The First Age

Hendrik van de Berg spoke on his phone, quietly, in one corner of the hotel lobby. A subtle shift during conversation and he checked on the expensive travel bag at his feet. Despite his comfortable posture, his demeanor was slightly wary, but such could be explained by being a foreigner in a foreign land. Indeed, for any who were close enough to eavesdrop, which none were so brave to cut through the steely warning in his gaze, they would hear a guttural accent, harsh but not quite as hard as the more recognizable German.

He was still on the phone when two gentlemen, as foreign to India as he was himself, passed by. He studied each for a moment to size either up in petty curiosity. But it was an act; he was above such comparisons. He knew his place in this world: where he would be before the end of his days.

His conversation ended shortly after the two men were gone. He tucked his wallet away into the fineries of his jacket, gathered his bag and approached the valet. "A taxi to the train station, please." Very soon, he was on his way.

Declan was more than happy to pay for the cost of a first class train ticket. After their hotel room, the purchse price was miniscule in comparison. Custody currency was equal in weight across all Dominances, but the cost of luxury was very different in Europe than it was in the Indian subcontinent.

Thus, the two men, and their burdensome luggage, swam through the sea of shoulders waiting to board. Soren was the taller of the two of them, and at one point, Declan was unable to shove past another human being and he gave the lead to his bolder friend to make their way.

"My god."
Declan said as they were swallowed by the metal walls of the train that seemed to buffer the noise outside. Soren knew his angst, for Declan did not enjoy chaos or crowds. He preferred a quiet dig site, where he could be left to peaceful contemplation.

Once his luggage was deposited in their racks, he pat down his torso, searching for valuables that he was sure must have been stolen in that mass of bodies. He had a money belt on beneath his shirt, one that held his identification and his digital Wallet-finder - a digital coin that could be handed over to police to pinpoint, or shut-down, the tech should it be stolen.

"I don't know how you handle all this city travel, Soren."
The relief to be safely inside the train was apparent. The train ride would take the majority of the day. Declan spent much of it answering emails or returning calls. He spoke to his daughter again. The on-board meal, a curry, was gritty and disgusting even by normal standards. Luckily, there was a bar on board for him to enjoy a glass of wine. At least it took the taste out of his mouth. Finally, when he had exhausted everything he could think to prepare, he simply stared out the window, studying the passing countryside as they passed farther north.

The press of people did not bother Sören in the slightest, and he spared a smirk for Declan's plaintive dislike as he accepted responsibility for clearing a route. His height and width made it easy work, though he was surprisingly gentle against more obstinate obstacles. The impatience of last night seemed, at least for now, to have broken like sunrise, leaving something far more tolerant. On the move, Sören was always of a more amenable disposition.

Once aboard, he took care of hoisting the bags while Declan patted himself down. Sören would break fingers before he allowed a pick-pocket to lift something of value, but he also had the advantage of charms and talismans that would alert him to such an attempt. He shrugged away Declan's words and made himself comfortable, which included stretching out his feet to rest on the chair opposite, hands lightly joined over his stomach. "Wake me when we're there."
And promptly shut his eyes. His breaths smoothed quickly, but it was not sleep that claimed him.

Declan Gregory,
PPC

Days of travel was ahead of them. Once they left New Delhi behind, the cities of northern India progressively grew less dense, and his sense of tension was progressively relieved. Although winter, the landscape was expansive. From trains to bus and finally by car, they traveled. The sky grew ever wider, the horizon ever more mountainous. Soon they were traversing the faces of the Himalayas, and Declan finally felt free enough of human congestion to relax despite the fact they were visiting the place of such foreboding moniker as Skeleton Lake.

The final stretch of their journey required going by foot. Horses were too unstable along the rocky terrain covered by snow. Were it summer, the grasslands would be sufficient for horseback, but a foot of snow was too dangerous for the horses. Declan and Soren were prepared for the hike, however. This final night, they were staying in the closest village to Roopkund lake, a group of about sixty people spread across twelve gurts.

Declan ducked into the round, domed structure that would be the last of the comforts for the next few days. It was a large structure, more permanent than a tent, but with the similar feel of textile walls, wooden struts over head, and a smoke hole in the center. He deposited his shoes near the tunnel-entrance, and crossed a mish-mash of rugs to deposit himself on a square of pillows. Their guide for the journey was Daruka, a middle-aged man with a heavy black beard and studious gaze.

"It was his cousin that was the last guide,"
Declan whispered to Soren once they were out of earshot. It took a hefty amount of money to bribe another guide to take them back to Roopkund lake. While a man's fear could be purchased for the right price, they were not ignorant of the sneers and mutterings when they passed others of the village. This was Daruka's gurt, and thus they would share it with his family for the night. His wife was pleasant enough, Declan thought as she brought them each a bowl of food, stewed with some mixture of pork meat that Declan did not care to inquire the cut. Despite the grim atmosphere, he was not worried for the following day's trek. In fact, his inner sense of curiosity overtook the shock and grief of before.

He slept poorly. In his clothes with a coat draped over him for a blanket, the noise of a dozen people snoring in the same gurt made for restless sleep. His dreams were riddled with strangers wafting in and out like faces peering through the mist hovering above a frozen river. Ghosts, he assumed, despite how the topic was silly to dream. The logic of morning dismissed the ebb of fear warning him against visiting the lake of nightmares. He packed, ate, counted supplies and met Daruka after sunrise to begin the long walk to their next camping site. The following morning they would finally walk into the shadow of the mountain cradling Skeleton Lake, and the bodies of its victims that waited for discovery.

***

The change in elevation made for a quiet hike between the village and the camp site, but finally, as they were setting up the tent that the three men would share for the night, Declan finally cornered Soren while Daruka was busy tending to the dogs and sled. "Did you have any strange dreams last night?"
Not that he believed in such nonsense of warnings by dream, but the stillness of their surrounding had left him wary, rather than relaxed, now that they were hours from a place of legendary doom.

Though he discovered nothing of note, Sören continued to visit the lake and surrounding area in his dreams. The ice chilled his skin when he allowed it to pierce his consciousness, but even making himself vulnerable to such influence did nothing but make him miserable with it. He brooded in that snowy landscape, a sentinel awaiting his body's arrival.

Of the times he slept truly, no dreams came to him. Perhaps because his body craved the honest rest so often denied it, though to all appearances Sören took every opportunity to shut his eyes. He was poor company when the wheels of trains, cars and buses rumbled beneath him.

The village, though, seemed to animate him from his quiet stupor. He ate well and smiled easily, though their reception was understandably cool. Nonetheless he offered respectful condolences for the men lost in the previous expedition - men whose deaths, it was true, he had barely considered since he'd heard of them. Money paved their way here, not silvered words, but he offered them anyway. They would be placing their trust in Daruka on the morrow.

---

The hike was a quiet one, and cold. He longed for a trick to ignore it as he could when in the Other place, but settled for keeping his mind fixed on their goal and paying attention to their guide. Camp that night was welcome. He was making himself comfortable when Declan cornered him.

Sören cocked his head, interested. "You waited for Daruka to be out of earshot. You're spooked."
The hitch of smile suggested ridicule, but Declan knew him better than that. He folded his arms, considering whether he could use the runes to help provide the man a better night's sleep, or if the portent was better addressed than ignored. "What did you dream?"

Declan Gregory,
PPC

Declan stole a glance at Daruka like saying his name was going to summon the man's ear. The frown etched into his face betrayed his irritation that Soren saw so clearly through the attempt at conversation. "Yes, but not enough to turn around." He knelt and pounded the next tent-stake into the earth. It gave him something to focus on rather than the stern set to Soren's jaw. He asked about dreams like the content actually mattered.

"Was nothing. Ghosts and the like."
He could still see forelorn faces misting in and out of focus, but by light of the fading day, their eerie warnings held less power. He finished pounding the spike home and returned the mallet to its case. There was serenity in the work of putting up a tent. Serenity by distraction.

"It's just nervousness. I always get this way before a new project. We dig into the past of the ancient departed, not the recently-preserved dead. Certainly not when one of the dead was someone I knew. To be fully honest, it's creepy. What's to say the same won't happen to us?"
He fixed Soren with a cool stare, but let the question go unanswered. This was the first time he truly considered the potential of real danger awaiting them. The rational side of his mind berated the doubt as foolishness. Nothing was going to happen but unraveling a mystery.

He waved Soren off. They needed to finish raising the tent. They all looked forward to crawling inside and warming themselves by the side of the stove.

Edited by Dane Gregory, Jun 28 2015, 03:43 PM.

It was impossible for Hendrik to follow the two men all the way to the lake. He was, however, able to follow them through the last of the train stops. He had no need to arouse suspicion by going any farther than a few buses trading towns. If the two men going to the lake lived to return, they would pass along the only route back to civilization, and he would know of it. Of course, it wasn't out of mere curiosity that meant someone like Hendrik tracked their movements. Noah was an ally educated in the darker ways of the world, and he did not survive what he encountered at the lake. Memento mori. There was little hope for two ignorants, but their demise would be educational in and of itself. Hendrik waited.

"Nothing,"
Sören echoed flatly. His lips twisted dissatisfaction with the answer, an answer he considered an evasion. Another man he might have pushed, but with Declan he left it alone. As he said himself, he'd known some of the men who had died out here, and maybe that was all it took to fester in his unconscious mind. They were far from civilization, a mere speck in nature's icy grasp, and with a dour, mistrustful guide. All truth told, there was much to be worried about. But Sören was content here in the snowy wilderness, chasing a mystery that might amount to nothing. And he knew he would not die here, though he could not say the same for Declan. Of course some fates were worse than death.

"Tell me if the dreams continue."
The other man was already waving him off in favour of finishing the camp set-up. The dismissal spiked irritation, but he brushed it off in favour of dragging the Wallet from his pack. The signal had long faded. His sources had never responded, which was unusual. Too late now, in any case. He slipped the device back into a pocket, and trudged off a little way into the snow to roust Daruka from the dogs, and secure the perimeter to his own liking.

Declan Gregory,
PPC

The day's excursion expended more effort than Declan was used to in recent months. Adding the weight of his pack, the thickness of snow they trudged, and the frailty of the air he should have sank into a hard sleep that night. Yet his mind hovered between consciousness and sleep and the snores of his fellow hikers were not comforting. What fear kept his mind at bay he could not guess. The sleeping bag was confining, but warm. Slowly the hours passed but he knew he slept only by the fit that startled him awake again. Eventually, light seeped through the tent walls, and his eyes were the first to see the first ray of sun crawl its way between mountain peeks. Daruka was soon awake and Soren stirred as well, but Declan remained in his sleeping bag. With the others awake he felt the lull to sleep, like their presence guarded him from what he feared waited on the other side. But again, with the day, came the cool-headedness of logic and he sat up, rubbing dark eyes. Breakfast was mere sustenance and he was poor company. A short hike remained before they emerged upon the lake of doom itself and he was anxious to get there. If only to prove to himself the foolishenss of his nerves.

"No dreams,"
he told Soren when he had the chance. But the sunkeness of his eyes gave him away. "But I did not sleep deep enough to dream."
He wanted to express his gratitude for Soren's presence but the words didn't form. The rest of the morning passed with few words between them. Their plans had already been discussed. Go to the lake, examine the remains see on satellite, search the lake bed and uplink to home once found. Easy.

Daruka led them true. Two hours after departing camp, the path led to a sharp crest in the mountainside. Declan held his hand to his eyes and took a deep breath to peer along the opposite down slope. In a hollow in the mountain, like a bowl, some fifty feet below was an unbelievably smooth surface, a gleaming blue disk like a forgotten coin left behind by the gods of the sky. The landscape all around was powdered white, gleaming pristine in the early morning sun. But the ice lacked such a blanket. It was the clearest water Declan had ever imagined. Only a meter deep it was likely frozen solid through, but shadows littered its floor. A chill shot down Declan's spine. Those were the bodies found within the lake a century ago. Perfectly preserved, frozen in time forever. Trapped within the crystal waters that was their grave site for a thousand years. They were majestic to look upon with his own two eyes and certainly terrible enough a sight to inspire nightmares, but a quiet voice whispered in his mind like wind. These ancient Mongolian soldiers were not the guardians of the lake, they were the victims of it. Legends. Foolishness. He told himself, shushing the warning in the back of his mind as other, more pertinent, shapes pulled his eyes away. Noah and his team were here but weeks. Their lumps were covered with fresh inches of powder, but unmistakable.

"Noah,"
Declan uttered and curiosity overcame his fear. He hurried down to the lake and stopped above the body of his colleague. The anthropologist in him hastened itself to the surface and he didn't immediately disturb the scene. Instead, he exchanged glances with Soren. "I'll look for cause of death if you want to examine the lake itself. Noah said something was under it. Besides skeletons we already knew existed, I don't know what else there is to find."
Declan recalled the thrill in Noah's voice moments before that howling wind claimed his life. He had been adamant something else was in the lake. If something was there, it was hidden from mortal eyes.

A gust touched the back of his neck as he knelt down. A normal wind, he told himself and brushed the snow from Noah's face.

The closer they came to their destination, the more invigorated Sören felt. Though his lungs grasped for enough air to satiate an easy breath, though the cold chapped his skin and froze his blood until warmth was a distant memory. They were small prices; bodily pains barely worth acknowledgement. He surveyed the white landscape with the fevered gaze of the hungry, a king staking claim on new dominion. It would reveal its mysteries. He would make sure of it.

Declan sunk into himself on the morning's hike, a silence Sören ignored in favour of his own fervour. He had no comforts to offer, nor the time to waste on them even if he could lift that shroud. Better the man keep his own counsels and subdue his own demons. The hollowness of his eyes spoke of an uneasy night. As to what plagued him most, Sören did not enquire. If Declan sought to unburden himself with words, Sören would listen. But he would not seek the conversation.

He had no interest in the fresh bodies, though his gaze did flicker momentarily over the expression of his friend. His answering nod was unnecessary; Sören would have taken himself off to the lake with or without Declan's approval. But the gesture was acknowledgement, a binding of camaraderie that for a moment Sören's spirit had sought to shuck. The lake and its secrets would be his alone. He examined the possessiveness, then set it aside carefully. Ice crunched under heel as he trekked away as bid.

He had walked this dreamscape so many times. He opened his mind to it, tuned to the details that sung in his blood. The recognition gratified him, soaked into his being like a stranger welcomed home. The lake was deep and clear, radiating cold, the sweet promise of an icy death to those enticed to her embrace seeking answers. So many nights he had dreamed this place, it was like an old acquaintance. But a silent one. Its victims hung suspended at its heart, the only answer it willingly offered.

Sören pulled the scarf down from his face. Ice glittered in the unkempt beard of long travel, the sharp cheeks above chafed red and wind-torn. A serious gaze appraised the warning bodies, the fathomless depths of water and ice all open to scrutiny. The view pleaded, not innocence, but transparency. There was nothing to see, to the mortal eye, but its frozen grave. Piqued to the challenge, Sören knelt. He pulled loose a glove, stuffed it in a pocket. The cold bit anew into sensitive flesh as he reached to touch the glacial waters. When he lifted his hand, his aching fingers closed, one by one into a fist.

Need and inquiry quested into the water. The rune Naudhiz sliced clean and true, unfurling the desire to understand. Something shimmered in response, widening his eyes, but as he sought to claim the knowledge the brisk wind began to swirl a dervish. It howled an unnatural cry through the mountains. A warning.

At the call of the elements, Sören stood, hearkening back to the transmission Declan had shared. He snatched himself back from the edge, but a crazy, triumphant glint lit his eyes. The sharp edge of a smile fringed madness. His gloved hand sketched another symbol, one designed hastily for protection, but from what he was blind. It was a paltry defense. Arrogance warred with retreat, then something broke the water. Exhilaration woke him. His gift burned so bright it seared his soul with its heat and voracity, but he was unprepared. "Run!"