In an Angel's Mask

Hereby starts a compilation of the later life of Aurora Scarlett Ophelia, youngest of the Ostelen. All sources are cited. May her sould rest in heaven, far from the Gods.

August 18th, 1380, Rosama’s Tavern in the City of Monceur, far from the War. Retold by Reynolds Graves, who was fourteen at the time of the narrative below. Reynolds seems to have forgotten quite a few details but remembered upon prompting. Slightly edited for literary effect and grammar correctness.

She was an average woman, nothing strange besides her thick verdant cape. Me and my mates had been just hanging around and she seemed to be one to hold a lot of stories, so we went over and asked her to tell us a story. I still remember it word for word because I wrote it down as she told us. Here’s what she told us:

“Children in the tavern. Fifteen? Fourteen? Ah, fifteen. So young. I have lived longer than you would want to. I stand here like a star before you, yet my heart has fallen. All is grey. All is night. All is mist and fog. Memories dance madly in reason’s absence, all twisting and turning and distorting into futures which I have never sought before yet am forced to retreat into. Do you wish to hear my tale?

“Yet perhaps this tale is best forgotten. My tale will eradicate all efforts to forget, to throw away those horrors of the century before. Surprised? Did not think I was so agéd as to have seen so many winters? No use delaying my tale then. Let me start at the very start then, at the very, very start.

“I was born in winter. Of which year, month, day or hour no one remembers, not even myself. I do not know anything of my early life for it is muddled now, cowering in the shadow of the later days of my glory, my downfall and my tragedy. I am tired. These details will go with me into my grave (if there be one) and matter not to anyone else anymore.

“At age fourteen I was forced to join the army. You know nothing of the war here in the South, but in the North, thousands upon thousands died, at the hands of our foes and by the merciless frost. The army and battlefield were terrifying, with so many deaths, noise, and Scralls. Have you ever seen those monsters? They impress you, terrify you, disgust you with their hideous faces and rancid body odour. There was nothing beyond blood and gore and terror. Utter terror reigned in my bones from the very minute I stepped onto the battlefield and never ended - for I never knew when another attack would come.

“And yet the terror subsided as I grew. I survived, due to my reflexes, practised sword strikes, and archery skills. and most importantly, my friends. We had all been sent to the battle camp at age fourteen, the seven of us. We had been set in the same bunk room and thus became acquainted with each other. They were all older than me, and so I was pampered, protected and loved by six older sisters, whom I also loved with the whole of my soul. We called ourselves the Ostelen, after the famous group of seven heroes who had been victorious in the Battle of Hadrew many years ago.

“The Battlegrounds of the North seem not to exist for punishment for foes or the protection of our people. Rather, it is a colosseum for the Gods, who watch, amused, from above, the puny ants below them cleaving into each other, breaking each other, haunting and burying each other for no reason. They reward the brave ones, the ones who harbour the most hate, as a way to make them kill more. My friends and I were among the most valiant. We fought always at the very front and always carried more loot than others - in other words, we were the berserk ones whom the Gods loved.

“The Gods favoured us - they gave us wings, wings of angels. They helped us in and out of trouble (of course, got us in some as well). They were the sign of glory and back then, we all loved them. We would soar above the battlefield where none could harm us, and dive in to save fellow soldiers. But we did it not in earnest and only to show off ourselves and our pride. We were like birds, like dragons, like phoenixes - like Gods. Perhaps too like Gods. The other soldiers looked at us, some with admiration, some with disgust, others with fear. We loved those wings as if they were our own life. And we kept fighting. We kept winning. We kept living.

“And then the Gods imbued us with another gift: each had in possession a pearl the size of your small fist. It was a great gift: but also a curse. The jewels contained our souls; no harm could be done to our lives if the pearls remained intact.

“It seemed a great boon to us then. We could protect the pearls from any and every mercenary, Scrall or demon. We only had to store it on ourselves and nobody could hurt us. The pearls gave us what we saw as immortality.

“And yet we could not protect ourselves from each other.

“Tragedy struck. So it happened that, in a fit of madness that consumed me, I turned on my dear sisters, the ones I had loved so fiercely. The weight of battle finally cracked the fragile shell of my sanity, and at that moment, reason fled from me like the ghosts of the dead. I knew not what I was doing, driven by a dark force that twisted my thoughts and clouded my judgment.

“With a wild gleam in my eyes, I approached each of them, one by one, and with a cruel and swift stroke, I shattered their precious iridescent pearls, those vessels containing their very souls. They did not strike against me for they could not do so to their sister in rationality. They died painlessly. Their souls fled. They shattered before my eyes while I laughed like a deranged animal. Their horrified expressions forever haunt my dreams, as the life drained from their eyes and their bodies turned to ash and feathers. The mementoes from the wings that once bore us aloft now seemed like mocking spectres, taunting me with their false promises of glory.

“And in that instant, reason returned to me like a merciless whip, and I beheld the devastation I had wrought upon my beloved sisters. The weight of grief and guilt crashed upon me like a tidal wave, my heart threatened to beat through my chest, and grief threatened to drown me in its depths. I fell to my knees amidst the piles of ash and howled in pain, for we were linked, and the dispersal of their souls caused great agony in mine. The battlefield that had once been our domain was a desolate wasteland of shattered dreams.

“And then I seemed to go wild again. I do not remember anything. Time became a blur as I descended into a self-imposed exile, consumed by the agony imposed upon myself by their deaths, decadence and despair. I ran from the battlefield. I flew away. I came to the South. I sought solace in the bottom of countless ale tanks, drowning my sorrows in the numbing embrace of intoxication. Each day warred and merged into the next, a haze of regret and self-loathing.

“And here I am, telling my tale to children.”

I [as in Reynolds, editor’s note] was puzzled, “Why don’t you ask the Gods to bring them back, then?”

The woman shook her head at me, flicked her hair back and laughed to herself quietly. After finishing her draught of beer, she paid her bills and walked out.

Excerpts from the diary of Aurora Scarlett Ophelia, youngest of the Ostelen. August 30th [12 days after she met Reynolds, editor’s note], 1380.

Even in the depths of my despair, a flicker of resolve stirs within me. I stand at the precipice of redemption, poised to confront the Gods who toyed with us, who wielded the shards of my shattered dreams of love and family as weapons to pierce my life. I am no longer driven by the thirst for glory or immortality, but rather by love and despair. With each step forward, I shall march towards the divine realm, where I shall demand answers for the unspeakable suffering they have inflicted upon us.

My heart beats with anticipation as I consider this possibility. The Gods, who gave me my wings and my ability to soar up, shall bear witness to my righteous fury. I shall no longer be a puppet dancing in their twisted game. Outside the battlefield, away from bloodlust, I shall do justice to the wings of angels. I shall challenge their authority, I shall bring them down. The path ahead is treacherous, but I am resolute. No thorns shall stop me. The Gods shall be held accountable, and my sisters, though lost, shall find solace in the justice I seek.

Excerpt from the book History of the Ostelen, Chapter Seven: What Happened at the End, written by Gustav Heidenreich, a witness in the battle. [Time set at around 7:00 pm, September 20, 1380, 21 days after writing the diary entry shown above. Told from the imagined perspective of Aurora Scarlett Ophelia. She seemed to have travelled five hundred and fifty leagues in 20 days, but that is possible, due to her wings. Editor’s note.]

On the eve of battle, I ascended to the heavens on wings of fire, fury and vengeance. I soared high above the battlefield, a lone shimmering figure against the backdrop of chaos and despair. The fighting still rang in my ears, but the people were already small ants below me. The sun rained red upon the crimson soil and my golden plumage. With every ounce of strength left within me, I summoned my rage and directed it towards the Gods who had forsaken us. I spiralled up. I seemed to carry not only my wings but my sisters’ as well. I had never flown so high up before. The wind was cold.

My efforts were in vain, for they remained indifferent to my cries. They were immovable, unyielding in their power, they were cruel. And just as I broke through the clouds and saw their shimmering golden palace, I felt a searing pain tear through my back. The very wings that had once lifted me to the heavens now betrayed me, ripping into shreds of blood, tissue, bone and feathers. I plummeted back to the earth, a fallen angel whose flight had ended in tragedy.

As I fell, a shower of golden feathers cascaded around me - they had once been part of my plumage! - a bittersweet reminder of the glory and devastation that had defined my existence. And as my life force faded, I found a strange solace in knowing that my journey had come full circle. In death, I would join my sisters below once more, forever reunited in the embrace of eternity, far from the Gods above.

And so, the tale of the Ostelen reaches its bitter end. The horrors of the past will forever haunt me, the weight of guilt and regret etched into my soul. May my story serve as a warning to those who would seek power and glory at the expense of their humanity, for the Gods are fickle masters, and their gifts often come at a price too steep to bear.

Compiled and edited by Lady Isenhaus Ophelia Jr., great-grandniece of Aurora Scarlett Ophelia, 1208.