Pura smiles, happy with the selection of the party members. "I think I will... dot this thread."
Zagathoth is pleased that his long journey is at an end and a new chapter of his story is about to begin...
She didn't know how long she clung to the eaves, terrified, as nightmares circled overhead and screams echoed throughout her mind. Choking fumes rose up from below while coarse wind tore at her, threatening to rip her from the precipice and cast her down into the unknown depths beyond her sight. She could not account for the passage of time; the sky faded from blood-red to bruise-blue at irregular intervals, and her own body failed to show signs of hunger, thirst or exhaustion. All she could remember from before was an awful stabbing into her chest, a tearing of her very being, then the excruciating sensation of being put back together. Then she was cast from a great height, and she slammed into the harsh, unforgiving spire. All she could do was hang on, lest the suffocating wind lift her back up into the swirling zephyrs amongst the grey-winged horrors that circled above, or dash her into the depths below.
Days, months, perhaps years passed. Then the howling winds carried what seemed like words through the ether. Soot blown across the fire-scorched earth, she thought she heard. Listening, she heard it again: Scorched land, dead air. She leaned out, listening closer. Ash-land; distant wind. Closer still.
Ashlyn Farwynd, she heeds the call and finds herself ripped from the harsh spires and suddenly in a dank and decaying building, the smell of mildew and burning candles filling her senses. She reels, pitches as solid, cold stone is under her feet instead of the harsh, burning metal of the-- the place from earlier.
She hears voices, babbling in strange tongues, but she is too confused. She pulls herself to her feet, noting the blood-red gown draped around her, Memory surges, and she remembers -- her sacrificial robes. She looks down, expecting to see the jagged scar from where they took her heart, but there was only smooth flesh between her breasts.
Behold, fiendish one! I have summoned thee to do my bidding! she hears in the Infernal tongue, and she peers into the gloom. Robed figures surround her, slightly illuminated by the ruddy candlelight. Diabolic symbols decorate the floor and walls, and she instinctively reaches for a weapon. She finds nothing; she is unarmed and unarmored amongst these chanting figures. Blinking, she unleashes her Sight, and immediately senses the cloying evil surrounding her, but fails to find the fiend of which the speaker had spoken.
For your service, I present to you this gift: the death of a holy brother of --! the central robed figure raises a ceremonial dagger over a helpless figure. Panic seizes her; and though her mind still whirls in confusion, she recognizes what's about to happen.
No, wait! Stop! she cries out, holding out her hand and trying to interpose herself between the dagger and the victim. Something holds her in place, yet her voice causes the villain to pause. Don't! she pleads.
This one is deserving of punishment! He has forsaken his vows, and left his place of prayer to indulge in the sins of the flesh, the robed figure gestures at the weeping man below. Confusion again, then a slow, crawling fear in her belly. Everyone was looking at her. I offer this sacrifice for your aid in the destruction of our enemies! For the service of six days, six hours and six minutes, you shall have his soul! Do we have an accord?
She felt something tug in her, a desire to accept. But instead, she recoiled, but could go no more than a step away from the proffered sacrifice, her back hitting something as solid as a wall. She shakes her head no in fear.
You will do my bidding! shouts the leader, outraged.
I believe the lady said no, comes a voice from outside the circle. Suddenly, the sound of drawn steel, shouts, and screams. Ashlyn turns and tries to run, but again she is trapped. Strangely, there is nothing holding her, but it felt as if the air itself was a solid wall all around her. She looks down at her feet and sees an inscribed circle, inlaid with silver. Her breath catches as she recognizes the sigils around the perimeter.
In a few seconds, the fighting is nearly over. The leader of the robed figures, clutching his side, limps to her. Save us! Slay the interlopers! My soul and more if you just-- his plea is cut off by a slice of steel. Ashlyn looks on, horrified.
The newcomers, victorious, begin searching the bodies and systematically dismantling the diabolic imagery decorating the dank chamber. Most of them give Ashlyn and the circle surrounding her a wide berth. Only one steps forward and truly looks at her. His wizened face is one of intense curiosity. Someone asks him out of the gloom, You're going to banish her, right, Professor? I wouldn't deal with it.
Instead, the professor scratches his chin, and studies Ashlyn's terrified face. Why didn't she take the bargain, I wonder? he mutters as he begins to turn away.
Wait! Please! she calls out, hammering on the invisible wall. Can you help me? I don't know where I am. I don't know what's going on, but I'm not what you think I am! I'm a paladin! she cries.
Scoffs and cries of incredulous laughter come from the newcomers. The older human also looks doubtful as he turns back around. He points to the symbols at her feet. Do you know what those mean? he asks calmly.
Ashlyn swallows hard, and nods. A circle of protection.
Against?
Her lower lip begins trembling. Evil, she says in a small voice.
If you are a paladin, then you should have no trouble stepping across that threshold. The professor turns to walk away.
She throws herself against the barrier, which stops her just as effectively as before. Wait! No, this isn't right! I wasn't always like this! I don't know what happened; I was captured, experimented on! Please! she cries out desperately.
The professor turns back around, regarding her curiously. One of the others asks, You're not actually beginning to believe her, are you, Prof?
The older man looks at the speaker for a moment, then back to Ashlyn. After a long pause, he murmurs to himself, She didn't accept the deal.
The professor steps away for a moment, then returns with a chair. Setting it before the circle, he takes a seat. Explain.
Ashlyn sits, crossing her legs, and looks him in the eye. She takes a deep breath, sorting her fractured memories, then begins telling her tale. That of a young paladin who had fallen in love with the bravest, most valiant knight in all the land. None could match his resolve, and no evil could withstand his righteous fury. He had saved her from a crisis of faith; one which surely would have caused her own fall. She owed him everything, most of all, her heart. Which was then stolen from her.
The confluence of magics -- hellish energies and vile rituals clashed against the purest faith and something singular happened. Ashlyn survived, somehow, but trapped in a nightmare. She described her confusion and her fear. The professor pointed out her terrible reality -- and what was upon her back. How was she not aware of them before? Horribly beautiful: feathers the color of the choking soot of a burnt forest, broad and powerful. They terrified her even as she was mesmerized by them. The wings of a fallen angel; she was truly one of the Ash Wings, an Erinyes.
But even as Ashlyn broke down with wracking sobs, the professor stood and drew his foot across the circle. He reached out and took her hand, inviting her to step free.
You arrive at long last in Ravengro, Professor Lorrimer's hometown. The weather is bleak and overcast today, like it usually is in Ustalav, but the sky seems poised to open and unleash a torrent of rain soon.
There is a phrase in Ustalav, 'Rain during a funeral means that the land weeps at the loss of a good soul'. Whether that is true or not, you somehow hope it is, for you go now to the funeral of an associate of yours, the late Professor Lorrimer. An eccentric but brilliant man, Lorrimer was a man who knew many people, something he acquired in his line of work as a scholar of the occult. He was also rather likable, despite his occasional lapse into scholarly disinterest or clinical observation of the world around him, something quite excusable given the subject matter he dealt with and the numerous sights he had seen over the years in pursuing his work.
Weeks ago, when you received a letter of his passing you remember how you first met him. Now, you struggle with how to picture such a vibrant and colorful man lying dead in a coffin, how a man so many people knew could possibly have died, even though you know all people must.
Looking around, you see several other people dressed in mourning attire who look about as out of place as you do in such a small, dreary little town. The funeral doesn't start for several hours, so perhaps they were acquaintances of Lorrimers, newly arrived in town?
Pura arrives with nothing more than the clothes on her back, a bag on her back and a dog at her side. Standing at little over two feet tall, and having all the appearances of a young human girl, she quietly watches the scene, seemingly deep in thought and yet, lost in the crowd of adults.
She looks around at the others who have arrived, taking note of all the varied travelers who have come to see the funeral. Was the Professor really such a helpful person, that so many people bothered to show? Even the most devoted of saints woulda ho died would surely be rivaled by this display.
A stir runs through the crowd as a green scaled man joins the group of mourners. His mouth is set in a line of firm resolve. His golden eyes glow as he passes through the shadows. He wears little more than a dark vest and pants. The strange man walks through the crowd, though it seems his wanderings have little if any direction.
After some time he notices one of the others whose incongruous presence is treated as a nuisance. He cautiously approaches the childlike woman. I'd imagine it is nice to finally have your oddity surpassed by another. The man pauses, frowning. I think that came out wrong. You will have to forgive me, I have spent most of my life outside of social circles. Of any kind. For that matter I'm sure I've not been part of social hexagons, squares or triangles either. Though I could say I've been in a social line before, as that only requires two points. . . . I'm sorry. I'm rambling. He tugs at the edges of his vest, seemingly unsure. His golden eyes wander around the large group, a frown creasing his face. Turning back to the halfling he says, Anyway, would you mind the company of a strange man for the moment? I'm Lessairus. A very strange man, indeed. He extends a scaled hand to the woman.
Pura looks up at the man, obvious purturbed as he saw right through her disguise. Quickly shifting her face to one of innocence, she smiles. "Oddity? Hexagon? You sure do use a few funny words mister."
For the next sentence, she keeps the smile on her face, but lowers her voice to a much quieter, much more sinister tone. "And by Father Skinsaw's name, if my cover is blown because of you..." Instead of finishing the threat, the little girl giggles. "Nice to meet you too Lessairus. My name is Pura Guile. That's spelled P-U-R-A... G-U-I-L-E"
Pura and Lessairus' conversation is suddenly cut short as a loud, shrill voice cuts through the crowd, "How did you..." A well dressed human woman cries out before seeming to feint. The crowd all turns toward her in alarm. So intent is their focus on her that they seem to fail to notice the figure that stands out to Pura, Lessairus, and the scant few others attentive to the unusual- close to the woman but slowly moving away is a 6' tall man dressed all in black leathers, complete with a mask that covers most of his face and mirrored lenses that obscure his eyes; the small amount of his skin that is visible is completely smooth and hairless, and an unnatural white-gray color.
As you watch him slink away from the action, an unearthly voice 'speaks' within your mind. It is, at first, an off putting experience to hear a voice without involving your ears but that thought has little time to linger as the words coalesce in your consciousness... Zagathoth wishes not to be gawked at.
So that's what that feels like, Ashlyn muses as she hears the voice in her head. She had planned on staying back, away from the gathered throng of mourners hidden in the shadows of a nearby copse of trees. But the commotion drove her to step out and risk her own exposure to unwanted attention, though she had done her best to conceal her strange nature.
She steps forward and pulls back her hood, exposing a cold but beautiful face surrounded by raven-black hair. Her cloak is wrapped around her, as if ready to ward off the rain, but is bulky and appears to be covering a heavy cuirass or backpack. She carries an ornate, polished shield and a bow with a pronounced recurve along with a quiver full of arrows.
She holds up a hand to the leather-clad man and in a clear, authoritative voice, she speaks, Peace, sir. This is a funeral for a good and well-loved man.
Then she thinks directly at him, employing the same trick he used, except only addressing him.
She scans the crowd briefly to see if she will have aid in case Zagathoth is here to do violence, and notes at least one friendly face.
Pura nods happily when she hears Ashlyn's voice in her head. Ash! she thinks cheerfully, It's so good to see you again! And not to worry, you know my way with mean old bullies! Daddy Skinsaw will lend me his power in no time!
Ashlyn sets her jaw in an attempt to hide her wince as Pura thinks back at her.
A lot has changed since you last saw me, but don't worry Ash, I still have my code! Daddy Skinsaw just gives me some of his magic to continue following that code! Pura casts a sly glance to Zagathoth. And you may be right. He may not be very nice, but that doesn't mean he deserves the shadows.
Zagathoth has done no violence... he has only silenced the one disturbing this funeral, and she will wake shortly... now only this brazen woman disturbs the peace... Zagathoth 'spoke' only to the gawkers- to the child and the green one, to the one called dog, and to the brazen woman- she moves for all to see and then accuses of disturbing the peace... she draws attention and says endure the stares... Zagathoth proves his intention of peace by enduring these offenses, now she must prove hers by ceasing to cause real disturbance
Ashlyn's eye twitches for a moment as real ire wells up. She was not the one causing the disturbance; he had made a woman faint. How dare he imply she was disrupting the services!
She holds that fury for a heartbeat -- poised to wreak unholy vengeance upon all who wronged her -- and lets it dissipate unseen into the ether. She swallows and studies the crowd. Zagathoth hadn't spoke to everyone's mind in the gathering, though she assumed he had.
Chagrined, she lowers her hand and releases the breath she had been holding.
As soon as Ashlyn stops gesturing towards him he quietly slinks away from the area where the crowd is still focused.
Perceptive... and learned, she thinks to herself with consternation at this being's query. She wonders bitterly how Zagathoth could have known, since her wings were not showing. The phrase feathers ruffled had never so aptly fit before as she stood stiffly, focusing on the casket and ceremony to come. She deigned to remain calm. Perhaps he was just a good guesser.
If it is the latter, then perhaps it is to stand triumphant over a vanquished foe. Or perhaps to stand witness to the end of a long-standing rival. Perhaps the living souls he has left behind scream for vengeance. Or perhaps... just perhaps... he was a friend.<
She subsequently chides herself for that bitter answer. She hated being cryptic.
Ashlyn nods visibly, though no one else could hear what she was agreeing with.
A pause, and then she adds, >I hope that you were one of his friends, too.<
She slowly turns her head and looks in Zagathoth's direction.
And he saved mine, she thinks privately, looking up to the rain-heavy sky. A lump formed in her throat and her eyes watered as she thought of the professor's acceptance of her, even more than what was willing to accept herself.
It felt good to cry. It felt so... human.
A woman dressed in mourning attire, her chestnut brown hair and bright blue eyes scarcely concealed by the veil she wears. Her makeup has run a slight bit, evidence that she has very likely been crying. At her side is a tall man, flesh covered in scars and his face set in a scowl.
The woman addresses you all, her cultured accent underscored by a deep inner sadness, "Greetings to Ravengro, travelers. Are you, perchance, here for my father's... funeral?"
She almost had to choke out the last few words as her voice began to crack. Beneath her veil, you see tears rolling down her pale skin.
Pura cocks her head curiously at the spectacle. Looking over at ash, she tugs at the Erinyes' clothing and asks, "Why is she crying? I don't understand."
And in fact, Pura is suspicious of this display. She certainly would not have cried at HER father's funeral, so why should this lady be any different?
Ashlyn nods at the veiled woman, then looks down at Pura with a tight face. She clearly loves him, and is saddened at his passing, she instructs, then looking back at Lorrimer's daughter, adding, as do I.
She places a hand upon her chest and bows. I am Ashlyn, paladin of the Light. Your father brought me out of a very dark place. I owe him much. This is Pura. She looks down at the halfling, but she finds little to add about her. The knot already began forming in her belly thinking about their efforts to exorcise the daemonic influence from her.
Zagathoth nods in response to the mourner's question and moves forward to among the other funeral goers.