Paris sat bolt upright in bed, banging her head against the bunk above. For a moment her arms flailed in the darkness, pushing against the bottom of the upper bunk, desperately trying to get free. As she regained her bearings and breathed the cool air of the guild hall, she realized that it had only been a dream.
The same dream. The dream that had come to her several times this past month. She had been in the plane of water, questing with her guildmates, when she noticed a change come over them. Instead of being bright, lively and ready for adventure, they had become somber and emotionless. Near the water’s edge they had stopped; all eyes were on her.
She looked into the deep blue of the endless ocean of the elemental plane, then back to her companions. They had all removed their helms and were staring at her. None of them moved or blinked. Each had a blank, sickly gaze; their faces strangely devoid of color.
“Why are you so sullen?” she asked. “What has happened?”
“We grieve,” Chust replied in a hushed tone, as though he didn’t want to be heard.
“For whom do you grieve?” Paris feared what would soon come, but was powerless to steer the dream from its course.
“We grieve,” this time it was Don Piano who replied. His breath was thick and labored. “For you, Paris. It is for you that we grieve.”
“Your time is come,” Vastly exhaled. “We will weep for you.” Despite his morose pledge, his face showed nothing. Paris found her legs frozen, paralyzed. Looking down she saw a black tendril that writhed and wrapped her right leg, making its way up to her waist. Another had reached her left ankle, both had come from the water and something very strong was attached to the other end.
Her sword was suddenly gone, as well as her armor. Instead, she wore a strange robe. Pleadingly, she looked at her companions, unable to move from her neck down. She tried to scream, but could only whisper; “Please…help me…”
As if in response to her plight, they all slowly turned away. As she watched them walk away and vanish, the dark tendrils suddenly tightened in a crushing grip and whipped her off of the shore into the deep, cold water.
A stream of bubbles escaped her nose and lips as she watched the already-dim light from the sky fade above her. It grew darker and colder and the pressure of the water crushed all the air from her lungs. She felt her heart slow, then skip a beat, before it stopped completely. She could not count the number of times this had happened to her in Aetheria, but something was different this time.
Instead of the familiar pull of the rifts on her body and spirit, there was…nothing. Her thoughts began to slip and lose cohesion, she felt her mind and her consciousness separate and she left her body completely…but still there was nothing. She would have panicked but she found to her dismay that her ability to do so was gone, and her spirit seemed to fade with her consciousness into this all-consuming…nothingness.
As Paris sat, shaking in a cold sweat in the darkness of her room a sickening feeling came over her. This dream would come to pass. It was only a matter of time. She wondered what would cause her to be drawn beyond the reach of the rifts, where this creature took…or would take her. She wondered if it would hurt as badly as it did in the dream, or if her friends really would grieve for her as they had promised. For the first time since she could remember, Paris felt very small and very scared.
She cried quietly until morning so as not to awaken anyone.
Dark Dreams
-
Blystos Re
- PKer
- Posts: 1021
- Joined: Wed May 03, 2006 3:33 pm
- Location: This Is DAERON!!!
-
Blystos Re
- PKer
- Posts: 1021
- Joined: Wed May 03, 2006 3:33 pm
- Location: This Is DAERON!!!
- -Let nothing keep you from upholding Divine Justice and Honor.- -
Face pale and heart pounding, Paris stood again at the bank of the endless ocean. Her armor lay in a pile near Vastly’s now lifeless body; he had been cleaning out the remains of the jellyfish that had found it’s way into the suit. Again, she wore the strange robe; the garment was handed to her by Re to wear while her armor was cleaned. The circumstances were different, however. This time she had her sword. This time was no dream.
Paralyzed by the assassin’s attacks, Re and Chust stood motionless before her, unable to aid her in any way. Tres Nawt and Don had been slain as well as Vastly; they had been caught unprepared by the assailants.
The dark figure of Leona approached between the other drow, a slight smile of satisfaction on her lips. Paris raised her sword, the trembling blade level with the dark elf’s eyes. Leona scoffed but stopped just out of reach.
“Wench,” Leona spat. “What do you hope to accomplish here? Your weak, pathetic attempt at valor is wasted.”
“And what is it you hope to accomplish?” Paris raised an eyebrow. “You may kill us today, but we will return tomorrow and strike back harder.”
“That,” Leona smirked, “Is a problem for which I have found a possible solution. This vast, planar ocean is teaming with life...mystical creatures that most only encounter in their dreams…or nightmares. Tell me, Paris. Are you familiar with the gods worshiped by the Illithids? Specifically Cthulhu?”
Paris furrowed her brow and swallowed hard but said nothing.
“It would figure; you’re far too stupid to fully grasp that concept,” Leona continued. “Cthulu is said to have countless progeny. Most are still trapped within the sunken city that they built for their father, but a few have managed to escape their sibling’s fates. Is any wonder, then, that one should make its way here?”
“Your point?” Paris asked in a defiant tone.
“Well,” Leona gazed out at something in the water behind Paris. “It is said that these creatures are capable of devouring a being’s soul as well as their body. Now, you…” Leona waved a finger disapprovingly. “You have been far too meddlesome of late, what with aiding those fools in stopping Draco Mortis before he was able to gain his full strength. I'd like to test this theory on you. Hopefully, I'll be rid of you for good.” As Leona spoke, Paris felt something wrap around her leg. Taking her eyes off the drow for a moment, she looked down to see a massive, green-black tentacle encircling her right leg. Another had reached her left ankle, both had come from the water and something very strong was attached to the other end.
“It’s time for you to go, Paris,” said Leona, approaching Re. “And as for The Exalted One…I owe him for his rude welcome to your hall after Draco Mortis was slain. I find it a fitting punishment that he should watch you as you are sucked away to oblivion.” Leona turned to Re, who’s face strained with rage and anguish while his body was held motionless. His eyes welled with tears as her pleading gaze met his.
“Goodbye, Paris,” said Leona. “I hope you don’t drown before you’re eaten.”
The tendrils tightened, pulling Paris into the water. Instinctively, she took a great breath of air before her head was pulled beneath the writhing waves. Gripping her sword tightly, she turned to face a horrific, squid-like creature; the tentacles drawing her to a gaping beak-mouth with alarming speed as she and it descended deeper into the water.
This is it, it’s over. I’ve failed to protect my friends…and I will never see home again. I’ve finally met my end here in Aetheria. Did it really have to happen like this?
Face pale and heart pounding, Paris stood again at the bank of the endless ocean. Her armor lay in a pile near Vastly’s now lifeless body; he had been cleaning out the remains of the jellyfish that had found it’s way into the suit. Again, she wore the strange robe; the garment was handed to her by Re to wear while her armor was cleaned. The circumstances were different, however. This time she had her sword. This time was no dream.
Paralyzed by the assassin’s attacks, Re and Chust stood motionless before her, unable to aid her in any way. Tres Nawt and Don had been slain as well as Vastly; they had been caught unprepared by the assailants.
The dark figure of Leona approached between the other drow, a slight smile of satisfaction on her lips. Paris raised her sword, the trembling blade level with the dark elf’s eyes. Leona scoffed but stopped just out of reach.
“Wench,” Leona spat. “What do you hope to accomplish here? Your weak, pathetic attempt at valor is wasted.”
“And what is it you hope to accomplish?” Paris raised an eyebrow. “You may kill us today, but we will return tomorrow and strike back harder.”
“That,” Leona smirked, “Is a problem for which I have found a possible solution. This vast, planar ocean is teaming with life...mystical creatures that most only encounter in their dreams…or nightmares. Tell me, Paris. Are you familiar with the gods worshiped by the Illithids? Specifically Cthulhu?”
Paris furrowed her brow and swallowed hard but said nothing.
“It would figure; you’re far too stupid to fully grasp that concept,” Leona continued. “Cthulu is said to have countless progeny. Most are still trapped within the sunken city that they built for their father, but a few have managed to escape their sibling’s fates. Is any wonder, then, that one should make its way here?”
“Your point?” Paris asked in a defiant tone.
“Well,” Leona gazed out at something in the water behind Paris. “It is said that these creatures are capable of devouring a being’s soul as well as their body. Now, you…” Leona waved a finger disapprovingly. “You have been far too meddlesome of late, what with aiding those fools in stopping Draco Mortis before he was able to gain his full strength. I'd like to test this theory on you. Hopefully, I'll be rid of you for good.” As Leona spoke, Paris felt something wrap around her leg. Taking her eyes off the drow for a moment, she looked down to see a massive, green-black tentacle encircling her right leg. Another had reached her left ankle, both had come from the water and something very strong was attached to the other end.
“It’s time for you to go, Paris,” said Leona, approaching Re. “And as for The Exalted One…I owe him for his rude welcome to your hall after Draco Mortis was slain. I find it a fitting punishment that he should watch you as you are sucked away to oblivion.” Leona turned to Re, who’s face strained with rage and anguish while his body was held motionless. His eyes welled with tears as her pleading gaze met his.
“Goodbye, Paris,” said Leona. “I hope you don’t drown before you’re eaten.”
The tendrils tightened, pulling Paris into the water. Instinctively, she took a great breath of air before her head was pulled beneath the writhing waves. Gripping her sword tightly, she turned to face a horrific, squid-like creature; the tentacles drawing her to a gaping beak-mouth with alarming speed as she and it descended deeper into the water.
This is it, it’s over. I’ve failed to protect my friends…and I will never see home again. I’ve finally met my end here in Aetheria. Did it really have to happen like this?
-
Blystos Re
- PKer
- Posts: 1021
- Joined: Wed May 03, 2006 3:33 pm
- Location: This Is DAERON!!!
Re: Dark Dreams
Constant change.
The universe changes with a consistent pattern.
Birth, Death, Rebirth.
No beginning in memory.
No end in sight.
A sphere that continually expands and contracts.
Going from everything to nothing,
Then back to everything in the blink of an eye.
Fundamentally organized,
No matter how chaotic it may appear.
Still, subtle changes arise within the universe.
Those within are changed ever-so-slightly,
And those once lost return.
Sometimes to repeat their actions from before,
And sometimes to change their own history.
---
“No.”
Paris focused her throbbing vision on the gaping, jagged beak that made an audible snap in the depths of the ocean. She had one chance, just enough air for one breath; one invocation. She found the words and channeled the power of the maimed god, Tyr, and as she did she dropped her sword. The Darkblade floated gently down as the bubbling words left her lips.
A dark sphere formed between Paris’ outstretched hands. With the final word, she released the implosion into the hungry maw of the beast, the black hole pulled at it’s insides and sucked water – and the Darkblade - in through it’s beak.
With a shriek, the child of Cthulhu’s body shuddered and its tentacles released its prey. The creature writhed in agony as the sword buried itself deeper in its insides, sucking the very life-force of the behemoth. Finally, it turned and fled to the depths in a cloud of ink that made Paris’ skin burn.
She was free…but her vision began to fade. She struggled to push herself to the surface, but her arms and legs felt as if they were made of lead. All of her senses started to dull and her body slumped, water filling her lungs. She gave in to the spinning darkness and just before she lost consciousness, she saw a bright flash.
---
Danica shoved Paris violently, knocking the much smaller girl back over a table in the study. The crash of glass and silver hitting the floor startled Mercedes, the third girl seated at the piano, but only for a moment. “Danica,” Mercedes spoke in a disapproving, very grown-up tone, despite being only four years Paris’ elder. “Can you please stop making noise and practice this piece with me? Leave your sister alone.”
“She’s not my sister!” Danica shouted, picking up her violin. Her words were more directed at Paris than at Mercedes. “She’s a stupid half-breed, and Papa’s biggest mistake!”
“That’s true,” said Mercedes, beginning to play again. “But it’s not her fault, and she’s still your elder. Paris, get up and go wash. You’re getting blood on the floor…and tell Nana to clean up this mess you made.”
---
“Pssst!” Alistor whispered. The boy glanced nervously about before motioning Paris over through the darkness in the back courtyard. The gate was not heavily guarded, as it led into one of the wealthier districts of the city. He knew they didn’t have much time before the guards would have given their full report. Again he motioned for Paris, this time with more urgency. The hooded girl slipped quietly across the courtyard, staying to the shadow of one of the hedgerows.
“I don’t want to do this,” she stammered, tears welled in her eyes as she approached Alistor.
“You have to,” Alistor hissed. “Your niece is all she needed to secure her place, and now she’s going to get rid of you if you don’t hurry!”
“Alright,” Paris sniffled and nodded. “Alright.”
Alistor pulled his hood up and the two of them made their way through the streets. “All we have to do is make it to Saint Catia’s; the Hammers are the only ones that she won’t challenge. She can’t challenge the church, much as she might want to – hsst!” Alistor pressed her against the wall as a group of merrymakers rounded a corner, bottles in hand. “Bloody aristocrats,” he whispered. “Lucky for us I think they’re drunk.”
Indeed, the well dressed nobles paraded wobbly down the street, shouting praises and celebrity to the newborn daughter of the Baroness. As they passed, Alistor pressed in very close to Paris, keeping her face hidden from view. One of the revelers called out to them. “I say! …Looks as if the good fortune of th’ Baroness has got everyone celebrating!” Raucous laughter rang out from his companions.
“Indeed, m’Lord,” Alistor gave a stage laugh and made a swaying groping motion towards Paris. His hand came to rest on the hilt of the dagger hidden behind her back. Paris glanced up to his face; despite his jovial words, his eyes were dead serious and betrayed a hint of fear. “I beg your pardon, perhaps a lad in love should find someplace more private.”
The noble sprayed a mouthful of wine and uttered a bellowing laugh. “Yes…love…to be sure!” the entire group was crowing with laughter. They heckled the two, but passed without further intrusion. Once they passed, Alistor grabbed Paris by the wrist and ran. The cathedral could be seen towering above the buildings; they were nearly safe.
“Alistor,” Paris said between breaths. “What did you mean…when you…you know, back there?”
“Oh, that,” said Alistor, visibly flustered. “Well…er…I had to say something stupid to get them off on their way I suppose…”
“Yes,” Paris quickly agreed. “I suppose so…”
---
“He who’s Justice lighteth the darkest shadows. He who’s sightless eyes evil cannot hide from. He who shall see the wicked punished and the meek helped up. He, who’s name is Tyr, the Just, guideth my head, hand and heart. May I be his right hand and may my sword bring his justice.”
Paris repeated the chant over and over as the priest behind her put the finishing touches on the tattoo at the base of her neck. The Scales; a symbol of her devotion to Tyr.
---
“Because you’re leaving,” Alistor said. “…and for a host of other reasons.”
“But think,” Paris smiled playfully and wrapped her arms tighter around him. “You’ll have a wife who will still be looking young well into her seventies…” she trailed off.
“That’s true,” Alistor’s eyes looked hollow. “You’re eight years my senior and you look scarcely a day older than when you took your oaths. You will outlive me by gods-only-know how long. You will be young and full of life and I will wither away and die an old man and leave you alone after all. Paris,” he paused. “As my father protected your father and was loyal to him, so shall I be to you…but while I love you, I can’t ever let my old age be a burden to you.”
---
Paris’ eyes half opened. Her vision was blurred and unfocused, and what little she could make out was unfamiliar. It looked to be wooden beams, like a ship’s deck, but she couldn’t stop her head from reeling.
“Ah, you’re waking up at last,” a voice came from somewhere to her left. She managed to tilt her head to the side for a moment and, forcing back nausea, caught a glimpse of a figure in a gray-green cloak. More of a blob really, but she imagined that it may have been a cloak of some kind.
“You’re lucky, you know. Had I not been out walking I may not have found you in time.”
“Wh...” Paris began, and then swallowed hard. “Who are you?”
“Shhh...” The voice hushed. It sounded male, and aged. “A friend…and fellow servant of the Even-Handed Tyr…and that is all you need worry about for now.”
“A friend?” she asked. “Then…why am I tied down?”
The man chuckled. “All in good time. Rest, child, you’ll feel better soon.”
As if he had cast a spell on her, she blacked out.
She awoke after a long series of unpleasant and fitful dreams, though how much later she didn’t know. It was darker now, she noticed candles and the flicker of a fireplace from somewhere. The ships deck from earlier now proved to be the ceiling of a cottage; apparently the swaying motion had been internal, and not the rocking of the sea.
“See?” the man’s voice returned, and she could now see that, indeed, it was a cloak about his shoulders. “I told you that you’d feel better with some rest.” His face was kind and there was a cut down his cheek. He moved closer and untied one of the leather straps around her wrists. Taking brief stock of the situation, she noted that her feet were also tied down to the bed.
“Why was I tied?” she repeated the question from before, sitting up and brushing the old man away and untying the other bindings herself. Upon doing this she realized that she should have allowed him to continue as a burning pain shot up her side. She was wrapped in bandages over more of her body than she cared to be.
“Well,” he chuckled again. “Let’s just say that you’re quicker than I thought, and while I don’t think you have any more weapons on you, I didn’t think you did before either. You’re knife…” he paused and touched the cut on his face briefly. “…is on the table.”
Paris lay back down on the bed. “I apologize, sir. I was not aware…”
“Pish,” he held up a hand to stop her. “Think nothing of it, the scar will give me an entertaining story to tell.” He walked to a cabinet and retrieved more bandages. “Speaking of stories, I imagine you have one of your own to tell.”
“Me?” Paris looked away uncomfortably. “Surely it is of no interest to you…”
“For instance,” the man continued. “You are equipped, however crudely, to be an adventurer, however you speak like royalty. Royalty and half-elves, I thought, were somewhat strangers to one another. You bear the symbol of Tyr on the tattoo at the base of your neck, and I sense that you are a fellow cleric, but I can also tell that you are quite comfortable with blades…and your strength is greater than most clerics I know. Can you tell me that these things don’t boast of a colorful past?”
“I…suppose not,” Paris squirmed. “But if you don’t mind, sir, I would prefer to keep my affairs to myself.”
“Oh,” he raised his eyebrows and then sat down in a nearby chair. “I see. A tale far too interesting to tell. Well then, shall we forget your past and move on to what happened to you before I came across your near-lifeless body?”
---
The cleric sobbed in anguish, carrying the body of the Halfling out of the burning city of Greater Fork. Miram had been murdered by her sister, an assassin for the Prismatic Order. The Order had won, and the guardians of the city lay dead in the rubble somewhere, missing or transfigured into terrible abominations. Paris cradled her one friend and companion in Greater Fork, limping out to the Southern fields where she would read Miram her last rights and lay her to rest.
The Order had already initiated their twisted plan, wreaking havoc on the surrounding lands. As the portal grew larger, quakes shook the ground and lightning arced through strange, dark clouds in the sky. Through the audible hum of energy, Paris dug a grave for her friend and opened The Book of the Just. She had not had to perform Last Rights before, and while normally she could have recited it from memory, she was scarcely able to hold the book steady to read from it, the words blurred by her tears.
The wind howled louder and she had to shout the final words of the passage and closed the book. After she had climbed out of Miram’s grave a bright flash from the citadel nearly blinded her, and the ever growing white light expanded outward. Shockwaves ripped through the fields and the light and hum of the portal encompassed everything.
---
Voices argued back and forth above her. Threatening tones and angry words, though Paris couldn’t quite make out what was being said. As she pressed herself up off of the warm stone floor a man knelt and helped her up.
“Where am I?” Paris shuddered. “And who are you?”
“I am called Wennes,” the man said. “As for where you are…all in good time. You are a cleric of Tyr, and as such I feel you should come with me. I will explain more on our way to Daeron.”
The universe changes with a consistent pattern.
Birth, Death, Rebirth.
No beginning in memory.
No end in sight.
A sphere that continually expands and contracts.
Going from everything to nothing,
Then back to everything in the blink of an eye.
Fundamentally organized,
No matter how chaotic it may appear.
Still, subtle changes arise within the universe.
Those within are changed ever-so-slightly,
And those once lost return.
Sometimes to repeat their actions from before,
And sometimes to change their own history.
---
“No.”
Paris focused her throbbing vision on the gaping, jagged beak that made an audible snap in the depths of the ocean. She had one chance, just enough air for one breath; one invocation. She found the words and channeled the power of the maimed god, Tyr, and as she did she dropped her sword. The Darkblade floated gently down as the bubbling words left her lips.
A dark sphere formed between Paris’ outstretched hands. With the final word, she released the implosion into the hungry maw of the beast, the black hole pulled at it’s insides and sucked water – and the Darkblade - in through it’s beak.
With a shriek, the child of Cthulhu’s body shuddered and its tentacles released its prey. The creature writhed in agony as the sword buried itself deeper in its insides, sucking the very life-force of the behemoth. Finally, it turned and fled to the depths in a cloud of ink that made Paris’ skin burn.
She was free…but her vision began to fade. She struggled to push herself to the surface, but her arms and legs felt as if they were made of lead. All of her senses started to dull and her body slumped, water filling her lungs. She gave in to the spinning darkness and just before she lost consciousness, she saw a bright flash.
---
Danica shoved Paris violently, knocking the much smaller girl back over a table in the study. The crash of glass and silver hitting the floor startled Mercedes, the third girl seated at the piano, but only for a moment. “Danica,” Mercedes spoke in a disapproving, very grown-up tone, despite being only four years Paris’ elder. “Can you please stop making noise and practice this piece with me? Leave your sister alone.”
“She’s not my sister!” Danica shouted, picking up her violin. Her words were more directed at Paris than at Mercedes. “She’s a stupid half-breed, and Papa’s biggest mistake!”
“That’s true,” said Mercedes, beginning to play again. “But it’s not her fault, and she’s still your elder. Paris, get up and go wash. You’re getting blood on the floor…and tell Nana to clean up this mess you made.”
---
“Pssst!” Alistor whispered. The boy glanced nervously about before motioning Paris over through the darkness in the back courtyard. The gate was not heavily guarded, as it led into one of the wealthier districts of the city. He knew they didn’t have much time before the guards would have given their full report. Again he motioned for Paris, this time with more urgency. The hooded girl slipped quietly across the courtyard, staying to the shadow of one of the hedgerows.
“I don’t want to do this,” she stammered, tears welled in her eyes as she approached Alistor.
“You have to,” Alistor hissed. “Your niece is all she needed to secure her place, and now she’s going to get rid of you if you don’t hurry!”
“Alright,” Paris sniffled and nodded. “Alright.”
Alistor pulled his hood up and the two of them made their way through the streets. “All we have to do is make it to Saint Catia’s; the Hammers are the only ones that she won’t challenge. She can’t challenge the church, much as she might want to – hsst!” Alistor pressed her against the wall as a group of merrymakers rounded a corner, bottles in hand. “Bloody aristocrats,” he whispered. “Lucky for us I think they’re drunk.”
Indeed, the well dressed nobles paraded wobbly down the street, shouting praises and celebrity to the newborn daughter of the Baroness. As they passed, Alistor pressed in very close to Paris, keeping her face hidden from view. One of the revelers called out to them. “I say! …Looks as if the good fortune of th’ Baroness has got everyone celebrating!” Raucous laughter rang out from his companions.
“Indeed, m’Lord,” Alistor gave a stage laugh and made a swaying groping motion towards Paris. His hand came to rest on the hilt of the dagger hidden behind her back. Paris glanced up to his face; despite his jovial words, his eyes were dead serious and betrayed a hint of fear. “I beg your pardon, perhaps a lad in love should find someplace more private.”
The noble sprayed a mouthful of wine and uttered a bellowing laugh. “Yes…love…to be sure!” the entire group was crowing with laughter. They heckled the two, but passed without further intrusion. Once they passed, Alistor grabbed Paris by the wrist and ran. The cathedral could be seen towering above the buildings; they were nearly safe.
“Alistor,” Paris said between breaths. “What did you mean…when you…you know, back there?”
“Oh, that,” said Alistor, visibly flustered. “Well…er…I had to say something stupid to get them off on their way I suppose…”
“Yes,” Paris quickly agreed. “I suppose so…”
---
“He who’s Justice lighteth the darkest shadows. He who’s sightless eyes evil cannot hide from. He who shall see the wicked punished and the meek helped up. He, who’s name is Tyr, the Just, guideth my head, hand and heart. May I be his right hand and may my sword bring his justice.”
Paris repeated the chant over and over as the priest behind her put the finishing touches on the tattoo at the base of her neck. The Scales; a symbol of her devotion to Tyr.
---
“Because you’re leaving,” Alistor said. “…and for a host of other reasons.”
“But think,” Paris smiled playfully and wrapped her arms tighter around him. “You’ll have a wife who will still be looking young well into her seventies…” she trailed off.
“That’s true,” Alistor’s eyes looked hollow. “You’re eight years my senior and you look scarcely a day older than when you took your oaths. You will outlive me by gods-only-know how long. You will be young and full of life and I will wither away and die an old man and leave you alone after all. Paris,” he paused. “As my father protected your father and was loyal to him, so shall I be to you…but while I love you, I can’t ever let my old age be a burden to you.”
---
Paris’ eyes half opened. Her vision was blurred and unfocused, and what little she could make out was unfamiliar. It looked to be wooden beams, like a ship’s deck, but she couldn’t stop her head from reeling.
“Ah, you’re waking up at last,” a voice came from somewhere to her left. She managed to tilt her head to the side for a moment and, forcing back nausea, caught a glimpse of a figure in a gray-green cloak. More of a blob really, but she imagined that it may have been a cloak of some kind.
“You’re lucky, you know. Had I not been out walking I may not have found you in time.”
“Wh...” Paris began, and then swallowed hard. “Who are you?”
“Shhh...” The voice hushed. It sounded male, and aged. “A friend…and fellow servant of the Even-Handed Tyr…and that is all you need worry about for now.”
“A friend?” she asked. “Then…why am I tied down?”
The man chuckled. “All in good time. Rest, child, you’ll feel better soon.”
As if he had cast a spell on her, she blacked out.
She awoke after a long series of unpleasant and fitful dreams, though how much later she didn’t know. It was darker now, she noticed candles and the flicker of a fireplace from somewhere. The ships deck from earlier now proved to be the ceiling of a cottage; apparently the swaying motion had been internal, and not the rocking of the sea.
“See?” the man’s voice returned, and she could now see that, indeed, it was a cloak about his shoulders. “I told you that you’d feel better with some rest.” His face was kind and there was a cut down his cheek. He moved closer and untied one of the leather straps around her wrists. Taking brief stock of the situation, she noted that her feet were also tied down to the bed.
“Why was I tied?” she repeated the question from before, sitting up and brushing the old man away and untying the other bindings herself. Upon doing this she realized that she should have allowed him to continue as a burning pain shot up her side. She was wrapped in bandages over more of her body than she cared to be.
“Well,” he chuckled again. “Let’s just say that you’re quicker than I thought, and while I don’t think you have any more weapons on you, I didn’t think you did before either. You’re knife…” he paused and touched the cut on his face briefly. “…is on the table.”
Paris lay back down on the bed. “I apologize, sir. I was not aware…”
“Pish,” he held up a hand to stop her. “Think nothing of it, the scar will give me an entertaining story to tell.” He walked to a cabinet and retrieved more bandages. “Speaking of stories, I imagine you have one of your own to tell.”
“Me?” Paris looked away uncomfortably. “Surely it is of no interest to you…”
“For instance,” the man continued. “You are equipped, however crudely, to be an adventurer, however you speak like royalty. Royalty and half-elves, I thought, were somewhat strangers to one another. You bear the symbol of Tyr on the tattoo at the base of your neck, and I sense that you are a fellow cleric, but I can also tell that you are quite comfortable with blades…and your strength is greater than most clerics I know. Can you tell me that these things don’t boast of a colorful past?”
“I…suppose not,” Paris squirmed. “But if you don’t mind, sir, I would prefer to keep my affairs to myself.”
“Oh,” he raised his eyebrows and then sat down in a nearby chair. “I see. A tale far too interesting to tell. Well then, shall we forget your past and move on to what happened to you before I came across your near-lifeless body?”
---
The cleric sobbed in anguish, carrying the body of the Halfling out of the burning city of Greater Fork. Miram had been murdered by her sister, an assassin for the Prismatic Order. The Order had won, and the guardians of the city lay dead in the rubble somewhere, missing or transfigured into terrible abominations. Paris cradled her one friend and companion in Greater Fork, limping out to the Southern fields where she would read Miram her last rights and lay her to rest.
The Order had already initiated their twisted plan, wreaking havoc on the surrounding lands. As the portal grew larger, quakes shook the ground and lightning arced through strange, dark clouds in the sky. Through the audible hum of energy, Paris dug a grave for her friend and opened The Book of the Just. She had not had to perform Last Rights before, and while normally she could have recited it from memory, she was scarcely able to hold the book steady to read from it, the words blurred by her tears.
The wind howled louder and she had to shout the final words of the passage and closed the book. After she had climbed out of Miram’s grave a bright flash from the citadel nearly blinded her, and the ever growing white light expanded outward. Shockwaves ripped through the fields and the light and hum of the portal encompassed everything.
---
Voices argued back and forth above her. Threatening tones and angry words, though Paris couldn’t quite make out what was being said. As she pressed herself up off of the warm stone floor a man knelt and helped her up.
“Where am I?” Paris shuddered. “And who are you?”
“I am called Wennes,” the man said. “As for where you are…all in good time. You are a cleric of Tyr, and as such I feel you should come with me. I will explain more on our way to Daeron.”