Sasayaki's page

Aroden, a God made flesh, slid his feet back, inching towards the portal and adopting a defensive stance. He blocked another attack, but his arms were weary and his wounds many. The walls were splattered in the blood of slain Hound Archons and men alike.

They had anticipated peril. They had not anticipated wholesale slaughter.

Arazni's Gift, his platemail that had borne him through so much of his troubled rebirth, was scratched and dented. The monster barely seemed slowed by such deterrences as a cocoon of metal.

"Hold fast," came the call from within the portal. A rich, intelligence voice mixed in with animalistic growl. "Never fear Godling, Servare the Red is here."

Aroden felt, rather than saw, his red dragon ally slip through the portal behind him; the creature was the size of a horse, all horns, red scales and fierce claws, its mute gnome slave strapped limply to its chest.

Why anyone would choose to willingly become an eidolon Aroden would never know, but the huge, blackened wound on the creature's chest that never seemed to heal spoke volumes about the matter.

He had no time to think about it. The construct lunged again with both arms. Aroden twisted his body, parrying one; the second screamed as it dragged along his plate, sparks flying wildly all around him. He stepped back, nearly tripping over the fallen body of their fellow Pathfinder, his crimson blood slicking the floor of this strange, hostile place.

"I said fall back, Servare! Our forces dwindle... This is a fight we cannot win! Take Anrakyr and flee this place, never to return!"

A rush of air behind him nearly knocked him off his feet as Servare's massive nostrils snorted dismissively. "You fleshlings can never understand. A dragon does not flee, least of all from an overgrown clock."

This was no time for bickering. Aroden lunged with his blade, slicing off a hunk of construct. He grit his teeth, halo flaring once more as he leapt forward, driving Ebonstorm in up to the hilt. He roared triumphantly, feeling victory to be certain.

The construct accepted the hit as though it were a mere inconvenience. It slammed its spiked arms into him, puncturing the steel of his armour, finding flesh below.

He could heal himself. Could restore whole damaged flesh, but air couldn't fill his ruined lungs. The construct released him. He tried to speak--tried to breathe--but nothing happened.

Ebonstorm fell to the ground, numb hands unable to hold it. His legs collapsed, Servare casually stepped over him, and the world once again went dark.

Aroden died with a smile on his face.

-----

But then there was light. There was always light. Aroden just could not stay dead.

There was warmth above him and below. Was he on the Material Plane, or had he ascended once again? Excitement filled him. Had death returned his divine essence?

He felt a touch on his cheek. A warm, comforting touch he knew well. Aroden kept his eyes closed, knowing who it was.

"Good evening, Arazni."

"Good evening, Aroden," was her soft reply. The tone sealed it for him. He hadn't ascended. This was... well, it was something. But it wasn't the plane of the Gods.

Aroden had known Arazni as a mortal, as his herald, his comrade, and... something else. It was complicated, the "us", but for most the term "close friends" was enough.

Quite close.

Those were brighter days, very much in the past. So much had changed in the mortal realms. Now Arazni ruled in Geb, a shade of her former self, her body dead and rotting. Horrid to look upon, but far less horrifying than her twisted and darkened soul.

He remembered Geb with much fondness, a bright and verdant land. Fertile.

No longer. Aroden was horrified to see it as it was today, just as he was its ruler. Seeing Geb's dead and rotten citizens tending the fields would be a sight that would never leave him, in this life or any other.

"I thought for sure that I would ascend if I were killed," he said, trying to sit up, but his muscles felt weak. Aroden remained in the white, laying on some unseen surface, content. "Wasn't that our deal?"

"What deal?" said Arazni, gently stroking his cheek. "Are you Asmodeus now, sneaking divinity into your fine print?"

"No, but I simply assumed..."

"You assumed that you would be reborn as an extraplanar mortal, live a good life, die in the service of a worthy organisation and regain your Godhood?"

"Something like that," Aroden admitted. "The best plans are often the most simple."

Arazni--or whatever was passing for Arazni--made a soft tsking sound. "One cannot solve a puzzle by finding a single piece. The mystery of your... absence... cannot be solved by a single act of bravery. How many other mortals have perished in the halls of Bonekeep? Do they all deserve to be Gods too?"

"No," said Aroden, "and I wonder sometimes if I do, either."

Arazni tittered in amusement. "Now you are Cayden Cailean, the reluctant God? How can you ever be expected to regain your place amongst the pantheon when you're too busy stealing the portfolios of your peers?"

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Words mean things. You shouldn't misuse them."

They say there in silence, Aroden basking in the warmth, Arazni cradling his head.

"I want to open my eyes," said Aroden, "but I'm afraid of what I might see."

"Afraid of me?"

"Afraid that you're not really here, and that this is all some kind of pre-expiration hallucination. Afraid Pharasma's pulling some kind of cosmic joke on me."

"The Lady of Graves is not known for her humour," Arazni remarked. "And if you ever doubt you're not really a God, I'm afraid the halo gives it away."

"Similar features have been seen in others."

There was no response, at least not right away, save Arazni's gentle breathing.

"Aroden... have you wondered, sometimes, why you don't possess the wizarding abilities you had in life?"

"I cast spells," Aroden protested. "I draw upon the magic of the Gods. This is a feat impossible for supplicants of dead Gods."

"But you do not cast arcane spells."

"I assumed that they would return in time."

"Quite an assumption," Arazni said.

"Can you tell me why?"

"Of course," said Arazni. "But do you trust what I'm telling you?"

"As much as I trust anything."

She inhaled, lifting Aroden's head slightly, then spoke. "Do you remember how you died?"

Visions of that terrible, painful event leapt back in his mind. He forced them away. "Yes."

"The death of mortals is a messy, bloody, screaming affair. The death of Gods are no different. When you were struck down, your divine essence was split into twelve aspects... The same aspects who once walked Golarion. The beggar, thief, fisherman, hunter, shepherd, farmer, merchant, tailor, craftsman, artist, scholar and soldier. You, of course, are the soldier."

"That explains the blade. The armour."

"Indeed. There are eleven others, just like you. One for each of the guises."

"What... happens when I find them?"

"Oh," said Arazni, "I would be more concerned about what happens when they find you."

"Why?"

"Each of them know this. The essence of Aroden was divided into eight. With the death of each--the true death--the essence stored in the fragment is distributed evenly. Look at how powerful you've become in such a short time, Aroden. But a few months ago you were a skilled but untested novice, strong but untrained... now you wield spell and blade with considerable skill. Why do you think that is?"

Aroden shuffled uneasily, grimacing, fighting the temptation to open his eyes. "Because I have trained with the Pathfinder society. Because I have explored, reported, cooperated. I've grown as an individual--"

"As a person? As one of them?" Arazni's voice took on a bitter edge. "Aroden, you are far better than the writhing fleshbags you associate with. It is true that the Pathfinder Society will, sooner rather than late, do something terribly important, and it's important you be there, but for now... these eleven other fragments of your soul should be your priority. Retrieve them and reclaim your destiny."

He knew it was wrong. If the other eleven shards were just as he was, they had every right to live. Besides. Aroden kept his word and he had pledged service to the Pathfinder Society. No small part of him knew that this was important.

"I'll investigate the eleven," Aroden said, meaning every bit of it. "After the Pathfinder Society's work is done."

"If you wait that long," said Arazni, her tone ominous, "they will find you first."

-----

Aroden opened his eyes and found himself staring directly into the nostrils of a red dragon. Beyond that, he could see the walls of the Grand Lodge in Absalom.

"Welcome back," purred Servare, his gnome slave limply hanging from its harness. "You've been gone for some time. We were unsure we could revive you--your spirit almost crossed over--but alas, I did not have Aasimar for my meal tonight." The bright runic mark on his forehead glowed. "Mores the pity."

Aroden pushed back Servare's snout, sitting up. "Down, dragon. You get your fill of horse meat." His head ached. His chest ached. "How long?"

"Eight days."

"Feels like just a few minutes."

"Keep the experience to yourself," smirked Servare, his gnome gurgling mindlessly. "I plan on living forever."

"Dragons die, you know."

"Not this dragon, meatsack. I have a bleachling to sap the life from."

Aroden rubbed his chest, trying to force the ache away. "Take it from a God," he said, grimacing as he slowly staggered to his feet, his hands trembling ever so slightly before him, his whole body drained.

"Nobody cheats death forever."

Please excuse the shake in my hand. Returning from Pharasma's embrace leaves a mark on the body that can take some time to fade. It was not my first brush with the Lady of Graves, and as soon as I am back in the Grand Lodge I hope that the restorative magic of the Pathfinders will purge the harrowing from my soul and restore my body to health.

After then I will leave you all forever.

This decision has not been made lightly, and I will attempt to explain as best I can, but I know you will not understand. Many will not. I apologise for this in advance.

Some say paladins do not know fear. I humbly count myself as one of their number, so I say this with the confidence of first hand experience.

They could not be more wrong.

A paladin lives with fear every second of every day. Their fears are not the fears of the common folk; fears of death, pain, suffering. Fearing the loss of their friends and family. Fearing poverty or disease or dismemberment.

Instead, a paladin fears that their great power will lead them to become a tyrant. A paladin fears they will be unable to prevent the suffering of the innocent, or that justice will escape the wicked. They fear that they will be unable to hold themselves to their own self-imposed, entirely unreasonable ideals. They fear that their swords and their strength will not be enough to keep back the ever-encroaching darkness.

They fear, yes, but there is a power behind them stronger than fear. A power that drives them to greatness. One that heals wounds, protects the innocent and inspires the downtrodden.

Love.

Most commoners assume that a paladin lives a life of chastity, of humble things, of prayers and rituals punctuated by heroic battles. They assume that theirs is an emotionless existence, a hollow one of mindless service until death.

They, too, could not be more wrong. I know of such lives, of empty servitude and toil. A paladin is nothing like this.

A paladin loves with all their heart. They possess a voracious adoration of life and all its many pleasures, bound to a thirst for joy that cannot be sated. They love everyone from the greatest king to the humblest peasant, and they love them so completely and utterly that all their thoughts are bent towards serving them. They give of themselves unquestioning and unhesitatingly, surrendering their youth, their health and—far, far too often—their lives. Every piece of their being is gifted in love and service to others.

I tell you that paladins feel fear... the curtain of darkness that falls over the mind and drives it to selfish purposes, but their unbridled love banishes the feeling just as torchlight banishes the night.

When the giant's club crushed my skull to paste during our expedition to the Storval Stairs, a paladin returned me from Pharasma's embrace. It was my dear friend Rita, a gnome so full of life and love that sometimes I feel her tiny body could not possibly hold it all.

But when I awoke and saw her, seeing with eyes made whole once again, I felt a terrible pain in my heart that I knew was not a remnant of being dragged back from the grave. Her youthful, joyous smile at seeing me live again could not be returned in kind. Even our combined love for all that is good in this world could not banish the shadows on my soul.

I have too many doubts, and I have spilled too much blood in my service to the Pathfinder Society. I reason it away; I tell myself that the giants we slew by the handful were wholly committed to evil and that our purpose was noble. This rationalisation calms my nightmares, sometimes, but there are so many other deaths by my hands. So many lives ended. I cannot excuse them all. How many orphans have I made? How many husbands, wives, children and siblings howl to the sky in grief because of what I have done?

We are Kings of the Storval Stairs, but that metaphorical crown is irrevocably stained with blood. If this is what it means to be a Pathfinder, to stand atop the broken bodies of our enemies, to kill dozens over a tiny strip of land, I cannot help but feel that this victory is hollow and that the full price of it will be paid in the next life. I see the encroachment of those shadows, I feel the fear, but I can summon no love to banish it.

How can I love a stranger when I cannot love myself?

(the remainder of the letter is stained with dried tears)

My best friend and loyal steed, the celestial horse Dawnstriker... I think he will understand the least. I treasure him like the brother I never had. Always has he been a source of courage for me, his brown eyes never judging, and it is with a great pain that I release him from service.

Enclosed is my wayfinder, a letter for him, and enough coin to dispatch a wizard to his home plane to deliver it. This is my final act of cowardice. He deserves so much better. I will regret this action for the rest of my life, but I cannot bear to tell noble Dawnstriker in person that I have fallen.

I am so very, truly sorry.

In grief and shame,

Liberator Zaheeda of the Silver Crusade, former paladin in Sarenrae's service, former Pathfinder.

Aura slight necromancy; CL 3th
Slot wrists; Price 500gp; Weight —

Description

This teardrop shaped, polished red Carnelian stone is threaded through a simple chain of thin interlocking links and is intended to be worn around the neck. Amongst the various Halfling families, trinkets like these are treated as heirlooms and are used to ease the risk and pain of childbirth. When worn, the bracelet reduces any bleed damage taken by 1 point (except ability damage) and grants a +2 enhancement bonus on rolls to stabilize.

Construction Requirements
Craft Wondrous Item, stabilize; Cost 250 gp