcove in the corner of his chamber. His bare feet touched yet more cold stone as he carefully avoided stepping into any of the stacks of books and scrolls haphazardly scattered around the room.

The small candle he had lit last night had long since gone out, but his chamber was yet graced by a thin, near-red beam of sunrise. His bones groaned once more as Diutansel stretched, before the ancient man slithered through the piles of tomes and other various things towards his door.

Once, back before he had requisitioned it for his own personal use, his chamber had been a Red Cell. It had been nearly a century since the Temple had hosted a specimen of the Corruption for study. Back when it had, the room’s walls had been designed to be impossible to break -- from either direction.

Unfortunately, the iron doors did need to be compromised, if only to let Diutansel leave at his own whim. Not that he had in two years. Summoning a strength that he ought to no longer have had, he wrenched open the lever that an Apprentice had installed for him some forty years ago.

The door to his chamber opened maybe once a month, if that. The unready metal screamed, but Diutansel did not listen. With a heavy thump, the lock disengaged, and the door swung open, moving to hit the woman standing on the other side in the face.

The woman stepped back and forth with such speed and silence that it seemed she had never moved at all. The door, almost disappointed, hit the hallway wall with a more muted thump.

Diutansel looked down upon the - frankly, diminutive - thing requesting his attention. He saw nothing but an ordinary girl. She wore a dark cloak and hood, though it did little to cover her features. Her skin had a slight pallor to it, but she was otherwise completely unremarkable. Diutansel, previously slightly curious, felt himself sliding into annoyance rather quickly.

“And who are you, wretch,” Diutansel asked, “to disturb my meditations?”

The girl licked her lips. The decrepit monk saw a fang, but disregarded it.

“I am naught but humble commoner, peon.”

Curious, that she was not begging for her life! She wore not the robes of an Apprentice, only one of whom was permitted into this hall each month to give him news and supply. The penalty for all other trespassers was simple.

And final.

…

He moved forward, lightning in his step, to slap her, and she dodged with just as much grace as she had before. Having suitably chastised her, he asked:

“What brings you to this humble monk’s chamber, commoner?”

“I was told that here lies a heretic, a creature that dares to partake in the magics reserved for his Queen.”

That was a serious accusation.

“That is a serious accusation.”

“Understand, I come not as an Inquisition. I come with a request.”

And that seemed mighty suspicious.

“And what do you request, commoner?” he asked, a sneer forming on his face.. “To come to the chambers of Diutansel and ask something of him is quite a spat of hubris, is it not?”

“I require your texts on the Olmdoom.”

Diutansel scoffed. Loudly. Openly. There were few texts about the Olm in general, the mysterious Wynnic people even now slowly dwindling to nothing. There was even less on the cataclysm that had destroyed their civilization, and what scraps there were had mostly been written in their Ancient Wynnic tongue.

Now, learning Ancient Wynnic was no great obstacle. Texts were aplenty, and the mages of the east learned it as a matter of rote. Unfortunately, therein lied the problem. Their tongue itself was magic. A great ritual, said to have been performed in their final days, had given it such power and hatred that merely speaking in it would tear the waiting mana from your heart and render your will upon the world.

To study the Olm was to study Ancient Wynnic. To know Ancient Wynnic was to know magic. The Royal House and its Great Temple - or was it the other way around? - would never tolerate it, and Ancient Wynnic texts were just as unacceptable as any other tool of magic.

To admit now that he studied the Olm in depths would be as much as announcing his heresy to this commoner, and for the briefest moment, as he handed her the relevant texts, he felt a confusion bubble inside of his mind.

The confusion was soon smothered under an all-encompassing fog.

The commoner left. An hour later, Diutansel closed the door and returned to his meditation. He would not remember the conversation.

 

Interesting! Cool story.

Quite the name, "Diutansel."
My man's gotta touch some grass. Two years?

What is this "Hymns 13?" The Fruman holy bible?