Their wagon paused. Not long enough for Salazar to think about the whole situation. A few seconds after, they heard the grinding groan of metal against stone. A portcullis rose, he guessed. Then they engaged. Salazar tried to look through the cracks of the wood as they passed the fortress first gates and wall, but it was dark, and he couldn't see much.
Not even a minute later, they stopped again. And their wagon was wide opened.
"Get out boys." Ordered a man in golden plate armor.
They obliged of course. Except Salazar, who was a little bit slow. He couldn't get his eyes off the soldier and his armor. He had a hard time containing his enthusiasm, as the reality unraveled before him. I am in a fantasy world, for real !… Medieval armors were enough to excite him…
"Hey, are you deaf ? I said get out."
Salazar swallowed, nodded and got out at last. Night had fallen he realised before looking around.
They were circled by a lot of these soldiers in golden armors, shining orange at the torches light. And there were many other wagons too, parked in this large courtyard. The "wagons" definitely looked more like merchants crates than wagons for humans, he thought.
When all the children got out of their crates, soldiers herded them through the fortress paved paths, stairs and courts. They followed without asking any questions.
He felt like eyes were on him all the time, from everywhere. He could swear some silhouettes moved on top of the walls, spying on them, or especially him. He tried his best to conceal his still aching ribs and hand, to not appear weak. But he felt vulnerable nonetheless.
He tried to remember details from the lore, to prepare for what was to come, but his memories were blurred, his mind was foggy.
He tried to observe the surroundings, but it was dark, moon's light cast the ramparts shadows in every corner. So he looked to the heights, for the sneaky bastards on the walls, in vain.
So he let his gaze drift across the sky and he marveled at the glittering stars scattered all over the firmament. He realised that he hadn't ever seen a night so bright in his whole life. And the moon, it was so big, and beautiful, unlike the pale dot orbiting around Earth. Everything was more beautiful in a fantasy world…
Salazar kept tracing the sky's vault as they moved deeper into the fortress yards. Until his contemplation met an abrupt end in the form of a great void, a vast patch of darkness where no stars shone. He blinked, then squinted, and perceived silver ridges and edges outlining the dark mass. A behemoth of rocks and shadows, the gigantic mountain against which this fortress was built.
The virtiginuous sight made him sick, a little. As his gaze slowly lowered, he discovered the high spires of tall towers stretched to the sky like the mountain's own limbs.
The children and the soldiers around him started to disperse, opening his view to the fortress keep and its great gates. The castle seemed fused with the mountain, he thought before realising that they had at last arrived in the main courtyard. A big crowd of children was already gathered in the center. Salazar joined them.
They stood in a vast, cobbled courtyard, surrounded by the same soldiers that brought them here. And in front of them all, stood a third gathering. Men, of varying ages, in leather attire for most and carrying sheathed great swords, daggers and spears. Their faces were scarred, their bodies were strong and tall. And Salazar felt something more bestial than human in them.
They were the watchers, mutated monsters, to hunt the real ones. Some of them were old veteran watchers, now doing more teachings to the fledgling mutants than hunt. Still, a lethal aura emanated from them.
To what extent, the game masters took the inspiration from The Witcher, wondered Salazar, strangely amused.
At their side, more in retreat, stood another type. Clad in dark robes, faces hidden. Mages. Somehow, they were more sinister than the mutants… A good watcher could take a dozen trained soldiers on his own, Salazar recalled. But the mages he read, could decimate entire armies. At least some mages could, maybe. One of them stood out, he was in front of all, even the watchers.
He was taller than all too, and gaunt, with a face made of sharp angles and shadows. He was old, Salazar could tell, but no wrinkles betrayed his age. It was an antique visage of pale marble, who rarely smiled or cried or frowned. Long to the shoulders, straight black hair framed it. His eyes, deep-set and dark, swept over the assembled children. He was looking at them as to count the sheeps he bought.
A soldier came to him and whispered some words. The sorcerer nodded, then shortly after stepped forward.
"Welcome to Hotinvar, young crops."
His voice was a low, resonant baritone, each word enunciated with a chilling precision. It carried across the entire space without effort, a subtle projection of power. He had this east european accent, thought Salazar.
"My name is Valaar Morvid, I am the Archmage of the fortress."
He paused, letting the name settle among them like a dusting of frost. Salazar blinked confused, for a moment he thought he saw the mage's name and status appear above his head.
"As you already know, you are here to become watchers for the Empire. For that, you will be submitted to the Mutations. A magical and alchemical ritual that will alter your body and soul, making the body stronger, and reinforcing your soul's connection with Chaos."
"Chaos", like magic ! I will learn magic, damn ! Salazar had a big smile, at odds with the somber mood around him.
"This power is not free of course." His voice had a subtle cruel irony in it, felt Salazar. "You will endure agony, so profound that you will pray death to release you from the suffering. And more will die than live."
A collective shudder passed through the lines of children. Some began to sob quietly. Morvid remained placid.
"The survivors will forfeit their freedom for the Empire. They will live an ungrateful life of hardship and peril, spent mostly in the shadows of the night, hated by the very people they swore to protect. But..."
He held up a single finger.
"They will live longer than most men. And will be bestowed the greatest honour a man can dream of… Being the shield and the sword of mankind. It is a reward worth dying for. And of course… all of you are supposed to have accepted it coming here."
Morvid's lips curved to breath out a faint sigh.
"Nevertheless… our emperor has ordained to give you one last chance to retract. Now is the time to choose your fate. So… if you prefer the sunlit day and life, come forth now. I swear on the behalf of his Majesty, Alduin von Victarius, you will be granted safe return to your hometowns."
The silence that followed was absolute. It seemed to last an eternity, broken only by the hiss of the torches and the cicadas song. No one moved. The children stood frozen, a forest of tiny, terrified statues. Salazar felt a presence close to him. He barely turned his head, when a whisper, laced with contempt, slithered into his ear.
"Lucky you, you can run now, crybaby."
The bully boy of the wagon.
Salazar turned away, ignoring him. He looked past the lines of scared children and scarred professors, and fixed his gaze on Valaar Morvid. He met the mage's cold, assessing stare. He froze too for a second. Then he swallowed, clearing his voice.
"I choose death, and I will live."
If he wanted to succeed, he had to become the main character, and therefore he had to act and speak like one. The bully boy didn't answer, and Salazar didn't care. He was fully focused on the archmage. His black eyes held Salazar's for a moment longer, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. Then, Morvid's attention drifted, his gaze once more a slow, methodical sweep across the assembled offering.
Salazar's bravado cooled, leaving a pragmatic awareness in its place. He let his own eyes drift across the faces of the other children. He saw fear and hesitation. And he remembered: not everyone was here from their own will.
The Game Masters had stressed varied backgrounds ideas for a watcher initiate to inspire new players for their characters. They were not all orphans plucked from the gutters for a hope of better life. Many came from families too large and too poor to feed another mouth, traded for a few coins and the promise of one less stomach to fill. Others were the unwanted, the difficult children, the third sons with no inheritance, sold as a convenient solution.
How many he wondered, were here from their own choice, like him. The parallel between his character's choice and his own forced rebirth in this universe came to his mind, and made him nervously smile.
Anyway, this fortress was an intake valve for the Empire's rejects. It was not the best fate, but it gave them a purpose. Thinking about it, if he had the choice between his first life and this, he would still choose this. Who would refuse it ? Only golems would.
Then, he heard a rustle of cloth and the scuff of a worn leather shoe on stone tearing through the silence. A boy, reed-thin with a bowl cut, hair the colour of straw, detached himself from the front rank. He moved with a hesitant, jerky motion, as if an invisible string pulled him forward against his will, or was it the opposite: a struggle to advance because of the strings pulling him back. His hands twisted the hem of his ragged shirt, knotting and unknotting the fabric.
Every head turned. The boy stopped in the center of the circle, his head bowed so low his chin nearly touched his chest.
He swallowed audibly, the sound loud in the sudden, deep stillness.
"Wh… what if…" A small, hoarse voice, fragile as a bird's wing. He took a stuttering breath and tried again, forcing the words out. "What if my… my father selled me… And I… and I… go away… You w-will take… my price back?…"
The question hung in the night air, naked and pathetic. It laid bare the brutal transaction that had brought so many of them here. A child, traded for a bag of gold. Now, faced with the promise of agony and death, he hoped to undo the bargain. But it wasn't his choice to start with… So what choice did he really have here ?
Valaar Morvid looked at the boy. Salazar's eyes stopped on the mage, his own breath caught in his throat. Seconds stretched, thick with suspense. Salazar realised he didn't bare the contempt he thought he would have towards that kind of… cowards ? Actually, he couldn't even properly look at the boy. Couldn't they just skip to the trainings and the epic fights ?…
The boy took a half-step back, as if the silence itself was a physical force pushing him away.
"Yes." answered Valaar, at last.
The word was a drop of ice in the charged atmosphere. Or more like an icicle in the boy's heart. The mage didn't even avert his gaze from him, no shame, no guilt, no pity.
Salazar exhaled at the end of the suspense. It was obvious in the end. If it was that simple, everyone would do it. Fathers across the Empire would send their unwanted sons on a short trip to the mountains, collect the generous recruitment purse, and then welcome them home a week later. This Empire tried to have some conscience and not fully coerce children for sacrifice. But they didn't invent welfare state yet.
The boy stood frozen for a moment longer, the single word echoing around him. Then, a shudder racked his small frame. A choked sob escaped his throat. He turned, not walking but stumbling, and fled back into the anonymity of the crowd and therefore the queue for the terrible Mutations. He was compelled to accept it… In the end, he didn't have a choice.
Salazar watched him go, and something tightened in his chest, a sharp, unwelcome pang. The raw misery of it, the hopeless finality. He was not much a sensitive man in real life, but this, this was some twisted stuff. He saw himself in that boy, his uncle-in-law could have put him in a similar situation…
He paused.
And slowly shook his head, feeling weird. He was like… merging, in his character. Thinking as he really was him. But he was not. It awoke a strange need of self-preservation in Salazar's mind. As excited he was for this new life, he didn't exactly want to disappear.
He thought that he could not let this kind of situations get to him.
It feels so real though…
No. The thought was sharp, a commander's bark inside his own skull. No, it's not. It's sad, but it's just a game. It's not real. Not "real" real. He discreetly knocked on his head with his knuckles. Forcing the feeling down, packing it away into a deep dark box.
These were NPCs, their tragic backstories part of the starting zone's grim aesthetic. The game masters put a damn emphasize on all of this, but it still was virtual. He had to remember that. He had to hold onto it, if he wanted to stay lucid, himself.
"Brave children of the Empire… May the fate be favorable with you all." said Valaar Morvid, almost proud ?
No one left the death row apparently.
The archmage turned back, and walked towards the gates. He opened them with a bare movement of his hands and and an invisible force.
"Prepare them for the Mutations." he ordered before disappearing in the depths of the castle with a cohort of mages.
One remained. A sorceress, of an exquisite beauty, of golden hair and fair skin. She offered a gentle gaze to the sad assembly.
"Come with me sons and daugthers of Nosgard." she said, as she opened the path.
They all followed her in the lion's den.
One of the watcher master, a younger one, closed the way.