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All this war, all this death... To think it was on little more than an average day that we set down this dark path. The road has neither been forgiving or kind, and as we stand here, unified beneath the black banner of the triumvirate, I can only wallow in dread as I remember the faces of friends no longer here because of this stupid war. The whispers of those dead to our folly echo in my mind constantly, and though it is well within my power to shut them out, I have little desire to do so. We must all bear the wounds we inflict upon ourselves, and we would do well to remember those inflicted upon others.

-Damien Malcus

They had scarcely sealed the gates when the dragoness commander and her party led Varg away towards what appeared to be the barracks. Kath doubted they could've forced the paladin if he had been unwilling, but she assumed Varg was willing to dance to the dragoness' tune for the time being.

That left her and Aric to find a use for themselves while they waited, and as the dragons that rode to meet them dispersed into the fortress, they were left alone in the central courtyard.

The fortress was just as impressive, if not more so, from their new perspective. The centre of the compound was the cathedral, a monstrously large church of a magnitude that, had they not been to the Deadmount only days earlier, would've completely boggled the mind. Even so, the high arches and stained glass that adorned the building's sides spoke great praise to the craftsmen and architects that forged it.

From within the walls, most of the coldness and efficiency that had been evident from the outer defences was gone, replaced with wide, green expanses of open ground and gardens of remarkable variety and colour given the cold climate. The sheer walls that prevented scaling were on this side lined with all manner of workshops and houses, some of them civilian to her surprise. And while their arrival had certainly sent a fervour through the populace of the Imperilcaenum, she was again struck by the number of children and families that wandered the grounds in between the marching columns of soldiers and war-mages.

All in all, the fortress seemed more a compact city than a military structure, and she felt a pang of sickness in her gut as she remembered the dragon fortress in the south, and the fires that had hollowed it while she scavenged for scraps amidst the dead and near-dying. The fortress to the south was not nearly so grand as this, but she couldn't help but wonder if all dragon forts were so populated.

"Well," she said, turning to the mage, who had drawn his cloak around him as the cold seemed to finally break his resolve, "What do we do now?"

"We will have some time to recover, I think," the mage responded, "Albion in no fool. She may outnumber us, but this fortress is no easy nut to crack, and the horde will need time to prepare, and even then, it may be days before they launch any real assault."

"What about Varg?" Kath asked, "We can hardly leave him here with that woman."

"Fryst will take some time to calm," Aric said, "but she will no doubt understand the need for haste once she does."

"You speak as if you know her."

"I... know of her, from what I've heard, by any means," he said, hesitantly at first, "she is quick to anger and power-hungry, but she is no fool."

The crow ran a hand under his hood to straighten his mane of feathers and looked through the rows of buildings that surrounded them.

"I will seek out the library," he said after a while, "And see how much I remember of the draconic language."

Like a ghost, he was gone, and Kath only rarely caught glimpses of him as he paced towards a tall, windowless building at the far eastern corner of the fortress. That just left her to occupy herself.

The jackal began wandering around the compound, doing her best to stay out of the way of the draconic guards and soldiers that moved through the place. Soldier and student alike stared at her as she passed, and she heard the softest of whispers follow whenever she passed. It seemed the north saw little of her kind, and likely little of any race aside from dragon.

At first, she walked the walls, peering out at the horizon from her perch some hundred feet in the air. Smoke and cloud still mingled in the atmosphere, and with the added kindling of sunset, the air was filled with a glorious golden-red that bathed the snow-strewn earth in ruddy light. To the south she could see the path of the horde like a scar on the earth, with the black massing of the undead legion itself forming at the entrance to the pass nearly two miles away from the walls. They did not advance, but there was certainly a motion to the horde, and she watched as large groups of undead made their way through the forest like tendrils.

She soon became aware, through the medium of bumped elbows and stern expressions that she was impeding progress as the dragons set to the defences, and quickly descended via the nearest ramp, and began wandering through the buildings themselves.

The buildings closest to the wall interior where nearly all classrooms and lecture halls, all named obscure and unpronounceable words of horrifying length, a large number of them containing letters she had never seen before. One row further inward stood a number of businesses and homes, with dormitories and granaries mixed among them, nearly all constructed from solid wood and stone. Another ring in were the military buildings, each given a singular letter and number for identification, built with immaculate craftsmanship out of thick stone. Judging by her admittedly slim knowledge of ballistics, she figured this was done to protect the civilian population in the shadow of the walls with the more solidly build structures in the middle ready to take a few shots. Whether or not it could bear the weight of the horde had yet to be seen, however.

The building she had originally taken for a cathedral was, in fact, some strange combination of meeting hall, cafeteria, and archive with the three separated into four floors, the library taking up the uppermost two. Each floor opened up into the central isle of the building, allowing her to peer upward into the gilded curvature of the dome from the very bottom of the building, the sight making her nauseous with vertigo.

The crowd of staring eyes that followed her through the cafeteria forced her into a retreat up the stairs to the second floor, and she sighed happily to find it empty save for a few scattered souls.

The meeting hall seemed to function as both a classroom and command centre, with tables laden with maps and scrolls lining every wall with wide walkways between them, the sort of cleanliness that comes from militaristic discipline filling the room with an uptight and staunch atmosphere.

The jackal's eyes strayed to the walls, where, in addition to the fine masonry and architecture the rest of the fortress sported, a series of portraits hung. The smallest of them where still as tall as her, and many of them would be impossible to hang in all but the largest manors. They ranged in style and quality, though it was suffice to say none of them were particularly shoddy, and some where truly mesmerizing for their beauty.

One that grasped her attention particularly depicted a tall and imposing figure dressed in a simple robe of grey and brown cloth that wouldn't look amiss on a beggar. Despite his meagre garb, however, the crow's expression and figure spoke of a confidence and rage so powerful it forced awe upon her. Only a single stand of gold on the bird's chest broke the illusion of poverty, and gave him the look of a priest rather than a pauper. The colours of the portrait were dark and moody, blending softly under what was sure to be an expert painter's hand.

"Do you like it?" A voice from behind asked her.

Kath turned quickly, having been so lost in thought she had not heard the dragon approach her.

He was small, at least, compared to the other dragons she had seen, and was only slightly taller than herself. She got the impression that he was old, though without fur to grey, he may have been younger than her for all she knew. His scales were a dark blue that blended with purplish and greenish hues in a lovely, complicated pattern. His clothes were simple, not unlike those worn by the crow in the painting beside them, though they bore stains of paints both old and new.

"Oh," she started, "Yes, it's quite magnificent. I get the feeling I should recognize the man though."

The old painter stepped closer to be the same distance from the painting as her, "That would be Maester Aegon Harkon," he said.

"The Gravewing?" Kath asked, turning back to the painting, and finally recognizing the gold medallion that hung from his neck, the gold the same fiery colour as his eyes.

"Yes, yes," the man said, leaning forward with a frown, as if he spotted an error or malady she could not see in the oils of the portrait, "at least, that is the face he wore for most of his life. The blasted bugger had a nasty habit of changing it rather often."

"Why would you have a painting of a necromancer here?" Kath asked, looking at the painting in a new light.

"The Maester was a scholar of some renown and high priest before he ever practiced necromancer. He was one of the significant figures in the deposition of the Crowlands' last dynasty."

"Still," the jackal said, "It seems an odd figure to idolize."

"Idolize? Good heavens no, the man was an absolute zealot that fought against us for years with horrifically brutal tactics," the painter said, "These paintings are not meant to be worshiped; they serve as a record of what happens when logic and morality are abandoned for the sake of greed and power."

"So all of these paintings are of necromancers?" Kath asked, looking around at what was likely several hundred portraits.

"No," the dragon said, gesturing for her to follow as he led her around to a dragoness in silver armour adorned with broadsword and shield, a green tunic bearing a seal she was ignorant of, "Not all. Aedelis the Blackheart, for example, was added to the histories for leading a revolt out of Tal'Krovak with the intent on enslaving some of the southern kingdoms. Here are the faces of murderers, rebels, traitors and every manner of scum imaginable."

"And you painted all of them?" Kath asked, amazed at the sheer volume of artistic effort dedicated to the kind of people most would only speak of in hushed tones.

The dragon laughed, his cheerful tone lightening her mood several degrees, "Dear god no," he chuckled, "I consider myself quite prolific, but even I could not manage something like this. I have only done the past twenty years of them."

He shook his head as if a thought had physically struck him, "but of course, where are my manners? Garmr, First of the Historians, Archmage of the Imperilcaenum, and Maester of Theoretical Magics at your service," he said, flourishing the words with a bow.

"Kath," she said, then feeling her title was woefully inadequate added, "of the western sea."

"Well met," the dragon said, smiling heartily, "I take it you are the one that accompanied the Captain from the south?"

"Varg? Yes, I travelled with him. How do you know that?"

"Other than the fact you are the first non-dragon seen within these walls in nearly half a decade?" the Maester said, "I spoke with him after the commander finished her interrogation. He really is quite a kind young man."

"You must not have seen him angry then," Kath quipped, looking at the next painting.

"Oh that's just a show," the dragon said, waving a hand dismissively, "He's really quite a softy, once you get to know him. Takes after my wife, I suppose."

Kath looked at the historian, confused.

"When I first met her, she threatened to rip my arms off and beat me to death with them," he continued, smiling at the memory, "so eloquent for a paladin, too."

"You're Varg's..." Kath started, not quite willing to make the connection between this frail little man and the hulking death machine she had travelled with.

"His grandfather," the man answered, "yes."

"Ah," Kath answered, unable to think of anything else to say as Garmr continued unaffected.

"Would you like me to show you the newest additions to the hall?" he asked, "I so rarely get a new audience to show off my work too."

Kath nodded, and she was practically taken off her feet by the force with which the painter dragged her through the hall, rambling only semi-coherently about the paintings they passed, until they came to the end of the hall where a ladder and canvas had been set up, the paint still wet.

Kath looked at the painting for a moment and shuddered in revulsion to the uncanny likeness the curious old man had created.

"Morgana," she spat. The wolf-queen was depicted in a fine golden dress, her throat adorned with silver and pearls that hung across her breasts as she sat gracefully upon a fine chair that wouldn't be out of place in a manor or lordly estate.

"Ah, yes!" the man said, ecstatic, "I forget you have only recently come from the Deadmount; please, tell me, have I done a good job capturing her features?"

The jackal put aside her natural aversion to the figure in the picture and examined it more objectively.

"She looks younger, a little slimmer and paler about the face and throat than she did when I saw her," she said after a while.

The dragon clucked his tongue in disappointment, "I was afraid that might be the case. The only references I had to work from were from seven or more years ago; a painting her father had commissioned and some sketches Fenris had done in his journals."

"I wasn't aware Fenris was an artist," Kath said, surprised, "Was he any good?"

The dragon sighed, "One of the finest I have ever seen. It's unfortunate he decided to go the way of Malcus and La Fey, I would have loved to speak with him about his art. And his ideas of magical theory! Oh my, so little information was recovered from his journals, but even with what little we have it's clear he was leagues beyond even the finest wizards here."

The man's expression had turned quite melancholy, and Kath was unsure as how to react, but anything she might attempt was abruptly cut off as the man perked up again.

"I must show you the painting of Malcus!" he exclaimed, hauling her down the line of paintings to one that was almost three times her height and nearly as wide.

The man in the painting was absolutely stunning, and even in this two dimensional form, he seemed to have an energy that filled the room. Damien was dressed casually, with a simple shirt of milky white that hung comfortably from Adonis-like limbs. He was practically the spitting image of the ideal form, and everything about the image, from the way he stood to the cool look of confidence in his smile created a figure that was almost godlike.

He looked like a wolf for the most part, with a coat of pure white fur framing his features keenly, only the slim stature and long ears betraying his fennec blood. His eyes were the colour of leaves just on the verge of autumn, and they seemed to bore through the jackal in a way that was not of anger or righteousness, but rather an expression of pure knowing, as if the young necromancer could see into your very soul. But with it there was nothing of the judgement or disdain present in Morgana, it was as if the very fibre of the picture was tasked with soothing and comforting the viewer, like a mother's kiss after a long absence.

"Gorgeous, isn't it?" the dragon asked, though she was too captivated with the image to respond, "I wish I could take all the credit in that regard, but the painting is little more than an attempt to duplicate one of Fenris'. I could never quite capture the level of emotion behind his strokes."

As Kath peered at the painting, she found the man's statement hard to believe. There was something just so... _pure_about the painting that crushed all thought of criticism aside, and elevated the image above a simple portrait to a capturing of essence. It was emotion stripped of anything but admiration, and the sure genuine nature of it was enough to captivate entirely.

"You can tell from the original better," the man continued, "but Fenris was enamoured with the boy; absolutely smitten. It's quite odd, really, reading his journals. One page will be describing a spell so complicated it makes your nose bleed just to think about it, and the next Fenris will be doting on Malcus like the schoolboy he was. Frightening to think he surpassed the known limits of magic when he was little more than twenty."

Kath was a bit taken aback by this new information, and it took her a while to formulate a statement to continue the conversation.

"I wasn't aware they were... that they had that sort of relationship," she said, still focusing on the painting, even the subtle shading of the piece holding her attention more than any other in the room.

"Oh yes," the man said, "most authorities tend to play down those types of things in regards to the triumvirate."

"Why is that?"

"It makes for a much cleaner narrative," the historian shrugged, "if you show people that they were more than mindless killers or psychopathic cultists, it becomes harder and harder to view them as enemies."

The man started pacing, and the jackal followed as he worked his way around the hall again.

"Once you give a villain a name, a face," he continued, "they are no longer an instrument of evil, they are a person. Take Malcus, for example: once a person learns he was bullied as a child for the length of his ears, one can see them as a person, relate to them as an individual, and begin seeing things from their point of view. What if one knows that Fenris' father murdered his mother before his eyes in a drunken fit? Can we really demand that they be the most upstanding individuals after something like that?"

"They can still do evil with tragic history," Kath pointed out.

"Villainy is forged in action," the man nodded, "in that, you are correct. Believe me, I am in no way condoning their actions or ideology, but the truth is that history cannot be written without acknowledging that even the most horrid figures, the worst of the worst, the damned, and the depraved are still men and women of our own blood and bone, little different than you or I."

"An interesting stance," Kath said, nodding in introspection.

The dragon laughed, "One that has earned me no end of contention, both from my peers and those that govern my position. I had to fight tooth and claw to keep these paintings hung when Commander Fryst took over the fortress."

The old dragon scratched at the scales under his chin for a moment before his eyes lit up, "Ah, I almost forgot."

He took her by the hand and led her to the only corner of the room they had not yet explored, stopping her in front of one of the smaller paintings filling the room.

The portrait was of Skjoll, or so she assumed, of a drabber and more lifeless style than the previous few she had seen, with such a shift of tone and colour that she doubted Garmr was the artist. It was simply done, with the young crow facing slightly to the right into the foreground with an emotionless expression.

The crow was slim, and wore a fine jacket of purple fabric that hung loosely at the wrists in a way she knew was popular in the east. In his right hand was a spear of some dark metal, likely of the same ethereal material Aric forged his own sword from. The haft of the weapon was slim and uniform, unbroken by seem or grove until the point of the weapon, and even then the material seemed to simply flow from one shape to the next with little transition. She noted that the flat of the spear's blade was adorned with a few decorative vine patterns that contained surprising detail, even in the second-hand medium of paint. A blue ball of energy hung over his left hand as the necromancer held it in a casual manner, as if he would a book or a stone.

His face was handsome enough, though to admit, she had never found much interest in birds, but even she found herself on the verge of swooning at the colour of his eyes. They were a light blue that flittered on the verges of grey or green, dotted with speckles of gold and rimmed with a dark corona of oceanic blue the same colour as the flame in his hand. This show of colour was juxtaposed by the slightly darker feathers of his face that lightened to a dark silvery fringe that seemed to form a sort of bordering around his frame where the light flecked through the tips of the feathers.

"This isn't one of yours, I take it?" she said after taking in the painting.

"Thank heavens no," he shook his head, "Dskjaji may have a better eye for detail than me, but the old bird is far too interested in his exactness to put any emotion into his painting."

"Who?"

"The artist, and Skjoll's tutor for arts and sciences until he left for the academy," the man said, "Skjoll's mother had commissioned the painting before her death, likely the only image of him in existence."

"They must have been wealthy to have held such a painter on retainer for something like that," Kath said. She may not have been born into wealth, but she knew the signs of it, and having famed artists in one's pocket for any length of time was bound to lighten them heavily.

"Quite," Garmr said, "in fact, the Skjoll family was second only to the royal dynasty in terms of wealth and prestige until their deposition. Nowadays the Skjoll's are the largest noble house still in existence, though the loss of their heir has taken quite the toll on them."

The sound of a ringing bell filled the hall with noise as the new hour was announced. Garmr stood and waited while the bell rang, counting the tolls until the gallery fell silent once more.

"Ah, to my great displeasure, it seems I must depart your company," the dragon said, kneeling to kiss the back of her hand, moving smother and more gracefully than any man his age had a right to, "You have been a most gracious visitor, and I thank you for putting up with my ramblings."

Kath was uncomfortable with the level of grace and civility on display, but attempted to mimic his gentlemanly tone and mannerisms as well as she could

"It was a pleasure," she said, "Quite fascinating."

"If you ever are in the northern realms in the future," he said, gathering materials from a nearby desk, "do call upon me, and I shall make more time to entertain such a kind young lady such as yourself."

Like a gust of wind, the dragon was gone, having departed the room faster than she could react, and the whole encounter suddenly left her feeling quite drained.

"How the hell do you get Varg from that?" She asked herself in a whisper, looking around the room like she half expected the man had been some sort of apparition haunting her with a history lesson and excessive politeness.