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At the sound of the infernal language echoing menacingly off the stone walls, Ibid’s heart stops. ”… Darius!” he tries to shout but is again overtaken by a fit of coughs, and looses another red torrent from his mouth. ”Stop… What are you doing? Everything went wrong here… We’re not ready to face it… He’ll take me if he comes…” As he again nearly swoons from his injuries, writhing in pain, he cannot bring himself to continue the verbal protest, instead only whispering a constant mantra of fears to himself.
”The contract is enforced if I die… I am going to die here… he’ll take me… as good as dead… my death is one of many clauses…”
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Ibid unclenches his eyes and looks up to Darius, betrayal etched into his features, showing clearly through the dirt and grim on his skin.
”Why would you do that, Darius?” Ibid stammers in shock and panic. ”…He… he wouldn’t miss a chance to collect me… Why wouldn’t he come? It doesn’t make sense… He should be coming to collect…”
” It’s not right, Darius,” confusion swirls as panic envelops Ibid’s mind. ”First the collapse.. Now he chooses not to show… Something is really wrong…”
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Darius crouches next to Ibid, and speaks kindly while taking hold of a trembling hand. ”Of course it is, my friend. Something has gone terribly wrong,” he says, his voice for the first time filling with actual kindness and, even more surprising, resolve. ”But it doesn’t mean you won’t make it out of this.”
Rising to stand and stare off down the tunnel, overrun by twisting shadows, Darius continues, ”I couldn’t call… it… up,” he sneers while referring to the word ‘it’. ”Because Auxziuak is already here.”
”That’s why everything went wrong on us. He knew what we were planning…”
From nowhere, and yet, all around them, the slow and deliberate sound of mocking claps fill the tunnel, one delayed beat after another.
A blur of red-skin materializes as if it had always been standing there amidst the swirling motes of dust, and the toothy grin of a devil with a perfectly devious smile stares onward at Darius. Rows upon rows of ridge-like horns are draped and wrapped in parchments etched with exquisite pen strokes.
”Quite impressive, Darius the Fox,” the creature says, smiling and tilting its head in odd ways while beholding all of the man. ”A little birdy told me that our friend, Ibid, was going to try and break his contract. With your help, of course, and we both know that is something I cannot in good conscience allow. It’s sad really,” his red hands gracefully sift through the multitude of scrolls and parchment hanging off his body, until at last he plucks one free. ”A futile attempt to break the contract, a clear breach in the agreement each signee has willingly accepted. It always ends the same way.”
”So, I’m afraid it’s time for me to take your friend. Come along…” the rust-skinned devil crouches beside the pinned man and runs a finger lovingly through his sweat soaked hair. Taking a moment to look at the contract, his keen eyes quickly review the details and signature. ”Come now, my friend. Do I really have to call you ‘Ibid’? It isn’t even a real name. It’s not even your given name. Oxley would be so disappointed in you. You’ll have plenty of time to reflect upon that once we get you out of here. After all, there is much to do and eternities in which to do it.”
Auxziauk rises and faces Darius once more. ”You best say your goodbyes, you won’t be seeing each other again.”
”Unless of course,” the contract devil begins with a laugh, finding himself quite humorous. ”You want to make a deal too, Darius?” he continues laughing, and turns away from the man.
Yesss…. Get them while they are desperate. When they feel like the only thing they have left is hope. That is how it always goes, is it not? It makes the years of crushing that hope so much more… fun.
A low, maniacal chuckle escapes from Auxziauk’s lips.
”Let’s see,” the devil says, perusing the letter and meaning of each word on the contract. ”The first to remove the ravages of fire… but only on visible areas of his skin… and repairing all deep tissue and muscle damage.” he reads aloud, while Ibid’s breathing gets shallower at his feet.
”The second to remove the curse, death’s palsy, from the child of Darius and Arezo, one Cyrus. he continues reading, appearing to care none for the meaning and intention behind each wish.
”And Third… umm… hmm… interesting,” Auxziauk feigns the appearance of being stunned for a moment, reading and reading the same passage before continuing. Crouching down beside the dying man, the contract devil again places a hand upon the man’s head. ”your third was never used… It’s a shame you tried to break your contract, you could really have used a wish right about now,” with that, the creature’s red hand pushes Ibid’s face down, causing his face to strike the stone floor.
The devil stops in his tracks at the offer, body frozen in thought, as if the energy to spin the gears in his mind are working so hard there is nothing left to move his frame. A slow smile creeps across his face as the moments pass. So easy. It almost isn’t sporting.
”It is adorable how you think you can save this one.” Auxziauk kicks Ibid in the ear to indicate who he is talking about. ”His fate is sealed. You would submit to me in order to buy this one a few more years? The only thing that saves this wretch’s soul is for me to breach the contract.” he laughs. ”And with so many clauses that favor me, we all know that will never happen. Just how might you propose we commence this switch?”
And how can I twist it so that I take both of your souls.
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His energy nearly spent already in protest, Ibid groans as he hears the words spoken by Darius, his friend. ”You cannot… ” Ibid labors to breath, his body no longer capable of even coughing, which makes his words and breath sounds like a sickening gurgle. ”He always wins… Don’t waste your life… Think about Arezo and Cyrus… He has already won…” His words trail off in volume as his life energy wanes, the minutes spent under the crushing boulder finally beginning to take their final toll.
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Darius closes his eyes and raises his shaky hands in the air, pantomiming a stop motion while he begins to speak, stuttering slightly as he rushes to put words to the thoughts in his mind.
”In return for Ibid’s immediate rescue and full healing, including safe egress from this mine, I, Darius will assume Ibid’s debt per the contract language.” Darius pauses for a moment, but then continues again suddenly, cutting off any response or rebuttal. ”In return for that clause, Ibid will ensure that my offspring will not make any attempt on the life of one, Auxziauk, or make any attempt to free me from my binding.”
”If Cyrus, or Ibid, makes any attempt to harm you, Auxziauk, Ibid’s initial wishes can be construed as being in breach of contract, and therefore, Ibid’s wishes are void. Their lives and their souls would be yours,” he continues, then adds. ”This will protect you from the retribution of my son, if he ever were to find out what happened here.”
”However, at no point in time will you, Auxziauk, or any of your minions, knowingly, or unknowingly, make any attempt to harm my son.” Then Darius pauses for a moment, before stating one final thought. ”And this is to protect my son from the likes of you. For if you break this clause, then you will be in breach of our contract.”
A strange, sinister laugh mockingly echoes again in the rubble filled cavern as Auxziauk gives a condescending look to Darius. ”Only if someone can prove it, this hypothetical attempt to harm your pathetic, flea-of-a-son.” the devil sneers.
As if I would leave any proof…
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"... do I have any choice but to accept…" Darius laments knowing he is stuck and will be hard pressed to get the better of the creature at his own game.
”Fine,” Darius spits the word, questioning if he has just allowed the devil permission to cover his tracks against his son. As he weathers the condescending stare from Auxziauk, the skinny keleshite looks to his dying friend, convinced he is doing what it takes to save both his own blood and Ibid.
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The look on the investigator’s face is one of bewilderment, and helplessness. Ibid tries to speak, but the proximity of death has stolen everything from him, save a vague awareness of what is happening.
How am I supposed to look after Cyrus? And stop him from coming after you? How can I stop myself from coming after….
”You can’t write an addendum to this contract…” Ibid coughs and sputters, barely able to form words. ”Auxziauk will twist every word to suit his desires… Contracts are his life and the ink that pens the verbiage is the black blood that courses through his veins…”
”... He will find a loophole in time… he has all the time… then Cyrus will be damned to hell as well…”
”... just let him take me… it should be me that dies here today…”
Ibid swoons, and the room spins as blackness nearly overcomes him. He summons his willpower to focus his concentration just a bit longer.
Initially, the idea of allowing the man to swap places with Ibid was an insult. These two pathetic creatures had moments ago tried to break a contract in a pitiful charade that never had a chance of succeeding. It was almost even more so an insult due to how truly feeble it was. But now, seeing the pain and panic in Ibid’s eyes, Auxziauk knew the pain of this decision would echo far into the future, flung like a wrecking ball through their lifespans, ruining the years and decades to come. Time was nothing to the devil, the blink of an eye might pass centuries, but for a human, lifetimes of pain and suffering would be crippling.
Allowing the men to swap places would cause so much more wanton destruction upon their lives, it would tear their very sanity apart. And then, in time, when the young Cyrus made a mistake, perhaps even unknowingly so, Auxziauk could have his soul too, along with Ibid’s. They seemingly had no choice to be play directly into his hand.
As Darius speaks, an unseen pen scrawls his very words onto two copies of the lengthy contract document. Auxziauk’s smug smile grows as Darius digs himself deeper into the hole he has so willingly leapt headfirst into.
When the keleshite man pauses long enough to indicate he is finished, the devil speaks. ”Consider it done.”
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Breathing in quick, shallow breaths as his heart pumps hard, Darius kneels down by Ibid, who is too weak to even cough, and pulls the worn, leather hat off of his head. ”Take care of Cyrus. He is stubborn, but so am I, and you and I have been friends for years. He is foolish, but brave. You’ll need to help dig him out of the messes he gets himself into. I’m sorry for this, and for leaving him to you.”
Darius pauses for a moment to swallow the lump in his throat down as a tear swells in his eye. ”You wished death away from him once, with this contract. It should be a father’s place to die for his son. I couldn’t do that before, so I will just have to settle for this now.”
Taking the hat off of his head, Darius puts it crookedly on Ibid’s crown. ”This isn’t the end… Nothing ever ends...”
The space between the two men is suddenly violated by the red sneer of the devil. ”Time to go.” He hisses.
Taking one last moment, the devil wipes the sweat from Ibid’s brow, brushing his lips against the man’s cheeks as he sings, ”Don’t worry, my friend. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” He stands up to walk away, then speaks to Ibid again, this time without even turning to look at him. ”For full disclosure, this counts as your third wish. At least now you can say they were all used. I am impressed, really. I’ve never met anyone so selfish that they used two separate wishes to save themselves from death. You are dedicated to the preservation of your pathetic life, I’ll give you that.”
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Ibid’s skin crawls at the vile touch of the contract devil. A familiar burn courses through his veins and instinctively Ibid knows his body is being healed by the infernal magic. The pain from the healing as well as the visage of pure evil only lasts for a few seconds as his vision goes black with a bang and a puff of sulfuric smoke.
When he opens his eyes again, Ibid stands outside the tomb, behind a crowd that has gathered around the entrance of the collapsed tomb. He scans quickly, though it doesn’t take long to find a small, Kelish boy staring at the tomb entrance, covered in dust with tears streaming down his face.
I can never tell him truth… his own life depends on it...
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Suddenly the sands, people, and the picture of his own young, tear-stained face swirl again like smoke caught in a dust devil. Cyrus’ consciousness is snapped violently back to the darkly colorful swirl of lights in the heavily incensed, silk draped room of Madame Enfer.
His breathing comes in quick gasps, like a man who has been held underwater against his will finally making it up for air. Sweat soaks his clothes and drips from his hair and face as he tries to gather himself. With horror clearly etched on his features, Cyrus looks at the woman across from him, then to Ibid.
What did...? How could you let him…? Cyrus wants to say more, to question and interrogate the old man, but he cannot manage the words. Fury and anger, mixed with utter confusion and world shattering truth press against his chest and steal his breath away.
Why… Kept from me all these years…
The swirling mix of questions and anger coalesce into a raging storm within the young ninja’s mind, but he cannot summon the courage to ask them aloud. He stumbles back, losing his balance and falling over as the reality of the past grips him. His knees shake and his legs refuse to hold him up, so he crab crawls back towards the door, the look of pain and fear still clear on his face. He backs up as far as the confines of the room will allow him, pressing himself into the corner. Scrambling to his feet, he flails for the knob to swing the portal open.
”What did you do?” He manages to eek out before turning his back and disappearing into the black of the Absalom night.
dot
Precisely three months, 1 hour and 4 minutes after the last post on the Zedroom, Damien Wilmann sits manfully upon his couch and casts "Get up again," on the Zedroom thread.
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Rain pours from the heavens, drenching and cleansing a patchy clearing in front of a rough hewn cave entrance. The lightless hole on the side of the mountain looks down over the dreary scene impassively, the opposite disposition of the cloaked and hooded figure that stands beside it.
He is glad for the rain, this mysterious humanoid, as it blends with the tears streaming down his face.
It is finished.
The voice rings in his ears. It is feminine and soft, seductive and transfixing, but the tone belies a cold harshness underneath. Like water to a desert traveler, it quenches something deep inside his heart, yet as soon as the last echo fades he is left yearning for it once more.
Then why do I still feel so angry? He questions the voice. Is the voice just in his head, or is there someone nearby? Perhaps he is just questioning himself...
This work may be finished, but you will be mine now. You will be an arbiter of my vengeance. I will take care of you, and you will do my work.
The staccato of fat raindrops drones on, dull and monotonous.
You still didn't answer my question.
He reaches his feathered hand up to his face, wiping the stubborn snot that won't sniffle back into his nose, and shaking the drops of water that cling to the edge of his hood. He finally slings his bow across his chest and begins to walk a well worn path away from the cave mouth.
I never promised you that avenging your parent's murder would make you less angry, only that it would feel good, and right. Did I lie to you? You know I did not, I can sense it in your mind. I could feel the satisfaction with every loosed arrow. This is only the beginning child. Take the apple I offer, see the truth that has been hidden from you. Vengeance will carry you through where sorrow weighed you down before. With me you will be powerful, without me you will remain pitiful.
His steps are nimble and light, a reflection of his heritage and not his mood. The slick, rain and blood soaked pathways hardly slow him down or cause him to stumble. He steps around the massive body of an ogre, lying motionless on the ground in a diluted puddle of red-soaked mud. Countless arrows protrude from his body, the apparent source of the stain.
Before long the clearing where once a tribe of ogres and their slaves lived is sufficiently behind him. Boros Anwemane, son of Kirian, begins to walk with purpose in his stride, his tears long since dried.
What must I do?
Go to Magnimar. There you will meet one of my high priestesses. She will show you the ways of those who love and serve the Unquenchable Fire.
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Suddenly, a tall, elven woman with golden blonde hair, bound tightly by many black silk bindings appears. Several enormous wasps wallow on the ground at her feet as she unfurls a black whip. Her black and gold bodice leaves nothing to the imagination, and her perfect breasts are pushed upwards to form two pale, luscious hemispheres just below her collarbone.
"But before you go to Magnimar, though," she notes in a deep voice that is equal parts treacle and venom, and her whip lashes out between each of her next words to crack at the air in front of Boros, "What... *crack*... is... *crack*... my... *crack*... name?"
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”A Garuda? How exotic.” a sultry, elven woman coos as the feathered male stands before her, as naked as the day he was born. She stands from her plush lounging area to saunter over and get a closer look at this subject before her.
In nearly all respects, the man standing before the seductive Callistrian priestess appears as any other human man. His body carries very little fat, giving the impression of an athlete. His body is skinny, and if not for other distinguishing features would appear normal, or even undersized for an average man. Instead of his stature or force of presence that makes Boros Anwemane stand out, it is that everywhere on his body where one might expect hair, he is covered either with a layer of soft down feathers, or longer, striking blue feathers.
”Aasimar. Garuda-blooded. If you please, Mistress.” He states, wincing initially at the woman’s gentle touch. There are numerous large welts on his shoulders, neck, and arms, but otherwise the feathered aasimar appears in good health.
The elven seductress continues to circle Boros, cooing in his ear all the while. Her voice is alluring, tempting, and relaxing all at once, not unlike the voice he heard in the mountainside clearing. The sensation of an unknown thirst deep inside his soul being quenched is not as powerful, but is present and pervasive nonetheless. As before, it is quickly replaced by an even more powerful yearning whenever she stops talking.
”I see the Savored Sting has expressed her displeasure with you already, child.” she whispers, touching several of the wasp stings and causing Boros to wince again. ”You will, no doubt, never forget her name now, will you?” She laughs a melodic, tinkling, enchanting laugh.
”No Mistress. No I won’t.” He says, swallowing hard and unable to hide the embarrassment that flushes his cheeks. With the gentle bluish hue of his feathers, this phenomenon appears a shade of purple, rather than the red that most humans experience.
”She is a vengeful mistress, our goddess,” the priestess continues, emphasizing what the two of them have in common, and never breaking her slow and deliberate circle around the exposed and vulnerable young aasimar. ”But for as fierce as her wrath is for those who scorn her, the favor she showers her faithful with is greater yet,” she smiles. ”I know that it is vengeance that has led you on this path, and for that, you have chosen your goddess well. In time you will understand, revenge is a sweet and satisfying drink, but your thirst will never be quenched. You will learn to embrace that. There is much to do. We should get started.”
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A roc flies through the rainy sky, replete with a small howdah stowing three creatures.
"Where do you think the Boss went? I was promised treasure and broads. Platonius still says I owe him 800 gold pieces for the kidnapping! Now the Boss has up and vanished..." the dwarf asks to no one in particular as they scan the land below.
The gnome mutters something, but Elon sees a strange sight below. "Hey, look." he points with a chubby finger. "Some naked dude is standing in front of a cave and..." he says, holding up his hand to shield his eyes to get a better look. "Is that a woman with a whip in there? Should we check it out?"
"We could. Ol' Betsy could land, Elon."
Thinking on it for a second, Elon shakes his head. "Nah, best not to get involved in a place that would have a naked blue guy and some dominatrix. He probably paid a lot of money for that."
"Moo..." Barley says in agreement as the roc cuts through the gusty wind with ease, leaving the erotic scene behind them.
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Boros lies in a plush bed, staring at a mirrored ceiling. A flickering candle is the only source of light in the corner, which causes his eyesight to flicker constantly between the colorlessness of darkvision and the dull orange reflection of the flame’s wavering glow. His body is coated in sweat, matting his feathers and down to his skin. A buxom blonde lies sprawled out next to him, peaceful in her deep sleep.
The sweat that clings to him is not from the previous evening’s physical activities. Once again the screams of anguish that are locked in his mind have ripped him from his restless slumber.
A longspear tears through the abdomen of a lithe, winged humanoid, spattering blood in a wide arc to the ground twenty feet below. A deep, rumbling and sinister laughter echoes off of the mountainous cliffs that surround the grisly scene. Another winged humanoid form screams the scream of someone who has just watched her lover murdered in front of her eyes, and flies through the air. She is only a moment too late to stop the dying form from crumpling to the ground. Another sinister laugh echoes as a ball of flame erupts over the dying body and his grief-stricken companion. The screams of grief quickly turn to screams of pain and terror. The scarred face of an ogre appears out of the flames as they suddenly disappear, revealing two charred corpses on the ground.
Boros rolls off of the pillows and sits up, rubbing his eyes. He stands and shuffles over to a wash basin in the corner of the room, splashing some of the cool water on his face and staring at the figure in the mirror.
Why would the ogres come up the mountain? Father left them alone, there was a truce. They were supposed to leave the Aerie alone…
Boros clenches his fists as his anger builds. Anger at what happened, anger that it affects him so much.
Purple hued dots cover his shoulders, arms and back, the scars from the numerous stings he received when he first met the avatar of his goddess. They no longer cause pain, but they remain a reminder of her dis-favor. Boros takes a deep breath, then turns back to his bed. He stops for a moment to take in the beauty of the woman whom he has shared so many nights with. She is no follower of Callistria, but yet somehow she is smitten with the gangly, exotic aasimar. A reminder of the favor of his goddess.
”She is a vengeful mistress, our goddess, but for as fierce as her wrath is for those who scorn her, the favor she showers her faithful with is greater yet.”The words of Mistress Lanvi ring in his head again.
”Your beauty is beyond compare, and the pleasures of the flesh you see fit to bless me with are unparalleled. Yet the power of your vengeance remains my motivation. You will give me the power, and I will make them pay.”
Satisfied with his declaration, just the same as he has done every night for the last several months, he crawls back into bed.
"Thanks for the rez!" the thread calls out in a strange, otherworldly voice.
Zedroom produces a strange device, it is a thick circular steel disc with a numeric readout - currently reading "89" - on its face, a red button of some kind on the top and a winder on the side. A faint ticking can be heard coming from within. Zedroom smacks the red button with it's central thread and the readout suddenly shifts to "90".
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The sound of festival music rings out in the air as a cool breeze comes in from the harbor. Covered in glitter and shoes still tainted with vomit, a man stumbles from side to side across the dark alleyway between brothels.
Ha! I've sure been there before! Poor fool, hope he makes it home okay...
As the sun comes up and the dawn birds start their song, many lone stragglers make way for softer surroundings in which to sleep off last nights many drinks. As Voarthan makes his way down the street, he looks down at the newly acquired square seal of the amulet around his neck.
Wow, my head is starting to feel all those rounds, but there was something I was told about this square amulet around my neck, what was it?! Or where?! Was I supposed to keep it on or off? Or was I supposed to take it off before leaving somewhere?!
About that time, out of the shadows, a voice is heard soft at first but louder as the message ends sending fear into Vorathan's soul!
Shoockkinng Graaaaaspp!!
Journal Entry - Egdoras Ale Run
It has been 5 days since we set out for the Egdoras clan halls. The roads are rocky and rough, but well defined enough for this crew. Stink, our caravan engineer knows his stuff and the carts are almost as hardy as the dwarves who push them. Ha! We’ve made good time despite the hard path so far. The mules don’t seem to mind to much either. Hiring that green thumbed dwarf, weird as he might be, has proved to be one of my better decisions. It’s like he has a connection with the beasts, speaks to them. Though I’ll be honest, if he wasn’t so good with the animals and keeping the undergrowth off of our heels, I’d run him outta my company for the way he shaves his beard. Blech! A dwarf that shaves and prefers the dirt of the surface to the rock of the caves. I’ll never understand. Nice enough though to chat with, and at least he enjoys a good brew. Grimault is strange for sure, but most druids are.
Speaking of strange, the last two we picked up a few days ago might take the whole barrel of ale. The dwarf was as true to any dwarf stereotype I’d ever seen. Son of ol’ Durifyur himself, I could tell before he even gave his name. Boy was I surprised to see him looking for me, and even more glad when he asked to tag along for the trip! I hope my boys never read this, but I’d take an Egdoras Clan dwarf at my shoulder in a fight over any three of my crew. Hardy, that clan. Hardy.
The boys are taking bets on what the other… ah… thing is. To say man implies human, and that he aint. Feathers all up and down where hair rightly should be, talons for feet, but walked upright like a man. Wings like a griffin, which is what really has the boys confused. That one hasn’t spoken a single word. Not even sure he understands common, much less dwarven. I still don’t know why a dwarf would be keeping company with a thing like that, but I’m a business-dwarf, and I know when to keep my mouth shut. In all my years I ain’t never seen anything like it. Maybe Gertle is right, I should get out more.
Something heavy weighing on their souls though, that much I can tell. Both of ‘em. I’ve been a merchant for nearly two centuries, and you learn to read a person’s eyes. Can’t get Glarifyur to open up about it though, and obviously the bird-man ain’t talking. I just leave ‘em be. They’ve got their business, and as long as they are willing to keep an eye out for bandits, I’ll give ‘em whatever food and space they rightly need.
Gertle’s calling. That mean’s soup is on. If we push these next three days and make the pass before the full moon, there’s a chance we can shave a day or two off of our trip. As long as we make it through before the rain season, we’ll be good. A few extra miles tomorrow. Tonight though, we drink and we sleep.
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It's been weeks since we cleared out the horrors beneath Carrion Hill. We must be getting close.
Boros trudges methodically behind the caravan as it crawls up a rocky mountain pass. The mountainous home of the Egdoras clan was still a few days away at least. The thirty or so dwarven merchants traveling this way had just broken camp an hour or so early, hoping to shave some time off of the trip and sleep one or two less nights under the stars. Boros didn’t care about the pressing pace.
Leather straps and silvered buckles tinkle in a rhythmic pattern that matches his steps. His quiver, with its extra slots and color-coded arrow flights bounces ever so slightly on his back, being pulled left and right by the weight of the backpack strapped over it. An exquisite longbow, delicately carved with depictions of wasps of all sizes up and down the length, is unstrung and serves as a walking stick.
His head turns from left to right, his eyes focused on the horizon and the patches of hardy scrub interspersed between the unforgiving rocky landscape. There was no threat to be seen. The most dangerous creature the caravan had come across was a mountain goat, too old and slow to keep up with the herd anymore. Left behind to die. No, there would be no attacks again today. Just like every day so far.
At least not from external threats.
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In the monotony, Boros’ mind flutters back to the Chaos beast in the darkened room in the accursed town of Carrion Hill. One moment he is confidently knocking an arrow. Another and his world is undone. The room seems to collapse in on itself, everyone around him morphing into a formless puddle that vomits finite body parts without the blood and gore that should have come with the apparent dismemberment. It was as if the order of the world around him released itself like a dam that isn’t supposed to break apart. The breakwall that kept order separated from the formless void simply disappeared, almost as if it never was. Chaos and entropy reigned, and order was subjected to the abyss. The very order that held him together.
Boros the bowman shakes his head, trying to slough off the thoughts like water down his oily feathers. His breath comes quickly; he steps off the trail and into the brush. There is nothing there but the shadow monsters in his mind. Moving as if there was a legitimate reason to inspect something helps him to break free from the vivid, haunting memories. He quickly waves off the others who call out in their curiosity and returns to the rumbling carts without a word. Barely before he can get back into the rhythm of the procession, the darkness presses in on his mind. He nods to Glarifyur, then takes up a long, loping gait that will lead him out in front of the vulnerable carts about a half mile before running a circle around to the rear, ostensibly to make sure there is no threat close, and to verify the pathway is clear.
There is much in life that a person takes for granted, no matter how long or shortly lived. There is a bedrock of truth upon which one stands, and he doesn’t think twice about his footing. When one or more of those truths prove to be less than truth, it shakes the foundation beneath the man who stands on it. That should be a part of life, growth, and cultivating wisdom. Experience, for better or worse, shapes us all into who we become as we traverse though this side of life. There are some truths that should always remain truth, however. Like the very fabric of existence. The forces that hold us together. In all of the chaos of powers and principalities, a man is a man and a dwarf is a dwarf. He has bones and blood, feels both joy and pain, he covets peace and longs for vengeance when it is called for. He knows tenderness, caring, and feels heartache. He loves, he loathes, he guides, he gives and receives… He exists.
What happened in the halls of the sanitarium broke all of those rules. Was he still alive? What is order, truly? Does any of this matter? There are some rules that should never be broken. Some truths that are supposed to remain steadfast. What happens now that there is a crack in the bedrock?
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A misshapen stone the size of a fist skittered along the muddy hilltop trail passing between the hooves of one of the wagon-pulling mules and giving him a moment's pause before continuing his lazily-paced trek towards the Egdoras Clanholds. Durifyur and his kin had built a rather bustling trade in iron and a rather rare steel; the fact that the trade route passed only half a day's travel from the large iron gates of his undermountain hold certainly did not hurt the business. Egdorian Steel had become commonly known as "Brewer's Steel" because the best value offered in trade was for large casks of ale that disappeared by the cartloads into the mountain home of the "Wayward Dwarf" clan; a fact well known to the trading company surrounding Glarifyur at present. Six massive wooden casks lilted gently from side to side in the back of the wagon that would soon be headed in the opposite direction laden instead with the valuable metal.
Glarifyur stayed just outside the right-most track dug into the mud along the trail by the wagon. Rain was somewhat uncommon in this region, and even Boros stretched and ruffled his cerulean feathers to shake away the damp and cold. Although he offered to pay the merchant for allowing he and his companion to accompany them up to the Clanholds, the merchant was well-known to the clan and would not hear of it. He liked the idea of the extra guard; Glarifyur liked the extra company.
As his thoughts started to wander, the eldest son of Durifyur kicked another stone. Stone. It always obeyed him as he always respected it. This stone veered errantly to the left and struck the mule in the hoof. Startled, the mule brayed and veered off course for just a moment before the teamster soothed the beast of burden and corrected his course. The angry glare from the wagon was lost upon Glarifyur; he was losing his connection. How could that be? He had always felt so certain when his boots were on dry land. His very skin had taken on the coldness and rigidity of the stone he so worshipped. But now, his skin looked pale to him; felt clammy and gray. The rain began to pick up and those amongst the caravan drew up hoods and folded traveling cloaks around their bodies. The cocophonous staccato of raindrops on the overly-thick boulder helm atop Glarifyur's shoulders lulled his senses back to the sanitarium atop Carrion Hill.
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His "memory" of the occurence there, if it indeed was a memory, was strange. Somehow, his senses prevailed even though he had no physical form. He remembered looking up at the ceiling of the asylum though he had no eyes. It was a cloudy, distorted image. Sounds were muffled and distant through his non-existent ears. For a moment, he was nothing more than a puddle on the floor. Through sheer terror and force of will he was able to shake the effects off, but they had scarred him in a way that he could not fathom. Glarifyur could not feel the connection with the earth as he had. His faith in Torag the Creator was shaken and in question. He felt empty, soft, confused, alone, and lost all at once.
A sharp nudge shook him from his mindscape. Boros had noticed his trance and had given him a jab with an arrow. Usually Glarifyur's thick skin made the arrow skitter off harmlessly, but this time a small rivulet of blood ran down the dwarf's exposed bicep. Trying to hide his surprise, the Aasimar nodded up ahead of the caravan.
"Looks like we've made it. I'll deal with your gear. Go see your father, greet your brothers and sisters. Don't hide what you feel from them, brother; they will know something is wrong. I will join you after awhile."
Boros moved ahead to meet the lead caravan and Glarifyur stopped to take in the sight of the large gates that guarded the halls where he grew up. The Egdoras Clanholds were a large network of caves and tunnels carved into the heart of a large mountain. Glarifyur breathed the familiar air in deep, glanced up at the ruins of an eyrie near the top of one of the many mountain peaks, and let the breath out in a sigh.
I haven't the strength to deal with that now. All in good time I suppose...
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Though the greeting was happy, Boros knew all to well the cunning of Durifyur and he acted as predicted. After a light homecoming, Glarifyur found himself at the foot of the large statue of Torag in the large, hewn basilica dedicated to the god. He took a knee and placed his hand on the boot of the gargantuan statue. He closed his eyes and reached out with his will to his god.
Have I been abandoned? Was this melting of my body even real? Why can I not feel you? Why can I not feel the life in the stone around me? What will make me feel whole again?
To his surprise, tears began to trickle down Glarifyur's cheeks and mingle with his beard momentarily before falling to the dirt-covered brick at his knees. Was he crying? What in the Nine Hells was happening to him. Then and there, at the foot of the god that he had revered his whole life, Glarifyur broke down. Tears of anguish fell and began to pool up in the dirt of his homeland, the holy dirt at the foot of the most awe-inspiring tribute to the Creator.
He slept there that night, only being vaguely aware of Boros checking on him and covering him with his travel blanket before leaving him to his misery. When he awoke he found that his head was much clearer, like he had somehow found some peace in this awkward and uncomfortable outpouring of fear and emotion. He had never cried like this in his whole life, adult or childhood. Feeling a bit embarrassed, he smoothed his clothing against his skin and took to his feet, except a sticky sensation and a sickening noise accosted his senses of touch and hearing. He looked to the tan jerkin he wore and saw it saturated with blood. Quickly, he removed the shirt to reveal that his skin, pink and wrinkled like that of an old, pale human, had begun to slide off of his body!
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At first, he panicked and tried to stop the flow of his hide to the stone floor, but suddenly a sort of calm came over him. He watched as his flesh coalesced on the ground into a puddle, mixing with the clay and stone on the floor of the bascilia. It darkened, swirled and hardened into a round lump, swelled a bit in size, and sprouted clay arms and rear haunches. Just then, the statue of Torag bent down, smiled and touched the creature on his head. His eyes were kind, but bored into Glarifyur's as a booming voice congealed in his mind.
THIS IS SLAEGHT. HE WILL STAND AS A REMINDER THAT YOU ALWAYS HAVE A CONNECTION TO ME. FEAR NOT THE MEMORY OF YOUR EXPERIENCE IN CARRION HILL, BUT FIND STRENGTH IN THE KNOWLEDGE THAT A LESSER DWARF WOULD NOT HAVE SURVIVED. A LESSER DWARF WOULD HAVE MELTED INTO FORMLESSNESS AND RETURNED TO THE STONE. FIND YOUR CONSTITUTION ONCE MORE, GLARIFYUR SON OF DURIFYUR, FOR YOU ARE DESTINED FOR MORE IN THIS LIFE.
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The dream ended suddenly, and Glarifyur woke with a start. He pulled the blanket around himself defensively and stared up at the large statue towering above him. Although it had seemed so real, the statue stared confidently forward as it had for hundreds of years. The eldest son of Egdoras gathered himself and stood up, placing his hand once more on the booted foot of his god. A familiar vibration coursed thorugh his hand, into his arm and warmed his chest. There it was! His connection! He twisted his foot into the brick floor and felt the brick coalesce around his boot. As he clenched his fist, he chuckled as the familiar feel of stone grating stone echoed through his fingertips. The memory of Carrion Hill had been upstaged; he laughed at it as if it were a silly ghost story to scare children.
"Thank ye, Torag. I dunno how the faith works, but it does. Ye showed me grace when I questioned you and helped me find my way back. You have shown your devotion to me just as I have tried to show the same to you."
"C'mon, Slaeght. Let's go find the family and have a proper homecoming celebration!"
The ball of clay bounded up to Glarifyur just like an excited dog, circling his feet and looking up at him with dark, obsidian eyes. Then the realization hit Glarifyur: Slaeght was real! The dream was, in it's own way, real! Glarifyur bellowed a loud and long laugh that echoed and reverberated through the halls and into the heart of the mountain.
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The caravan crests a small rise in the road under the cover of a steady rainfall. The incline in the road is not too steep, but just enough to hide the sight of the massive gates to the clanhold of Durifyur Egdoras and his burgeoning kingdom a mile or two down the now heavily worn roadway. Now that they were clear of that final rise, the gates and the impressive mountain-scape beyond dominated all views. Just ahead of them Grimault, the dwarven druid, cajoles the mules and oxen forward in the rain-slicked roadway. Were he not so lost in himself, Boros would marvel at how the ground around each step the beasts take seems to dry out and harden, giving them sure footing in the soggy landscape.
Boros, the youngest of the Anwemane Aerie, knew they were really getting close earlier that day when the cloud shrouded skyline of the mountain peaks off in the far distance whispered to his soul. Instead of the typical joyous sensation of returning home after a long journey, the malaise of his undoing clutches to his soul. The very abyss itself seems to hang over his head like a stormcloud, blotting out any light that threatens to break through to his heart and free him from these invisible chains.
Now that they have crested the final rise and the gates are in clear sight, Boros’ eyes follow the mountains up to their peak where a cluster of stone buildings stand perched on a snowy cliff face. The buildings jut out from the sheer, rocky face, like a bundle of stone trinkets hung on a wall by some titan of an era long forgotten. Home.
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The feathered inquisitor shakes his head again, clearing the memory. Sleep is a daily necessity, and so that memory will return soon enough to haunt his dreams; there is no need to dwell on it now. Boros sees his dwarven friend walking next to him in a similar malaise. The abyssal cloud hangs over each of them and the gray rain around them reflects the burden on their hearts. Snagging an arrow from his quiver, he pokes Glarifyur in the arm. Back when mirth and jokes had more meaning, Boros would often comment how he could sharpen his arrows on the dwarf’s skin. Not this time though. Trying his best to hide his shock when the razor edged blade cuts the stoneskin and draws blood, he nods to the gates ahead, snapping the dwarf from his own trance.
Glarifyur moves off, and Boros’ eyes go back up to the ridge line again. Glarifyur flags down Briggithun, the lead merchant of the caravan and begins talking. The words blend into the background noise as the feathered aasimar pays no attention. He stares at the empty stone buildings perched high, standing sentinel over the wide valley that leads into the heart of the mountain, his surrogate home. For years he had lived with the Egdoras Clan, ever since the tragedy that wiped out his own clan. For centuries before, his family had been tied to the dwarves of the mountain. The story of how his father, and Glarifyur’s father had come to this place was long, fraught with inexplicable magics, and nigh unbelievable. And also for another time.
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The scarred face of an ogre appears out of a raging conflagration. The face is twisted in an evil smile, and sinister laughter echoes from all around. The flames disappear, revealing a young, naked Garuda-blooded Aasimar. He is bound by chains and his shoulders are bowed from the weight. Suddenly the form explodes from the inside out. Instead of blood, gore, and feathers, the explosion is parts and pieces of the feathered man’s body, erupting like a volcano from his core. The bits and chunks fall back to the ground only to reform into an amorphous blob that should be his feet, and are inevitably cycled back in to another eruption. The leering face of the Ogre melts into itself as well, somehow retaining a semblance of framing and form, though the parts are all out of order. A toothy mouth, located where a forehead should be opens up to swallow the chaotic erupting form.
Boros snaps awake in a cold sweat, looking around the simple room that was hewn from the stone caverns beneath the mountain. Nothing but darkness and plain, well carved walls are there to greet him. He pads over to a basin of water across the room and splashes his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It was the same dream he had been having ever since his vengeance fueled rampage on the ogre valley some time ago. Except ever since his experience in the town of Carrion Hill, it had changed. Where before he saw his parents, murdered in cold blood, now he saw his own undoing. The mantra of vowed vengeance that sustained him before was lost as well, replaced by confusion and fear.
What is wrong with me Callistria? What have I done wrong? Is this your punishment?
Without warning, Boros feels a sharp stinging sensation on his left shoulder. A hornet flits about his head, buzzing angrily before darting out of the room.
How did that get in here? He wonders for a split second. Slipping on his breeches, the inquisitor grabs his ogre-hide whip from the pile of clothes, armor, and weapons laying in the corner of the room. The room had been given to him many years ago by his dwarven family when his own blood was wiped out. Barefoot and bare chested, he takes a deep breath and silently ducks out of his room.
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Moving quickly, and finally with purpose, he darts through the hallways of the underground dwarven stronghold. A small contingent of Torag Priests can be heard laughing boisterously around the corner up ahead. Without hardly a thought, Boros snaps out his whip. A flick of his wrist and the end is coiled around a beam high near the corridor’s ceiling. He climbs hand over hand, pulling himself up until his chest and nose is pressed against the high, cold stone, his arms straining on the coiled whip and his legs braced on the load bearing beams. The laughter gets louder as the three priests make their way into the hall, drinking what is no doubt the newest brew that Boros and Glarifyur helped to escort to the mountain hold. To his relief, the clerics pass right beneath him, not noticing his presence in the dark corners of the ceiling. As soon as they are past, he drops silently back to his feathered feet. Another snap of his wrist and the whip uncoils from its place around the beam and is back hanging from his belt in a matter of seconds.
I don’t want to answer any questions right now. He thinks to himself as he begins picking his way towards the ventilation shaft that he knows is in the upper parts of the underground cavern. It was the only place he could get outside without being seen. At least, assuming he could get past the dwarves working in the smithy. Every night and day the forge room was a never-ending bustle of activity.
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Nearly a half hour later, after carefully making his way through the underground city without being seen, he stares at the soft, orange glow coming from a room up ahead. Just past that is a cleaning access tunnel that leads to a ventilation shaft, which opens up in the cliff face just below the stone buildings he had viewed on his way in. His old home.
With a steadying breath, he tenses up his muscles, ready to make a break for it when he suddenly feels a presence behind him. Boros freezes in place and his heart races while his mind runs through a hundred different excuses for why he was here, in this place, at this time. Not one of those reasons takes into account the fact that he had long been accepted as a brother in these halls, an adopted son of Durifyur himself, and he need not explain himself to anyone. Nor would anyone bother to ask.
Turning around slowly, his heart nearly leaps out of his chest. The black and white of his darkvision flickers in and out with the glow of the forge room behind him, and the features of the dwarf, arms crossed, remain unclear. The shape of the head, the outline of the beard, the size of the barrel shaped chest is surely Durifyur himself, lord of these halls. There would be no lying to this dwarf, though why he felt the need for secrecy he still did not know.
A forge flares up bright in the room behind them, illuminating the dwarf’s face. To Boros’ great relief he sees not Durifyur, but instead the dwarven lord’s son, and Boros’ best friend.
”Glarifyur. I…” he says, fumbling for words and turning his face back to look at the ventilation shaft briefly. ”I cannot find my answers here. I have to go back…” Boros looks at Glarifyur, expecting to see the judgement he was subconsciously placing upon himself. Instead, he sees a light in the dwarf’s eyes. An earth elemental rumbles up behind the dwarf out of the darkness, which sparks a small, but wry smile on the dwarf’s face.
Boros’ breath quickens slightly. He has found his answers! Praise Callistria, that means that there are answers to be found! He furrows his brow, more determined now than before. Without another word, Boros turns and trots for the narrow tunnel, uncaring who might see him anymore. He squeezes in and starts the slow, arduous process of climbing up and out to the top of the cliffs.
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Wind whips through the abandoned stone buildings at the top of the cliff face. It is a cold and biting wind. Though it is strong and fast, it is thin, because the altitude of these peaks are high. While the craggy, stone mountain face is pockmarked with piles of snow, the buildings hold none, too smooth and perfectly cut are they to harbor any passing snowflakes. No imperfect cracks or crevices with which to hide and gather. Durifyur built this place. Him and his sons. They built it for Kirian, Boros’ father, and his family. There was rumor that Durifyur and Kirian were otherworldly, that Golarion wasn’t even their native world. The only thing that kept Boros from dismissing that notion completely was his own, angelic heritage. That, too, seemed impossible to explain.
Boros the Callistrian inquisitor sits perched on the upper balcony of one of the largest buildings in the Aerie. His father’s old home. The sun has not yet seen fit to rise, but still he stares out into the distance. The vantage point allows him to see hundreds of miles to places so far away they seem as though they couldn’t possibly exist, except in one’s imagination.
Like Carrion Hill.
”It’s beautiful up here. I can see why your people would live here.” A voice from behind startles the Aasimar, who had assumed he was alone. He turns quickly to face the sneak and finds a tall, human woman wearing an extravagant gown made of lace and trimmed with furs.
The woman takes a deep, cleansing breath through her nose, holds it a moment, and releases it slowly through pursed lips. ”If there was ever a place to find your balance, this is it.” she says, walking past him and ignoring both his question and his agitation. Boros turns as she walks to keep facing her. Eventually she stops at the edge of the balcony, her back to the Aasimar, staring into the dark horizon.