If I need to make the reflex save I will use my fortune ability to read roll that
The dark lightning washes over the heroes, each exposed to some unique kind of Hell within it's blackness.
Markus feels the energy coalesce around him, like strong hands of pure evil grasping at his wrists. Cara feels the same. She struggles with every ounce of strength in her body but the power is overwhelming. Markus too is similarly helpless. He roars in frustration and defiance but he can feel himself beginning to lift from the tower. Cara too is hoisted from her feet by an unseen force.
Markus prays harder than he ever has, pleading, petitioning, imploring Desna to come to his aid. The butterfly symbol around his neck begins to glow a with a pale purple light and the hands recede in pain, releasing the Priest.
But Cara does not have such faith and Markus watches on in horror as she is suddenly catapulted backward and upwards away from the tower at the very speed of reality. He screams to Desna to do the same for his great friend but she tumbles through worlds across a distance immeasurable into pure, complete and horrifying darkness.
The darkness wraps itself around Jon and Erek and in their horror they feel their limbs begin to stiffen, like shards of glass forming in their bones. No, not glass. Stone. For an instant they cannot move, trapped and helpless as their bodies petrify beneath the weight of evil.
They both rail against the feeling and resist with all their might. For Jon, the stone that spreads across his body begins to turn a searing hot, partially liquifiying into magma that sears him and leaves him with horrendous burns that cover his entire body. Is hair and flesh and even eyelids are melted away and as he stands there shrieking - a smoking wreck - he looks more undead than half of the enemies you have faced.
Erek meanwhile calls to Iomedae to protect him and more than that, his own tremendous force of will. The stone begins to recede like ice melting but not before it leaves his left arm withered and stiffened, like a petrified fossil of a bygone age.
The lightning bursts around Davos, infusing him, running through him. The agony isn't dark but white. White hot and blistering as it first forces him to his knees and then to the cold mithril of the Tower Door where he lay convulsing, but expired.
Kendra screams.
The white lightning flares around the machine and the forcecage bursts with it's power. Suddenly the lightning isn't just sparking with the Tyrant but flowing into him and his own dark energy reciprocating and flowing back into the machine where Kendra manipulates it and channels it back into the Door.
she wails through her own sea of pain and torment.
Jon rails against the Tyrant with every ounce of resolve he has left but it is not nearly enough and the agony that follows is indescribable.
He had been hurt before, plenty of times but nothing like this and as the pain grew and grew he continued to scream louder and louder, his whole body shaking from the dark energy that ate into it like some ravening beast.
Even as his mind threatened to snap and plunge him into unconsciousness he heard Kendras cry of anguish and it brought him back to reality in an instant.
He was still alive and he had come through too much to let it all end this way and this bastard was not going to win! Not whilst Jon still drew breath.
Gripping the wardens blade in his blistered smoking hands he suddenly drew in a great rasping breath and bellowed in rage as he hurled himself at the Tyrant.
AAAARRRRHHGGHHHHH!!!!
His mind was filled with a kaleidoscope of Images of his friends deaths, he saw Sebastians lifeless body, Morbar savagely cut down, Davos a crumpled smoking ruin and Cara...the look in her eyes as she was ripped from the tower and flung into darkness.
Each one spurred him on, kept him going as he hammered his blade into the Tyrant with every ounce of strength he had left.
crit confirm
crit confirm
The inquisitor is engulfed by the necrotic storm unleashed by the Tyrant but his faith and determination hold true. He watches in horror as his comrades are systematically eliminated. In a mere moment their collective strength is decimated. Now only he, Jon and Kendra remain. The fate of the world in their hands.
Now, more than ever, he calls for Iomadae to guide his hand. He takes a deep breath and launches one more attack. One more assault on the forces of evil.
He lunges forward and swings the Raven's Head with all of his remaining strength.
"FOR IOMADAE!"
Dam
Bane
Dam
Bane
Dam
Bane
"Desna guide us." He whispers as he is saved but Cara taken. He knows no matter what happens today he wont stop, he can't stop. He will set everything back the way it was. Morbar, Davos and Cara will be safe.
"No more. You have taken enough, and you will not be allowed to stand anymore" He shouts out as an unseen chain appears and snaps into life, it glowing a bright purple. It seems almost uncontrollable but then Markus flings it at the Tyrant.
The will of Desna flows through him an aura appears around him even stronger than before. "This is it!" He shouts out to the others.
Markus unleashes golden rays of light that form into chains and strike out at the Tyrant.
he roars.
The chains lash around his wrists and ankles and throat. Dying Light falls from his bony grasp as he struggles and dissipates into a wisp of smoke that is instantly absorbed into the mithril Tower Door.
Markus grasps the chains and hauls on them as though he were controlling a rampaging steer. Erek and Jon seize the opportunity left to them.
With his remaining good arm Erek smashes the Raven's Head into the Tyrant's knee and he buckles instantly under the blow. He follows it up with another, hammering the ancient weapon into the monster's midrif, buckling his armour and doubling him over. And then on his knees and head bowed Jon launches forward like the headsman at the block. He summons all the rage and pain and love and hate within him and channels it through the warden's sword. He feels Vesoriana willing herself through it, and Cara and Davos and Morbar and Olav and Sebastian and Judge Darramid and Hugo and all the others who have fallen by the wayside. He brings the blade down in a glittering arc.
When he cuts through the Tyrant's neck a bolt of pain runs along his arm and rips the blade from his grasp.
A thousand things happen at once then. An enormous blast of divine and necromantic energy rocks the roof of the tower, obliterating the machine and the spires that climb above. Each is turned into shards of adamantine and mithril that erupt outward in a shower of glittering sparks.
The Tyrant screams. Or is it Kendra? Is it all of you?
And then suddenly the flash is gone and for a moment you only see the pulsing energy - darkness and light entwined - flowing from the corpse of the Tyrant and into Kendra and back again and then once and for all blasted through the Tower Door.
Silence descends.
The Tyrant is back in his slumber. Kendra lies in a smouldering heap, unclear whether she is alive or dead.
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Erek staggers to his feet after the blast only to stumble and fall to his knees. For a long moment he stays that way, head bowed, breath ragged as great sobs rack his otherwise stoic being. The pain, sorrow, elation and relief overwhelm him. The magnitude of why they have just achieved balanced equally with the scale of their loss.
He looks up to see Jon and Markus in similar state. Glancing over to where Kendra was he can see only a smouldering form. Looking left he can see the broken body of Morbar. The valiant dwarf deposed in a pool of blood. Still and lifeless. Davos' ragged form lies lifeless not far away.
He nods his head and says a silent prayer to Iomadae. Seeking her aid, begging her to bring them back. To return these fallen heroes to Golarion.
He tries to stand then but the pain from his wounds overwhelms him. His vision swims and the contents of his stomach threaten to escape. He slowly regains control and stands slowly.
He looks down at his ruined arm, studying it as if it was alien. Something not of him yet part of him. The horror of it is tempered by the realisation that it could have been worse. So much worse. For him and for the world. In the end, it is a small price to pay.
He calls put but his throat is dry. He swallows and tries again. All that cones is a dry croak but in the eery silence that has descended it is deafening.
"Jon. Markus. We did it." he pauses as if he cannot comprehend it. He speaks again as Markus moves to The fallen figure of the woman he loved so much. "We stopped the Tyrant but it was all Kendra. Markus, does she live?"
It takes you a long time to realise you are awake. That's because everything around you is black and you find yourself in complete darkness. It is more the cold that seeps into you and the screaming wind that makes you realise you are no longer unconscious, but perhaps in a waking nightmare instead.
With a grunt of effort you pull yourself to your feet, your hand still on your bow. With your other you complete a gesture and your bow begins to emanate a sickly, pale light. In this place, almost everything is washed out. Colours are muted, sounds muffled, everything is as though covered in a veil.
After a few moments you realise you are in some kind of cave or hollow and you stagger forward, not toward an entrance that you see, but one that yo ufeel must be there for the wind must howl in from somewhere.
Long minutes of trudging pass. Your mind races with the possibilities of what happened to your friends atop that tower and for a moment you wonder if you were somehow sucked inside it too. But none of your friends are to be seen so you are forced to try to establish where you are alone.
Eventually you come to the mouth of the cave. There is a little more light outside, but not enough that you woudl say daylight. It is like the light you see at dusk through a dirty window and you can barely make out any details of note. You find your self atop a wide plateau of featureless, grey rock. As you look out you see the sky is almost an identical shade of grey.
Wherever you are there is no warmth, nor light, nor colour here.
Suddenly you hear something behind you, like a whisper and wheel to find two black shapes looming at you. Instinct takes over and you raise your bow and fire time and time again, muscle memory overtaking conscious though. The arrows rip through the creatures as though they were made of paper and with a wail they are no more.
That's when you see below. As far as the eye can see are black, discordant towers made of an unknown rock. There is no lights down there to guide you but you see thousands upon thousands of undead - of all different varieties. They mill about aimlessly while others swoop on dark wings and others more devour the smaller or weaker.
And then, with a sinking feeling in your gut, you realise where you are. A place of darkness eternal, the very antithesis of life and the creation of all necromantic energy. The Negative Energy Plane.
You know they will come for you. What faith you have had in your life pales in comparison to the faith you have in them and somehow you know they have succeeded.
You intensify your light spell and load up another arrow against the string, looking out for any more of those wraiths trying to ambush you.
"It would be just like those boys to keep a lady waiting." you smile to yourself.
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As the Tyrant launches his final attack, the exhasted wizard manages to hold out his hand and produces a shield protecting him, but the blast was too much arcane power to resist and tear's through the shield wrecking havoc to his body knocking hard into the ground.
After a few moments passed Daos manages to gather himself and rests himself on one knee "Not quite dead yet" he says and let's out a very hard cough while struggling to breath from the mass burns to his torso and neck.
He glances around the the carnage that ensued from the battle with the Tyrant seeing Morbar and Kendra lying on the towers hard stone floor and Cara in no sight can only imagine the worse to where she was sent, taking a hipflask from inside his scorched robes and takes a long hard glup and toasts to his fallen friends.
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Markus holds on to the chains with all his might, the links dig in deep as he holds the Tyrant down long enough for Erek and Jon to finish him, with the help of Kendra.
He watches on as the Tyrant finally falls, everything building up to this one moment. A combination of all the roads travelled and all the moments he could have strayed away. But all the pain and all the hurt has led him on this long and winding road.
As the mixture of energy entwines he feels it stain him deep down, his soul tainted by what they had all done here. Killing a creature like The Whispering Tyrant was never going to leave them whole or just as they were. They would carry it for as long as they would live.
Letting the chains fall from his hands it lands with a thud and rattles on the floor then dissipates in a haze of purple smoke.
He walks slowly towards Kendra pushing aside all the others they have lost, he a moment thinking of how he will save them how he will bring them back. He is then thrown back to the time at Ravengrow, the simple times how he would do anything to protect her. Then picking up the pace as he moves quickly to stand over Kendra, she is so far from the women he remembers. Kneeling down he checks her over a gently as he can. "Kendra..." When he first lost her it broke him but now everytime he sees her it hurts just as much, but seeing her as she is now he wishes he could take all her pain away. "Kendra you saved us... you were the strongest of us all. But please don't leave me."
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Jon saw the opening through a haze of red and as he slashed his blade into the Tyrants exposed neck he felt the razors edge cut through flesh and bone and then suddenly he was blasted backwards, a jolt of raw primal power ripped his blade from his grasp and almost tore off his arm as he was thrown backwards.
Then the world disappeared in a white hot shower of glittering sparks and as his wings flared outward trying to keep him aloft he was suddenly riddled with shrapnel as the machine exploded. He could feel the red hot shards of metal tear into his body and without his Hardened demon skin and his armour he would have been torn to shreds.
Even so his wings streamed out behind him like tattered rags as he plummeted to the tower roof, crashing into the ground, his body pierced a dozen times by the chunks of twisted metal and he groans in absolute agony, his throat cracking as he retched up blood and bile and gasped for breath.
M...Markus? Erek... Jon croaks as he struggles to right himself, trying to push himself upright he screams again as his arm buckled and hangs limply as it refuses to bear his weight as his dislocated shoulder gives way and he crashes to the floor again.
unngggg! Jon groans and forcing his mind to focus through the pain he called upon his powers and flooded his body with healing light.
The effect was immediate and intense and such was the relief he almost laughed as the intense warming energy repaired his shredded burnt body.
His whole torso was bathed in a white glow and it spread outwards, healing his dislocated shoulder, repairing his punctured lung and his shattered femur.
But even as the light moved across his body there were patches of darkness that lingered, areas of damage so tainted by the Tyrants evil that even Jons great power could not heal them fully and his right arm, chest , back and neck were forever marred by jagged dark patches of darkened flesh that resembled great ragged claw marks.
Grunting with effort Jon scrambled to his feet stared around numbly at the carnage surrounding him.
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At the merest touch, a jolt of energy runs up Markus' arm from Kendra's body. It isn't painful, it is more like the static electricity you feel before a storm. But he looks down and sees the energy dance across his fingers for a moment.
She groans and slowly draws herself up. And for the second time, she is changed.
Her eyes are simply black pits, dotted with pin-prics of light like the night sky. Her pale skin is ashen and her hair has turned from black into bright white.
Oh... oh Markus! he pulls him into an embrace and the priest feels his heart race, the hair on his arms stand on end. He feels as close to the true divine as he has in any temple of Desna, and yet there is something... else. Something that he has learned to fear over the years - necromancy.
It's over. It's all finally.... over...? she says, uncertainly this time as she looks down at her hands, examining them carefully. Wh...what's happened to me..?
It dawns on you all.
She is the perfect mixture of divinity and necromancy. Instead of amplifying and broadcasting the energy across Golarion, she inadvertently channeled into herself.
She is Adivion's vision. If he was right then she will never age, never grow sick, epitomises divinity and deathlessness in the way that, according to Adivion at least, Aroden and Tar-Baphon envisioned. In his words, she will have no need for the Gods and is a living embodiment of what humanity could be.
She is utterly unique and possibly one of the most powerful creatures on the planet. She is a messiah and a heretic. A marvel and a monster.
It doesn't matter. Whatever the cost I am glad to pay it. Oh but Morbar.... Cara... tears begin to well in those infinite eyes. They were so brave, you were all so brave. she laughs then, an unusual sound in such surroundings. Oh I love them, I love you all! This was for you Father. she says, looking up to the sky where the storm clouds begin to part, crying and laughing and unable to control her emotions. This was all for you... I love you Daddy...
Morbar raises the mug to his lips and takes a deep swallow. The ale tastes watery and bitter in his mouth and he sets it down with a sigh.
He lifts a shaking hand to his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying desperately to hold back tears that if they begin will surely never stop. He is sitting at a bar with no tender, a dying fire in the corner and just beyond his vision there is only darkness and the occasional whispy figure.
So this is purgatory... he mutters. Well if anyone deserves it, it's me. In the moment that they needed me most, I let them down, I failed, I wasn't strong enough. Torag take me for a fool. he swallows the ale but it is like sand in his throat.
He wonders how long he has already been here. Ten years? A hundred? A thousand? It didn't matter, he was prepared to be here forever. To wallow in his misery and failure.
Looks like you could use a real drink.
The voice is somewhat familiar, but one he hasn't heard in a long time. He looks up and the cup of ale tumbles from his grasp. The tears do come now - a bizarre combination of shame and absolute joy.
Rogar stands beside his younger brother. He is dressed in oiled leather and his beard is beautifully plaited and decorated with silver torcs.
B...brother...! Morbar mutters. I... you should not be here. You don't deserve to be. I am the coward, I am the one who brings shame on our ancestors. On... on... you.
Rogar laughs so loudly that Morbar is taken aback. He just shakes his head and puts an arm around his younger brother.
Look over yonder. he says, gesturing behind them.
Where there was darkness there is now a magnificent longhouse hall that stretches off into eternity. Massive fire pits light the room and a table the length of forever, absolutely replete with the trappings of a great feast - meats from a dozen different nations, ales and meads and wines and spirits and music to make the heart weep. Countless dwarves feast and joke and fight and sing and at the head of the table is the most magnificent dwarf Morbar has ever seen. It hurts him to look upon such a man but when he does so the dwarf looks back. It is Torag himself. The Maker.
He looks Morbar directly in the eye, and offers a small nod.
You are no coward, brother. Rogar says, leading him into the hall. The All-father created every dwarf and sees into each of their hearts. How could he not? When he held each one in his hand. He has seen into yours and it overflows with bravery and loyalty.
Rogar pulls out a chair for his brother and then takes a seat beside him.
I am proud to be your brother, Morbar. You put my hammer to better use than I could ever have dreamed. I am proud to share a meal with you in the Great Halls of Torag himself. Now, fill your cup and ease your burden. You have earned this feast for all days!
Morbar does as he is bid and for the rest of eternity he sings and feasts too. He recounts tales of battle and bravery, of fallen comrades, of sacrifice and of great victory. The victory over Tar-Baphon. The victory of his dear, dear friends. His victory.
Erek walks warily over to Markus and Kendra. "I don't know what you did lady but..."
His words trail off as he sees, truly sees but completely without truly understanding, what Kendra is. His geip instinctively tightens on the Ravens Head.
He studies her for a long moment, his deep rooted faith and the doctrines he learned all those years ago scream to him to remove this abomination from the world. This affront to the gods, to Iomadae.
But his many more years of campaigning against evil, facing demons in the pit, extra planar beings and finally the Tyrant have told him that a weapon for good - no later how tainted or strange - is still a tool to be used. After all, he himself had been tainted years ago.
His grip relaxes and he forces a smile "I don't know what you did lady, but then world owes you a debt. I doubt you will ever collect it though. There are no bards here to spread the tale..."
Once again his words trail off. That one disposable comment brings cold reminder that they have lost Cara. Thrown to the winds of infinity. He looks back at Morbar. The valiant dwarf they will honour with a simple burial and heroes feast, but Cara...
Even so close to such a momentous struggle, his resolve hardens. He has just found the next quest and he will not be turned from it, not by man, beast, demon. Not by anything. He looks up then, a determined set to his jaw and a glint in his eye.
"I am done here. But I will interest until I find Cara. Who's coming with me?"
Slowly the realisation of what they have done begins to sink in and he strides over to Morbar, the Dwarf lay where he fell. The terrible wounds inflicted upon him by the Tyrant plain to see , kneeling beside him Jon retrieved his hammer and lay it next to him, wrapping Morbars hand around it.
we showed him, he shouldn’t have messed with the heroes of Ravengro.
sleep well brother Jon says his voice thick with emotion as the tears begin to fall.
Straightening up he looks around for his own weapon, pulling the wardens blade free from the rubble he looked at the dark stain upon it, the residue of the Tyrants blood.
shuddering he holds his hand out and creates a deluge of water that washes the blade clean.
Grasping the hilt tightly Jon winces slightly from the pain in his hand and arm as he quickly checks the blade for any signs of damage but not even the Tyrants fouls blood could tarnish it.
Sliding the blade into his scabbard he sees Kendra embracing Markus and he moves to join them the girl he knew was lost, the being that stood before him was something else entirely.
Kendra .... you saved us all, without you the Tyrant would have destroyed us. But at what cost ? Are you ....? Jon didn’t quite know how to finish the question and instead he focused on what mattered most at this point.
Cara.
Turning to Erek Jon says I am with you Erek, We must find her quickly he says with urgency and worry in his voice what happened to her? Where did that bastard send her?
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Caradwen always knew her lessons well, ever since University - even when she did not care about the subject she knew it well.
The Planes and the Multiverse however, were one of her favorite fields of study, so as far as anyone could know what to count on in this desolate, dark place, she knew it. And she knew she would not survive.
It is not an evil place per se, but it is antithetical to life and draws all manner of undead, either to study it or try and garner power from it.
She had fought off all manner of creatures in the short time she had been here - all the time spent with her lads had paid off, both in training and in high quality equipment - it was keeping her alive.
Alive but cornered on the highest cliff she had ever seen - for now there were none dogging her, but it shouldn't take long. And there was no safe place to hide and recover, there was nothing...
In the distance she could see it - Eternity’s Doorstep, one of the most studied and least understood of this plane's features. She smiled sadly - it was much different reading about it and seeing it in the distance, looming like a planet-sized sphere of perfectly smooth black glass.
She heard them again, stalking her, getting close for the kill, or whatever they intended to do with her. She didn't even knew what was chasing her - shadowy like 'things', some devoid of form, others vaguely humanoid...The quiver was almost empty - maybe half a dozen arrows, and her arms and legs felt week from many wounds sustained in the fight against the Tyrant - had they won? Had it been worth it?
She could see them now... Glowing eyes, hungry for the most rare commodity in this whole plane of existence - Life.
She looked back at the cliff, then back at them - "I will not die screaming" - the woman dropped her bow and arrows - "Nor in your filthy claws" - she dropped her backpack and her sword, took a step back... And jumped.
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Struggling up onto his feet, the wizard makes his way to the others and in and say goodbye to their fallen companion "Finest Dwarf i've ever met, we'll return you home give him a fitting burial" he says with a voice full of emotion.
Watching over Morbar's lifeless body his mind wanders back to where they met at their friends funeral the Professors' ad how their journey began from avenging the Professor to where they've come now bringing down the Tyrant.
"You've done your father very proud today Kendra, you've saved us and the world" he says with a tearful eye.
Saying to Jon and Erek "Well you'll need a hand getting to where ever Cara is can count me in to help bringing her back"
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After everything, after all he had been through his faith was still solid. He would be more willing to question the gods and wanting to understand them and hopefully be able to talk to Desna again, get more insight in to their power and how they see themselves in the greater world.
What they had all been through, something like that doesn't just leave you. It will be something they all carry with them for as long as they live. But no one will know what happened he will remember what Erek said, but no one there did it because they would win fame, they did it because it had to be done.
They walked away from that tower, broken and beaten but victorious. Markus did all he could to heal and cure the others. But he always kept an eye on Kendra, knowing it was probably a waste of time with the way she was now. She must be more powerful than anything else in the world, but old ways die hard.
He attempted to find Cara and save her from whatever plane she was on, he had loads of divination magic and was ready to plane shift to save her. He even tried to bring Morbar back, no matter what he picked he just wanted to offer the choice.
He follows Kendra back to Lepistand making sure she is settled in and setting himself up with a permanent place to live. He wanted to understand exactly how it changed her if she allowed it. He worked at the university, picking up where the professor left off, while also teaching about faith and knowledge and how both can go hand in hand. He approached the Order of the palatine eye, getting more information out of them with the contacts he made through the Judge. He also push hard to get them back on track, back to their original reasons for existing.
He heads out to the Stairs of the Moon he had wanted to finish off what he started so long ago. Large churches are not the place of followers of Desna, but a place he was visited by his god is not one to give up. Getting it fully consecrated, cleaned up and bringing acolytes and priests with him was not easy. He planned pilgrimages from the temple to explore the unknown. While attempting to truly understand the site and its connection with Desna, hopefully speaking to her again.
But he wouldn't spend long from Lepistand teleporting back and forth, he still had his duties at the university and would alway be there to look in on Kendra, if she needed anything and even going on small adventures with her reliving the times her uncle would take her out to explore.
From time to time he would use his divination magic to look in on each of the other. Just wanting to know how their lives were going and when time permitted it he would contact them all and get them together once again, where they would tell stories of where their travels took them and it would feel like old times. He always enjoyed those times, he always felt at ease around them no matter the problems he had with them before after all was said and done they were his family.
He continued to do mostly all the same things, hoping to not need to save the world again. But to enjoy the time he had left and remembering those they had lost. Sebastian, Morbar and Cara. He made the most of the time he was given, and always finding time to just go for a walk.
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The victory they had fought so hard and long for felt hollow to Jon.
They had lost far too much , his heart ached with the loss of his friends and for what had been done to Kendra. She did not deserve any of this, none of them did.
He had no time to mourn Morbar, he like the others was consumed with the search for Cara, swiftly they withdrew from the blighted lands of the Tyrant and Markus began to seek their lost friend, praying to Desna to once more show him the way he began to search through the multitude of planes that surrounded their own , casting his net far and wide until with Desna’s guidance he found their path.
The Negative energy plain. There was no hesitation, they had seen to much, overcome such odds that even a place such as this did not deter them.
As Markus opened the rift they leapt between the worlds and fought one more time together. The dark lands of the Negative energy plane had not seen such power and fury for ages.
Erek and Jon led the charge into the undead hoard. Erek wielding the ravens head, once more fulfilled its great purpose and the dead fell back before him in their droves.
Alongside him Jon unleashed all his power and anger and grief , the wardens blade vibrating with power as he destroyed the undead he hated so much.
But the undead they destroyed were nothing but droplets in an ocean of evil.
Amidst the chaos Markus focused upon Cara , pinpointing her location and together he and Davos obliterated great swathes of the dead around them.
Markus drew great pillars of intense holy light downward from the oily skies and where they touched the blighted lands they exploded in waves of divine power that swept through the dead like a tsunami.
At the same time Davos unleashed a barrage of arcane energy, huge roaring storms of fire and lightning rocked the landscape as the slight elf demonstrated his arcane power and obliterated the dead around them with his elemental mastery.
They cleared a path for Jon and Erek and the pair surged forward toward Cara. Their joy at locating her quickly turned to despair as they could clearly see they were too late but they would never leave her here in this evil dammed place.
Jon swept her body up into his arms and she seemed to have no weight at all and With Erek covering his retreat they raced back toward Markus, Davos and the rift and together they leapt through.
It seemed after all they had done there were some things that could not be undone , just as Morbar had found his peace in the next life so too it seemed had Cara.
Markus for all his power could not entreat her to return to the land of the living and they felt her loss anew.
Jons grief at the loss of Morbar and Cara
Weighed heavily upon him, sending him into the blackest despair he had felt since he lost his family all those years ago and the journey back to Ravengro seemed a blur.
Together he , Markus,Kendra, Davos and Erek brought Morbar and Caradwen and placed them in the care of father Grimburrow.
Morbar was buried beside his brother so they could rest in peace together for eternity.
Cara was lay to rest nearby and so long after the others had left Jon once more found himself standing in the rain morning the loss of those he loved more than life itself.
Kneeling in the mud beside her grave Jon reached out and placed his palm onto the fresh dirt that now covered her casket.
His arm ached with the cold and more often than not on the anniversary of the defeat of the Tyrant , Jons wounds would flare up with intense pain. Like the others he would carry the scars and the pain from that momentous event for the rest of his life a bitter reminder of what they achieved.
I am sorry we failed you in the end, we tried so hard ...you deserved to live, to find peace and happiness. I hope wherever you are that you are happy. sleep well Lady... Jon says sombrely his grief threatening to choke him and his tears mixed with the cold rain as the ghosts within him goaded and taunted him and drove him deeper Into despair.
will you fail us too...? a small voice asked fearfully from behind him and Jon spun, his hand instinctively reaching for his blade and freezing half way there as he stared at the beautiful , frightened ...yet determined girl behind him.
She stood defiantly in the rain, her cloak thrown back and her blonde hair seeming to glow even in the dim rain soaked twilight.
Jon looked at her again as if for the first time and it seemed like years since they had danced... since they had spent the night together.....yet it had been perhaps only six or seven months.
Alia? .... Jon opened his mouth and then he saw, her hands clasped protectively over her abdomen, clutching the noticeable bump and to Jon it was if the sun had suddenly risen in the sky and his heart leapt so hard in his chest he thought it would burst! then he was moving , reaching for her desperately as he enfolded her in his broad arms and sank his face into her hair afraid She wasn’t real.
Pullling back slightly he kissed the tears from her eyes and then embraced her again kissing her long and deeply until gasping he dropped to one knee before her and looking up at her he placed one hand upon her belly and took her other hand in his own.
I will never fail you....I will never fail you both. I am yours forever ...if you will have me he asked looking up into her eyes and her smile banished all the darkness and anger and loss from his heart as she replied.
yes
......................
Jon and Alia stayed in Ravengro, the only place Jon had felt at home in for a very long time and together they built a life, Jon married Alia and purchased a good parcel of land to breed horses and built them a comfortable homestead ready for the birth of their children.
Alia gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl who they named Sebastian and Caradwen in honour of Jons lost friends.
Whilst Jon enjoyed working the on the ranch he could not help but offer his services to his friend Benjen. The sheriff was mostly recovered from his ordeal and was glad to name Jon Deputy and whenever he had need of him Jon would be there.
He made it his mission to keep Ravengro and his family as safe as could be, he had promised to keep after all.
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The sorceror fled across the desert and the Inquisitor follows.
Tall and gaunt, he pauses to take a drink, the smallest sip of water from a battered canteen.
Looking around him at the alkaline wasteland he wipes his brow with his good hand. The land is empty and cold, unforgiving and merciless. Just like you a voice whispers in his mind.
He scowls and once again sets off. Step by step he pursues his foe, implacable and unvawering in his resolve and determination.
How long has it been this way? How many years? How many have dies at your hand? the voice again. He ignores it, but his mind turns inward. How long had it been? Time stretched behind him, an imprnetrable blur.
He simply could not recall. He sighs heavily. The weight of years is heavy on him. But he carries a burden so much heavier. Age defeats even the strongest. Lay down. Let it take you. Rest. Sleep in eternity's embrace.
His jaw clenches and he speaks a single word. His voice as dry and cracked as the land around him No.
His mind turns inward again. How long had it been? How long since the Tower? He couldn't say. Was he there alone that day? He didn't believe so but the memory fades. Just like the world: it moves on.
For endless, countless hours he walks. His long coat billowing in the dry breeze. It's tattered and pitted surface testament to a thousand battles yet not as aged and lined as his gaunt features. Features hidden in the deep shadow cast by his wide brimmed hat.
He suddenly recalls faces. Friends that stood with him against the ultimate evil. Friends? You had no friends. Just more disposable heroes. Pawns in your game. More victims of your endless quest!
No. For the briefest time they shared a bond deeper than friendship. Of that he was certain. A brave dwarf with a mighty hammer. A beautiful archer with a bow as deadly as her voice was soothing. A priest, unwavering in his love and faith. A powerful mage, quiet and resolved. A man tainted by demons, just like the Inquisitor.
He knew not where they were now or what had befallen them. Some were dead by your hand? but that was all so long ago. So many years. So tired. So very tired.
How long had he pursued his current foe? Who was it? He doesn't recall. It is many years but seems like aeons. He knows only that he is evil and must be stopped. He knows he will do just that. He knows his foe is deadly but he also knows he is afraid of the Inquisitor. Afraid of the justice and retribution he brings.
He sees something then. The remains of a campfire. The ashes in a unique and distinctive pattern. A message from his foe. He stops, groaning at the flare of pain in his knee, and studies the remains. Not for The first time he wonders where the sorceror finds wood in this empty land. Reaching out, he touches the ash. Rubbing it between thumb and finger, he raises it to his mouth and touches it with the tip of his tongue.
He stands then and stares across the desert. His left arm aches, it's twisted and ruined shape having uselessly at his side. His good hand rises and settles on the haft of the ancient mace hanging at his belt. It Is the only thing about him that seems unmarked and new. The head, shaped like a fierce black bird gleams. Testament to its power.
The ash was warm. He draws close to his prey. He sets off again, his pace slow but relentless.
The sorceror fled across the desert and the man in black follows him.
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After the ordeal of the journey his mind is breaking he returns back to his home city and head's into an inn and begins to drink heavily sitting in a darkened corner he empties three or four bottles of wine, with the sounds of the inn where patrons talking and the sound tankards knocking on table tops. Davos just sits there with his elbow on the table and his face in his hand looking extremely stressed just sitting there blurred eye staring into the single candle light that sits on the table.
Hearing a group of people chatting and laughing while a bard a singing to them, his mind goes back to Ravengro to the Inn where he shared table with his companions a happy but brief moment. Returning back to reality he looks at the bottles in front of him one still half full he grabs it and heads to the streets looking his gaze finds the University and he ventures forth.
Slumped in a chair at the back in the empty lecture hall the smell of the oak desks and musty air it's where he had his first lecture from Professor Lorrimor, on the study or arcane arts a lecture that was hard for him to sit through but was determined, to be able to master the art.
The wizard then staggers around the empty hallways where the light of the moon is shining through the enormous windows providing sufficient light down the corridors he stumbles on the Professor Lorrimor's room where he'd spent many a time there. Leaning upright against the door frame he gazes into the room, it has changed quite considerably since he was last here but he could see himself and the Professor talking in the room for a brief moment he felt his heart lift and happiness poured and but he shut it out.
Pulling himself away from the doorway and wonder’s around the street’s, looking very familiar to him Davos keeps walking and eventually takes a corner and sees it his burnt out hovel. His eyes begins to swell up with tears as he slowly approaches the house the bottle slipping from his fingers and smashing on the floor he keeps walking forward until he outside his home.
Falling to his knees tears are streaming down his face his vision fixed on his hovel ”Forgive me” he says again and again and again letting out a very painful wave of emotion, gathering himself and gets up on his feet and moves inside his burnt out home. His memories take him back to a winter's night, where a is fire warming the room and a cooking pot of stew sitting on top it. He turns around and sees himself at the table pouring over old tomes making notes as always, then the door opens small feet coming rushing through the door his daughter jumps into his arms he holds her tight as they laughing together, his wife walks over and joins them he greets her with a warm smile and a kiss.
That night like every other night Davos is in the basement under candle light the budding wizard is practicing his spells he had been learnt with the Professor. Exhausting himself out he sleeps at his tables amongst his books and spell components, he is woken some time laster with the screams and cries of wife and daughter upstairs rushing to his feet he races out of the basement to be confronted by two men standing over wife and daughter holding each other cry and sobbing into one another. The two men begin to approach Davos with daggers in hand ”You shall not hurt them anymore!!” he says in a rage, extending his two arms out his hands tensed a mass amount of energy forms not sure what he’s doing he’s just scared for his family and has to protect them. Unleashing the mass of energy at the two home invaders a massive explosion erupts, Davos is knocked out of the window into the street outside banging his head onto the cobbled street he loses conscious when he wakes up his home is burning with the local militia putting the fire out letting out a horrid scream he tries to rushing realising his family are in there but is held back.
Returning back from inside his memory to the charred building he looks around and breaks down more time ”I can’t stay here” and with a snap of his fingers is gone.
For the most part the heroes returned to their old lives. Or as best they could. Jon would still hear voices now and then, insidious whispers in the darkness that mocked and japed. But they were more often than not drowned out by the sound of baby Cardwen crying - a sound that brought him crashing back to earth in the most joyous way. One night after putting her down he returned to Harrowstone. He thought back at how terrifying that cold prison shell had been on those nights so long ago but now, it felt oddly comforting.
He found what he was looking for almost immediately, the pale glow of Vesorianna drifting through the empty corridors and forsaken rooms. But no longer was she in perpetual torment for her husband’s soul was finally free.
When he offered to bury the blade he had carried so long on the grounds of Harrowstone, she smiled and told him to keep it. The dead can sense life. she said. And there is new life with you. The sword should protect them now. I am only here now because I was awaiting your return to offer my thanks. There are no words that can be spoken to tell you how grateful I am, nor how grateful I will always be. Goodbye Jon. With that, she faded into the light.
Jon lived a good long life after that. He never did need to raise the blade again, and it became the subject of bedtime stories that he told his children before they drifted off to a sleep made peaceful by the sacrifices he and others had made.
Markus didn’t think he would ever forget the face of Sebastian as the monk had looked directly at him and took his own life. Once, while teaching at the University of Lepistadt he was forced to stop in mid-sentence and broke down in tears out of absolutely nowhere. It wasn’t until later that he reflected on the fact there was a young Vudrani man sitting in the hall that looked so much like his fallen friend that it pained him deeply.
He took the walk out of the city up to Schloss Caromarc. In the months that had passed the castle had returned to it’s former glory. The Count was delighted to see the man that had saved him and Hugo, irrepressible Hugo, had come bounding through the river like an excited puppy, snatching up Markus in a bearhug and soaking him through to the skin. The Priest could only laugh at his simple friend.
They laughed and cried and remembered and it helped Markus. It helped him to think of the good things they had done and the lives they had changed. There would be no fanfare or parade, no medals or congratulations, but seeing Hugo’s plain, moon face and the love of a father and son together made him realise that the sacrifice they had made for this world had been worth it all along.
He and Kendra lived many years in Lepistadt after that. It became their home…. Of a sort. He would never truly remain rooted in one place. The Stairs of Moon became a shrine to the worship of Desna where weary travellers could come and rest their heads in comfort and safety from the Shudderwood beyond it’s doors. He negotiated a peace with the Wolves of the Wood, led now by Rhakis - Packlord of the Prince’s Wolves. They took up the Desnan Faith and instead of stalking the wood, they became guardians of the travellers who crossed it’s borders.
Always he would return to Lepistadt to check in on Kendra. His love for her would never fade but in the years that followed tales of the Wandering Priest spread from Ustalav to Varisia and even to Tien X’ia - wherever his feet would take him.
Erek had seen horrors most of his life, had become one himself to some extent. But the taint of the Whispering tyrant never left him. His arm was withered and useless and if it were possible he had become even more hardened to the evils of this world.
During the course of their hunt for the Whispering Way he had become a wealthy man - far richer than he ever could have believed as a simple squire in the crusades against the World Wound. Davos sent him a message spell informing him that Jon had used his money to buy a farm where he was now busy raising crops and a family. That had made the old Inquisitor smile and was warmer than the small fire that sputtered on that desert night.
But he was never one for the trappings of luxury and he had given all of his wealth away. Not to the Church, though, a decision he did not regret for a moment. He had sent all of his money to Caliphas where the Caradwen School of Music and Dance was inaugurated less than a year later. He could not think of a more fitting tribute to lady.
The Raven’s Head never left his side. It was a weapon of Pharasma but he had adopted it and in fact dedicated himself less to the Gods and more to the dogma of justice and righteousness. He fought now less in the name of Iomedae and more because it was right - and Evil had begun to fear his name instead.
It was a lonely life that he had chosen for himself. But he was comforted by the fact he would leave this world a better place than he had found it and that he could spare some innocents the horrors that had befallen him. It was a lonely life, but one replete with good deeds from the moment he left the Tower until the day he finally passed into Iomedae’s grace forever.
Davos had always been given to quiet introspection. He tried to think of the entire campaign in cold, calculating terms. He had grown exponentially in power and was capable of feats of magic now that rivalled any of the High Order wizards in the Arcanariums of Avistan. The wizard had become a true master, with few to rival him.
But try as he might to evaluate and quantify, to remember with academic detachment, he had been affected more deeply than his hyper-rational mind would allow him to realise. The hip flask he kept full of strong whiskey was empty more often than it was full in the months and years that followed the events atop the Tower. More than once he had awoken in that ruined village in a far flung corner of the world where his life had changed so long ago. He had never spoken of it but this was where he had lost his family and his journey had truly begun. Petros Lorrimor helped him with that grief now but with no recollection of how he had got there and with a mouth that tasted of stale alcohol and a head that felt dull and thick, the grief returned in spades. He could teleport vast distances at the speed of thought but he could not run from the emotions that he had repressed so well. The place held nothing for him any more and the confrontation with two men that he was so easily able to despatch made it even less a place he wanted to return to.
But one night he awoke in a true living nightmare. The splashing of rain on his face had roused him from unconsciousness and when he wiped it from his eyes his hand came away bloody. Crawling back in revulsion he realised that he was back in the Hungry Mountains where the skies wept blood and there were dead things in the mists. The mountains rose all around him like a grasping hand and there, in the distance lit only by the crack of red lightning, was the Tower of Gallowspire. Looking up he saw an archway of rock and bones above him. He had tried to teleport back, perhaps driven by repressed guilt or grief or madness…. and been caught in a Witchgate.
Perhaps more than all the others Davos needed to get away from all this. He loved his friends but knew that given his long Elven lifespan, it was inevitable that he would have to watch them all die one by one - and losing his family and then Sebastian, Cara and Morbar was already too much for him to bear.
For one last time he visited them all. He stayed on Jon’s farm for a time, watching his children grow over the course of several summers. He went to Lepistadt and saw Markus and Kendra, even spending three years lecturing as a guest speaker at the Univerity. Finally he sought out Erek and gave him news of the others and then joined him on his own personal campaign, seeking out Evil and putting it down wherever it could take root.
And finally, when he was done, he said goodbye to them all, and to this world. One thing he had learned is that the universe is vast and he had hundreds of years to explore it. He could never run from the thoughts that haunted him, he knew that now. But perhaps he could fill the rest of his life with the colour and majesty of the unknown. Summoning his vast power he concentrated….. And vanished, beginning a new story on a planet so far distant it did not even have a name. Perhaps he would name it. Perhaps he would name it after one of his friends….
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Of all of the heroes that had set upon this quest, perhaps Kendra had been affected most deeply.
She never, ever spoke of it and in fact only allowed herself to think of it on the coldest and darkest night where ill thoughts came unbidden. But she remembered the moment of her death. Kendra had loved Adivion a little, through years of respect and distant admiration. He was so charming, so aloof, so brilliant. But he had ultimately betrayed her.
She knew that she was dying, had known for years. It was the same sickness that took her mother but she had covered her dark eyes with make-up and hidden every bloody cough in a handkerchief once she had met her new friends. Her father was a wonderful man, but overprotective, and she saw some of that in them, especially Markus. She just wanted to be herself for a time until that time was done.
But Adivion had somehow come to know this and had come to kill her so that he could remake her. He had explained it so rationally. She remembered his cool blue eyes staring at her with a mixture of grief and apology. She remembered scrambling back from the table, fear rising as she desperately looked for a way out, for an escape. But then he raised his hand and the world turned black.
He had remade her though, hadn’t he? He had told her she had the blood of angels in her, but without their chains to divinity. She was evolving, becoming. She was already something more than human and was the epitome of Aroden’s vision for humanity - perfect but subservient. When he realised that his friend and colleague Tar-Baphon could use necromancy to give humanity the greatest parts of unlife - immunity to sickness and disease and power over death itself - he grew fearful. For what would He become without humanity to worship Him? They battled over the fate of mankind and both disappeared form the world - one imprisoned and the other who knew where.
But their vision endured through Adivion and through his brilliance had a chance to rise again.
Now, after taking a portion of the Tyrant’s power, she was that vision. She was unique and powerful. And lonelier than she had ever been in her life. Kendra was a creature of two worlds now and had a place in neither.
Returning to Lepistadt was little more than a pipedream. For years afterward she would walk the streets arm in arm with Markus, smiling and laughing at his jokes. But she would pretend not to notice the children stopping staring, and then being hurried away by concerned parents. She imagined there was some other reason for young, loving couples to cross the street when she approached and she chose to ignore the looks Father Grimburrow gave her. She felt his gaze on her as a devout Priest of Pharasma and one who abhorred undeath in all it’s forms.
She tried to make a life for herself again. In truth she had also tried to return to teaching at the University and had never told Markus that she was refused on the grounds that the students would be studying her more closely than the material. Instead she had told her great friend that she just wanted to retire to writing and a peaceful existence after all they had been through.
As the years past she began to wonder whether she would ever wither and fade or if she were destined to be like this forever, with no place and no home to speak of. Time wore on and she began wearing a veil to hide her sunken, alien eyes and shocking pale skin when she went on her walks with Markus. Eventually she began making excuses to go less and less frequently and ultimately stopped going altogether.
Ten years after the events of the Tower, a great plague struck Lepistadt. The illness caught hold and spread like a wildfire. People were dying in the streets and mass graves were dug in the farmland on the outskirts of town. All the while she remained unscathed as she knew she would. Kendra sent word to Markus and he came in a literal instant, greying at the temples now and lines of wisdom marking his face. She summoned the power within her and he prayed as hard as ever and between them they stemmed the illness, healing people as they could. Almost single-handedly they had staunched it.
The Churches of Abadar, Pharasma and Saranrae sent Priests and Paladins to the city to continue to contain the spread and the lines of sick spread for street upon street to their makeshift stations. For once Kendra felt good. She had truly achieved something here, saving lives and she felt elated. People no longer crossed the street away from her and she wept openly with joy when a small child that she had cured embraced her tightly around the legs. Was this what it felt like to have a home?
With the situation under control, Markus returned to his travels. The illness was still deadly, but the Churches had it contained now and it was only a matter of time until it was cured completely. Kendra waked the streets again, saying hello to passersby and stopping at the lines to talk with the sick and ease their suffering when she could. Late that night, she noticed an old man huddled in the shelter of an alleyway. When she approached she saw that he was coughing and spluttering, thick lines of sickly phlegm expelled from his throat.
Quickly! she said, stooping to help the man. We must get you to the Churches, they will help you.
No…. No point… he coughs. I… I already… been
What do you mean? she asked confused.
They seen me…. Said they couldn’t… help… I is old… and I is…. poor.
She picked the old man up and rushed to the stations. At the head of the line was a stout Cleric dressed in robes, the crossed key symbol of Abadar on his chest.
This man needs help. she urges. She could cure him but there was something about this situation that felt wrong.
We cannot help this man, I’m sorry. We have given him some herbs to help with the pain. the cleric replies apologetically.
Herbs!? Kendra shouts incredulously. He is dying. You must help him!
We have helped him as much as we are able and as we are bid. the man explains, trying to usher Kendra away from the crowd. He cannot tithe and so…
He cannot pay so you will not cure him!? she roars. Can’t you see his suffering?
The Cleric sighs. We can only cure so many in a day. We are only granted so much grace and so we prioritise the ones who are young and strong and those who can pay so that we can employ more Priests and continue to heal. That’s the best way we can help.
Kendra throws her hands up, her eyes blazing. Who are you to say who lives or dies? Aren’t all these people as equally deserving? You take their money to cure them, don’t you see that’s extortion, don’t you see you are playing God… she stops then, a look of resignation on her face but the man has descended in to a blind fury by then.
I will not be questioned by some freak! By some monster! My Priests and I are working all the hours our Gods send to contain this plague, is it too much to ask for a little gratitude?
But Kendra has stopped listening. She lays her hand on the shoulder of the old man and in an instant takes away his pain and suffering, burning the sickness from his blood.
Later that night she sits in the dark, lit only by a candle that dances and casts weird shadows on the walls of her townhouse. She is weeping in the dark, in sadness and frustration.
Playing God…. working all the hours our Gods send…. Only granted so much grace…
For hours the words play over and over in her mind until they rise from an incessant whisper to a scream and she realises they are no longer in her mind but she is in fact screaming them.
She stands so swiftly the chair is knocked out from beneath her and sent scattering to the wall. She strides to her study where a chest sits in one corner, locked and gathering dust. Not bothering with the key she just rips the lock from it’s housing and opens the chest. Inside is but one book - the Tome of the Esoteric Order of the Palatene Eye that she and Adivion had been reading on that fateful night.
It slam onto the table forcefully enough to blow out the candle. It matters not, she sees just as well in the dark and perhaps these are thoughts for darkness anyway. Opening the pages she skims to the centre where two scraps of paper lay, folded neatly. She carefully unfolded the first. It was an intricate schematic of a machine, almost every inch covered in Adivion’s small, neat notes about it’s construction and operation. She hadn’t understood what it was before. But after she became one with this machine atop the Tower, she knew now. A finger traces the words carefully. Studying them, considering them, absorbing them. Wiping tears away with the heel of her hand she sets it to one side. Next she unfolds the other piece of paper. On it are words that chill her to the heart - the words of the Carrion Crown poem….
Upon the ashen pathways tread
Softly, as the whispered dead.
As mortal flesh doth rot and fail
To leech and maggot, ebbing frail.
Unhallowed words cannot be spoken,
With whispered oath, death lies broken….
The wind whistles through Lepistadt that night and somewhere a dog howls. The smoke of the lone candle drifts into nothingness; it’s flame extinguished, it’s wick black and cold.