Black and red wings pushed through the acrid atmosphere propelling Nova above reddened skies. She soared high only to swoop down in lazy circles surveying the blood and bile soaked forest of the Ssythkakru. The trees of the dying souls writhed beneath her as tendrils of sulfuric vapors wound their way skyward. Nova rode the thermoclines onward as she sought the ziggurat where her prey awaited. She had been witness as the planetar was chained to the dais. She had looked on with fascination while the minions of Demogorgon had shackled the shining being in irons. How beautiful the thing had once appeared, pristine and resplendent in its innocence. Its ivory skin radiant, its face so unblemished by pain. Now its golden hair, which had flown freely, lay matted in its own blood. Its fair skin marked by the incessant lashing of its torturers. Blood flowed in an endless stream from the font of a never sealing wound to its chest, filling the sacrificial basin of obsidian over which it was bound; another prize of the vile and hated god to which Nova was held in servitude. Nova mused at the way the treatment had changed the creature. No longer beautiful, the wretched thing more resembled the remnants of the tortured souls upon which the succubus feasted at leisure.
How she loathed the knowledge that she too was just another amusement for Demogorgon. It brought her pleasure to know she was taking from him, something he valued.
As she soared, the ziggurat came into view rising high above the sticky foliage of the Ssythkakru, its obsidian façade shining black against the ember laden sky. Nova spiraled downward as she made her descent. Landing lightly upon the upper steps, she trailed her hand across the blood laden runes, gathering a bit of the creatures blood, she brought her fingers to her lips in an anticipatory taste of the feast yet to come. The knowledge of her defiance of the god made the blood all the sweeter to her taste. Casually she made her way up the steps to the dais.
“Hello once beautiful one. Do you miss the face of your god? Is the face of mine as sweet?” Nova looked upon the fallen planetar and smiled. Reaching her delicate hand into the basin, she pooled a bit of the thick crimson liquid in her palm and brought it to her lips. Nova relished in drinking of the light-being’s blood. She trailed a hand along its face. “You used to be so pretty. Does this place not agree with you?” The planetar looked up into Nova’s eyes.”What do you want with me?" Shaking her head in submission, she softly added, "It does not matter. I have fallen from the grace of my God. Do with me what you will.”
”I shall,” Replied Nova, her delicate lips turned up ever so slightly in a smile.“But I thank you for your permission.” With that Nova lifted the creature’s hair from its graceful neck. She sank her teeth into the beings soft flesh and feeling the distictive 'pop' as they pierced the artery, drank her fill.
The Order of the Dark Flame: Book 5. (story, no spam)
Nova feasted on the elixir that would otherwise have fed the lust of Demogorgon. Drinking the life force of the planetar, Nova abandoned herself to the rapture of the feast. She felt her spirit as it soared above, watching herself as she fed on the light-being’s essence. The two creatures locked in deadly embrace; she tenderly cradled the dying being in her arms as she drained the blood from its waning form. Nova rode the crescendo of her excitement as she anticipated the wrath of her despised god. He would not be pleased.
The heat of the last of the creatures life ebbed and Nova knew that to continue would be its demise. Reluctantly, she accepted the fact that it could not sustain the assault any longer. With cold detachment, she willed herself to end her pleasure. A hard jolt brought her back into herself, and she convulsed in ecstatic throws at its culmination. With deliberate effort Nova released the bite which had held the creature to her lips, the planetar falling limply away from her grasp.
She laid the light-being gently onto the cold blood-soaked stone and stroked its matted hair. ”Sleep, once beautiful one. Your time is not yet come. I thank you for what you have shared. We shall meet again.”
With that, Nova spread her leathered wings and by a powerful thrust, propelled herself into the fire choked sky. Soaring toward the horizon, Nova turned her head to glimpse once more at the wretched thing. ‘Do not die. I would miss you.” She climbed ever higher on the heat waves rising beneath her outstretched wings, and glided toward the edge of the abyss.
Scayde Moody
(Pronounced Shayde)
The virtue of self sacrifice is the lie perpetuated by the weak to enslave the strong
Thalimon Shestare stood still for a time, studying the warded door before him.
A bewildering maze of spidery script, slithering sigils, and arcane carvings subtly led his vision astray, causing his eyes to wander aimlessly across the web of deceit. The Drow were masters of enchantment, and the brilliant minds behind this marvel of sorcery and craftsmanship took great care in their work…the door was not meant to be opened by the uninitiated.
Yet, every door has a key. This one was no different.
As he pondered the nature of keys, the tiefling’s eyes began scanning the hewn wall surrounding the Ward Door. The key was often where you would least expect it…directly in your sight, obscured by the obvious. Such was often the way of the haughty and the powerful.
To the left of the door, Thalimon noted an inconsistency in the texture of wall. A small depression, perhaps large enough to accommodate a hand, was faintly discernible upon the carved rock. The pattern of glittering adamant flecks was interrupted by the pressure plate, making its outline stand out to the paladin’s sensitive eyes. An anomaly…
As he approached the plate, Thalimon measured his surroundings carefully, again looking for minute deviations from the norm. Just as often as the obvious was shrouded by the obscure, the obscure could be masked by the obvious…during his sojourn in the Underdark, the servant of Torm had observed the ingenuity and cunning of the Drow firsthand. They were never to be underestimated. Avenger flared…
And Thalimon, upon activating the depression in the wall, immediately became aware that nothing had happened as a result. He smiled thinly, realizing that this key was not obvious. The key was to be found upon the door, this he was sure of. If it was not, the makers would not have taken such care to deceive the eyes of the casual appraiser. Perhaps the plate was part of a closure mechanism?
Returning to the door, Thalimon eased into a sitting position before the massive slab. Though the manipulation of the Weave had not been his calling, he nevertheless possessed an intuitive grasp of its nature…an ethereal net which permeated all things, both animate and inanimate. It was his strong tanar’ri heritage which lent him an awareness of the unseen…a gift of his cambion father…and, as he had suspected long ago, that of his mother as well.
As a lad, the Thukariin had guided Thalimon upon a path which led to the exploration of the things within. In order to be attuned to the world outside, one must first be attuned to the world within. So it was that Thalimon learned of the Flame through the harsh lessons of the aging Thykiri master. From searing heat, battered flesh, and rigid discipline, Thalimon had at last surrendered to that brilliance within, a flickering awareness always within his grasp…
…breathing deeply as he looked upon the maze of enchantment, the paladin allowed his eyes to shift slightly out of focus. Alone and unaided, the mind was vulnerable to suggestion and manipulation. It was subject to the clamoring of the body, and the illusion of time…the constraints of which often blinded the inner eye to the presence of the obvious. Yet, paradoxically, it was the mind which held the reins of mastery…and the challenge was not a question of establishing the supremacy of the mind. Rather, it was a matter of empowerment…
As his focus shifted, the scene before his eyes swirled in chaotic disarray. A dark abyss of whispered screams began to yawn before the tiefling as the door assumed another form entirely. It was the mouth of Hell, and the voices were calling his name in the throes of their endless torment. Amongst the cacophony of screams and maniacal laughter, a voice stood alone, patient in her suffering, steady beyond the boundaries of time. It was the voice of Justice, and it was a voice he knew well. She lie beyond the door, and she awaited his arrival in chains of everlasting imprisonment.
Riding the storm, Thalimon allowed the worst to wash over his flickering awareness. All things must pass…and soon, the Way shall stand revealed before me. Tossed about and buffeted by the carrion-wind of the Abyss, he waited expectantly for the path to emerge from the chaos…
Emerge it did, albeit slowly. Like bits of flotsam in a primordial soup, a series of symbols began to fall into place, no longer affected by the swirling of matter and energy which inundated the chamber. They formed a path through the confusion, one which the tiefling was careful not to focus directly upon. Casually allowing his eyes to wander along the shimmering chain, he navigated through the madness until at last, he looked directly upon the center of the maze…
Snapping his eyes back into focus, Thalimon bolted upright. He had found the key, and discovered that the Ward Door could deceive him no longer. There it was, in plain view - a smooth depression in the stone. It was made to receive a hand. Stretching out his mailed fist to the receptacle, he understood that the hand must be smaller, and slimmer, than his own.
Turning towards the still form of the slain Drow priestess behind him, Thalimon steeled himself for what must be done. Lifting her lifeless body from the floor, the paladin took her gloved hand in his…and placed it neatly within the depression on the door. As expected, the slab began to move…
…opening to a scene of unimaginable horror and putrid decay. Within the chamber of the portal, the Glabrezu Shiaz’rathiit stood looming in the darkness, his gigantic form shrouded in terror, fear, bile, and blood.
”Welcome, tiefling,” the Guardian rumbled in the gloom. ”I have been waiting for you to come. Yes, I have.”
A bewildering maze of spidery script, slithering sigils, and arcane carvings subtly led his vision astray, causing his eyes to wander aimlessly across the web of deceit. The Drow were masters of enchantment, and the brilliant minds behind this marvel of sorcery and craftsmanship took great care in their work…the door was not meant to be opened by the uninitiated.
Yet, every door has a key. This one was no different.
As he pondered the nature of keys, the tiefling’s eyes began scanning the hewn wall surrounding the Ward Door. The key was often where you would least expect it…directly in your sight, obscured by the obvious. Such was often the way of the haughty and the powerful.
To the left of the door, Thalimon noted an inconsistency in the texture of wall. A small depression, perhaps large enough to accommodate a hand, was faintly discernible upon the carved rock. The pattern of glittering adamant flecks was interrupted by the pressure plate, making its outline stand out to the paladin’s sensitive eyes. An anomaly…
As he approached the plate, Thalimon measured his surroundings carefully, again looking for minute deviations from the norm. Just as often as the obvious was shrouded by the obscure, the obscure could be masked by the obvious…during his sojourn in the Underdark, the servant of Torm had observed the ingenuity and cunning of the Drow firsthand. They were never to be underestimated. Avenger flared…
And Thalimon, upon activating the depression in the wall, immediately became aware that nothing had happened as a result. He smiled thinly, realizing that this key was not obvious. The key was to be found upon the door, this he was sure of. If it was not, the makers would not have taken such care to deceive the eyes of the casual appraiser. Perhaps the plate was part of a closure mechanism?
Returning to the door, Thalimon eased into a sitting position before the massive slab. Though the manipulation of the Weave had not been his calling, he nevertheless possessed an intuitive grasp of its nature…an ethereal net which permeated all things, both animate and inanimate. It was his strong tanar’ri heritage which lent him an awareness of the unseen…a gift of his cambion father…and, as he had suspected long ago, that of his mother as well.
As a lad, the Thukariin had guided Thalimon upon a path which led to the exploration of the things within. In order to be attuned to the world outside, one must first be attuned to the world within. So it was that Thalimon learned of the Flame through the harsh lessons of the aging Thykiri master. From searing heat, battered flesh, and rigid discipline, Thalimon had at last surrendered to that brilliance within, a flickering awareness always within his grasp…
…breathing deeply as he looked upon the maze of enchantment, the paladin allowed his eyes to shift slightly out of focus. Alone and unaided, the mind was vulnerable to suggestion and manipulation. It was subject to the clamoring of the body, and the illusion of time…the constraints of which often blinded the inner eye to the presence of the obvious. Yet, paradoxically, it was the mind which held the reins of mastery…and the challenge was not a question of establishing the supremacy of the mind. Rather, it was a matter of empowerment…
As his focus shifted, the scene before his eyes swirled in chaotic disarray. A dark abyss of whispered screams began to yawn before the tiefling as the door assumed another form entirely. It was the mouth of Hell, and the voices were calling his name in the throes of their endless torment. Amongst the cacophony of screams and maniacal laughter, a voice stood alone, patient in her suffering, steady beyond the boundaries of time. It was the voice of Justice, and it was a voice he knew well. She lie beyond the door, and she awaited his arrival in chains of everlasting imprisonment.
Riding the storm, Thalimon allowed the worst to wash over his flickering awareness. All things must pass…and soon, the Way shall stand revealed before me. Tossed about and buffeted by the carrion-wind of the Abyss, he waited expectantly for the path to emerge from the chaos…
Emerge it did, albeit slowly. Like bits of flotsam in a primordial soup, a series of symbols began to fall into place, no longer affected by the swirling of matter and energy which inundated the chamber. They formed a path through the confusion, one which the tiefling was careful not to focus directly upon. Casually allowing his eyes to wander along the shimmering chain, he navigated through the madness until at last, he looked directly upon the center of the maze…
Snapping his eyes back into focus, Thalimon bolted upright. He had found the key, and discovered that the Ward Door could deceive him no longer. There it was, in plain view - a smooth depression in the stone. It was made to receive a hand. Stretching out his mailed fist to the receptacle, he understood that the hand must be smaller, and slimmer, than his own.
Turning towards the still form of the slain Drow priestess behind him, Thalimon steeled himself for what must be done. Lifting her lifeless body from the floor, the paladin took her gloved hand in his…and placed it neatly within the depression on the door. As expected, the slab began to move…
…opening to a scene of unimaginable horror and putrid decay. Within the chamber of the portal, the Glabrezu Shiaz’rathiit stood looming in the darkness, his gigantic form shrouded in terror, fear, bile, and blood.
”Welcome, tiefling,” the Guardian rumbled in the gloom. ”I have been waiting for you to come. Yes, I have.”
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
Thalimon had anticipated the psionic assault. The Glabrezu delighted in the mental torment and agony of other creatures...amongst the cruel masters of the Abyss they were feared especially for their sadistic appetite, one which drove them to the depths of insane depravity.
The tiefling had faced a Glabrezu before in battle, in the days when he was known as the Dark Guard, the talmaad of the Lord of Blades. Though long forgotten in their mountain fastness of earth and stone, the Imperators of Thuul yet yearned for the days of their former glory. To this end they summoned the dreaded tanar’ri warrior races to do their bidding as they did in the days of old, seeking to gain a foothold once more in the lands of the Waste. At the side of the Lady of the Lykanviiri he had faced the minions of doom ...and with the holy blade of Nether he had sent them back to the Abyss, their spirits swearing eternal vengeance.
Barbed whips of dark psychic energy lashed out to flay Thalimon’s mind. Such an attack left the victim stunned and senseless, their fragile ego slashed by scorn, deceit, and terrifying rage. No doubt this was the Guardian’s favored mode of assault, characteristic of his bloodthirsty kind. The paladin drew in his breath...
...whilst the ego whip of the demon flailed impotently against a tower of iron will, erected hastily by his vulnerable mind.
The Guardian roared in frustration. ”Surrender to me, fool! I know your name...I know who you are...and you shall not find ME cowering in fear before that pathetic bauble you wield. You are a disgusting, impetuous worm...come, die as you deserve, weakling.”
____________________________________________
Rak stirred from his dreams at the blast of rage from the gigantic Hunter. Bear faced a new threat on his primal hunting grounds...
Hawk. Yes, this one is the feathered hunter, his talons gleaming brightly in the sun.
The sun...Rak blinked his eyes in pain at the searing, blazing light which had suddenly flooded the dark chamber. Instinctually he gripped the sword upon his lap, taking in his surroundings as he rose warily to his feet.
The light was issuing from the flaming blade in the hand of Hawk. As the half-orc’s eyes adjusted to the jarring change of ambient light, he took in the measure of the challenger. Though dwarfed by Bear, Hawk stood without fear. He is shining with the light of the sun. He is not like the others, for this one is not prey. He is a hunter.
Standing still, Rak determined to be a witness of the imminent struggle. He was blessed to be honored in such a way. Offering thanks to Bear, he lowered his sword to his side, and watched with interest as the battle was joined.
_________________________________________
“Very well, half-breed. Heed not my warning. You have no choice in the manner of death I shall inflict upon you. Be still, now, as I ponder the way I shall devour your soul...”
A wave of force slammed into Thalimon, rocking him back and threatening to crush him against the stone beneath his feet. Still the tower of his will prevailed, the walls of black iron withstanding the constricting coils of the demon’s telekinetic grip. He fought furiously against the rising force which sought to lift him airborne, the veins in his temples bulging as his mind strained desperately to maintain control.
The withering might of his foe was taxing the limits of the psionic power that, for the most part, lie dormant in the tiefling’s mind. It was an exercise in survival to maintain the integrity of his ego against the relentless assault, for in the dark realm of thought and will, the magical powers of Avenger could aid him not. The bright star of the sword, the only manifestation possible for the enchanted blade in Thalimon’s mind, blazed brightly...
Dropping to his knees, Thalimon crossed swords over his breast, and weathered the winds of the storm.
The tiefling had faced a Glabrezu before in battle, in the days when he was known as the Dark Guard, the talmaad of the Lord of Blades. Though long forgotten in their mountain fastness of earth and stone, the Imperators of Thuul yet yearned for the days of their former glory. To this end they summoned the dreaded tanar’ri warrior races to do their bidding as they did in the days of old, seeking to gain a foothold once more in the lands of the Waste. At the side of the Lady of the Lykanviiri he had faced the minions of doom ...and with the holy blade of Nether he had sent them back to the Abyss, their spirits swearing eternal vengeance.
Barbed whips of dark psychic energy lashed out to flay Thalimon’s mind. Such an attack left the victim stunned and senseless, their fragile ego slashed by scorn, deceit, and terrifying rage. No doubt this was the Guardian’s favored mode of assault, characteristic of his bloodthirsty kind. The paladin drew in his breath...
...whilst the ego whip of the demon flailed impotently against a tower of iron will, erected hastily by his vulnerable mind.
The Guardian roared in frustration. ”Surrender to me, fool! I know your name...I know who you are...and you shall not find ME cowering in fear before that pathetic bauble you wield. You are a disgusting, impetuous worm...come, die as you deserve, weakling.”
____________________________________________
Rak stirred from his dreams at the blast of rage from the gigantic Hunter. Bear faced a new threat on his primal hunting grounds...
Hawk. Yes, this one is the feathered hunter, his talons gleaming brightly in the sun.
The sun...Rak blinked his eyes in pain at the searing, blazing light which had suddenly flooded the dark chamber. Instinctually he gripped the sword upon his lap, taking in his surroundings as he rose warily to his feet.
The light was issuing from the flaming blade in the hand of Hawk. As the half-orc’s eyes adjusted to the jarring change of ambient light, he took in the measure of the challenger. Though dwarfed by Bear, Hawk stood without fear. He is shining with the light of the sun. He is not like the others, for this one is not prey. He is a hunter.
Standing still, Rak determined to be a witness of the imminent struggle. He was blessed to be honored in such a way. Offering thanks to Bear, he lowered his sword to his side, and watched with interest as the battle was joined.
_________________________________________
“Very well, half-breed. Heed not my warning. You have no choice in the manner of death I shall inflict upon you. Be still, now, as I ponder the way I shall devour your soul...”
A wave of force slammed into Thalimon, rocking him back and threatening to crush him against the stone beneath his feet. Still the tower of his will prevailed, the walls of black iron withstanding the constricting coils of the demon’s telekinetic grip. He fought furiously against the rising force which sought to lift him airborne, the veins in his temples bulging as his mind strained desperately to maintain control.
The withering might of his foe was taxing the limits of the psionic power that, for the most part, lie dormant in the tiefling’s mind. It was an exercise in survival to maintain the integrity of his ego against the relentless assault, for in the dark realm of thought and will, the magical powers of Avenger could aid him not. The bright star of the sword, the only manifestation possible for the enchanted blade in Thalimon’s mind, blazed brightly...
Dropping to his knees, Thalimon crossed swords over his breast, and weathered the winds of the storm.
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Thalimon began to rise from the floor.
Images began to play upon the inner wall of his unassailable fortress of iron will. Scenes of conquest, bloodshed, and unimaginable suffering taunted his sheltered mind, leering at him hungrily from the shadows.
No.
With each day a cruel existence brought to bear upon his weary brow, the demon-man struggled ever the more for the mastery of his destiny. Daily he denied the faceless, insidious evil that lurked in the depths of his psyche...an evil that threatened to consume everything he held dear.
No...
It was useless to resist. To deny his nature, the very blood which flowed through his veins, was to deny the truth. At last Thalimon must come to terms with himself, and overcome the fear that blinds the human fabric of his being. The strands in the tapestry of his soul began to vibrate and hum, oscillating together in a haunting harmonic symphony...the walls of the fortress began to glow crimson with heat from the energy...
No!
It must be done. Peace shall never be attained unless the final illusion be shattered. The weight of a crushing personal struggle began to bear heavily upon Thalimon’s shoulders. He bore a mountain upon his back, and he yearned to be free of the yoke that had restrained him these many years.
I shall be free.
In the core of the psychic fortress burned an eternal flame. It flickered in the gloom created by the walls of will, the very center and focus of Thalimon’s thoughts and desires. It was the Flame, and still it burned even as the dogs of war rocked the foundation of the citadel. They tore at the rock which held it secure to the blasted landscape of ruined dreams and shattered hopes, turning the granite to powder beneath their massive paws. Jaws gaped wide, slavering maws breathing forth fetid death...a spectral pack of twisted hounds surrounded the iron tower on all sides, baying with anticipation as they sought to feast upon the tender flesh within...
It shall be done. Thau’luthiin.
The walls of the fortress shone a brilliant white as the humming blotted out all conscious thought. It surged as a tsunami against limits, which now, weakened by the absence of will, could contain it no longer. Leaping upon the glaring hole presented by the surrender of the defense, the hounds began tearing gaping holes in the citadel with their fangs, slashing at the final obstacle that barred their way.
At that instant, Thalimon had abandoned his lifelong struggle. With a shout he released a torrent of raw psionic power, obliterating the dogs of hell and searing the landscape of his mind with a purifying wind of fire...
”AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” The Guardian screamed in agony as the tiefling’s psionic blast burned into his mind. Clutching his skull with all four of his appendages, the Glabrezu thrashed wildly about the chamber. The attack was unanticipated, and the demon was unprepared for the backlash that answered his carefully orchestrated assault.
Thalimon Shestare stood. Planting his feet firmly against the frenzied buffeting of the Guardian’s wings, he advanced slowly upon his stricken foe. Nothing would stand in the way now.
A curious sensation of being watched interrupted his focus, however. Directing his gaze to the right, the paladin met the eyes of the half-orc barbarian, as he stood motionless, enthralled with the battle unfolding before him. He gripped a Drow blade in his right hand, at the ready. Narrowing his eyes, Thalimon sought to quickly gauge the warrior’s intent. Be he friend, foe, or hapless prisoner?
Truly the half-orc was a veteran of battle, for the scars which criss-crossed his massive chest and arms bore a stark testimony to his calling. He wore only a breechcloth...and a slave collar about his neck. Upon noticing the device of the dark elves’ cruelty, Thalimon relaxed his scrutiny. Whoever he might be, he was certainly not present by choice. He displayed no signs of impending movement, for his muscles were relaxed, not tensed for the attack. This one I shall disregard...for now.
Turning back towards the Guardian, Thalimon closed in for the kill.
_______________________________________
The cry of Hawk has power, mused Rak as he witnessed the intangible attack of the tiefling. Bear is wounded.
The battle had thus far been waged without tooth or claw. Such things were the doings of spirits in Rak’s world...and only the shaman could wield them safely. Truly, then, Hawk must be such a shaman, for the spirits obeyed his voice. Awed by the implications, he soon found himself looking into the glowing orbs of Hawk as he stood upon his feet once more...
Rak returned the gaze silently, overcome with the honor bestowed upon him. He would not insult Bear by marring this silence with words. The spirits were warring upon the primal hunting ground, and he had learned as a child to be respectful in the presence of those whom they favored. Hawk was indeed a hunter that walked in two worlds...
Images began to play upon the inner wall of his unassailable fortress of iron will. Scenes of conquest, bloodshed, and unimaginable suffering taunted his sheltered mind, leering at him hungrily from the shadows.
No.
With each day a cruel existence brought to bear upon his weary brow, the demon-man struggled ever the more for the mastery of his destiny. Daily he denied the faceless, insidious evil that lurked in the depths of his psyche...an evil that threatened to consume everything he held dear.
No...
It was useless to resist. To deny his nature, the very blood which flowed through his veins, was to deny the truth. At last Thalimon must come to terms with himself, and overcome the fear that blinds the human fabric of his being. The strands in the tapestry of his soul began to vibrate and hum, oscillating together in a haunting harmonic symphony...the walls of the fortress began to glow crimson with heat from the energy...
No!
It must be done. Peace shall never be attained unless the final illusion be shattered. The weight of a crushing personal struggle began to bear heavily upon Thalimon’s shoulders. He bore a mountain upon his back, and he yearned to be free of the yoke that had restrained him these many years.
I shall be free.
In the core of the psychic fortress burned an eternal flame. It flickered in the gloom created by the walls of will, the very center and focus of Thalimon’s thoughts and desires. It was the Flame, and still it burned even as the dogs of war rocked the foundation of the citadel. They tore at the rock which held it secure to the blasted landscape of ruined dreams and shattered hopes, turning the granite to powder beneath their massive paws. Jaws gaped wide, slavering maws breathing forth fetid death...a spectral pack of twisted hounds surrounded the iron tower on all sides, baying with anticipation as they sought to feast upon the tender flesh within...
It shall be done. Thau’luthiin.
The walls of the fortress shone a brilliant white as the humming blotted out all conscious thought. It surged as a tsunami against limits, which now, weakened by the absence of will, could contain it no longer. Leaping upon the glaring hole presented by the surrender of the defense, the hounds began tearing gaping holes in the citadel with their fangs, slashing at the final obstacle that barred their way.
At that instant, Thalimon had abandoned his lifelong struggle. With a shout he released a torrent of raw psionic power, obliterating the dogs of hell and searing the landscape of his mind with a purifying wind of fire...
”AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” The Guardian screamed in agony as the tiefling’s psionic blast burned into his mind. Clutching his skull with all four of his appendages, the Glabrezu thrashed wildly about the chamber. The attack was unanticipated, and the demon was unprepared for the backlash that answered his carefully orchestrated assault.
Thalimon Shestare stood. Planting his feet firmly against the frenzied buffeting of the Guardian’s wings, he advanced slowly upon his stricken foe. Nothing would stand in the way now.
A curious sensation of being watched interrupted his focus, however. Directing his gaze to the right, the paladin met the eyes of the half-orc barbarian, as he stood motionless, enthralled with the battle unfolding before him. He gripped a Drow blade in his right hand, at the ready. Narrowing his eyes, Thalimon sought to quickly gauge the warrior’s intent. Be he friend, foe, or hapless prisoner?
Truly the half-orc was a veteran of battle, for the scars which criss-crossed his massive chest and arms bore a stark testimony to his calling. He wore only a breechcloth...and a slave collar about his neck. Upon noticing the device of the dark elves’ cruelty, Thalimon relaxed his scrutiny. Whoever he might be, he was certainly not present by choice. He displayed no signs of impending movement, for his muscles were relaxed, not tensed for the attack. This one I shall disregard...for now.
Turning back towards the Guardian, Thalimon closed in for the kill.
_______________________________________
The cry of Hawk has power, mused Rak as he witnessed the intangible attack of the tiefling. Bear is wounded.
The battle had thus far been waged without tooth or claw. Such things were the doings of spirits in Rak’s world...and only the shaman could wield them safely. Truly, then, Hawk must be such a shaman, for the spirits obeyed his voice. Awed by the implications, he soon found himself looking into the glowing orbs of Hawk as he stood upon his feet once more...
Rak returned the gaze silently, overcome with the honor bestowed upon him. He would not insult Bear by marring this silence with words. The spirits were warring upon the primal hunting ground, and he had learned as a child to be respectful in the presence of those whom they favored. Hawk was indeed a hunter that walked in two worlds...
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
"Koithoimon alos. Raithuk alos katharr..."
As the struggling Guardian spoke in the alien tongue of his dreadful race, a great gout of steaming blood, color of the blackest night, gushed forth from his fanged maw to coat his titanic form in a glistening coat of jet. Frantically the demon pushed his bulk back towards the portal beyond, his wings helplessly trapped against the stone floor of his prison. The psionic blast of the tielfing, charged with years of suffering and denial, had nearly sundered the tanar’ri’s hold on the Prime Material plane with its raw, unbridled power...
As he approached, Thalimon remained silent, refusing to answer the demon’s passionate plea for mercy. The being had shown no mercy over the millenia of it’s bloodthirsty, wicked existence. In his eyes, the demon’s spirit was stained by the souls it had so hungrily devoured, oblivious to their cries for mercy...and laughing at their pleas for a swift death. He could see their faces swirling in the dark cloud that churned within the heart of their tormentor. He could hear their voices calling out from the Void...and he could not deny the rage he felt burning hotly in his breast. It threatened to consume him. No, they would be avenged...each and every lost soul crying out in the darkness...
Lifting his arms to his sides, Thalimon flipped his blades downward with a snapping motion of his wrists.
Death was upon the Glabrezu Shiaz’rathiit. With a final effort directed at confusing the paladin, the Guardian sought to harness the innate power of its kind, seeking to teleport close to the open door of the prison, the only salvation left for the warrior demon...
Alas, before the weave would obey its dark will, the Tiefling was upon his hated foe. The blades of the paladin plunged to meet demon-flesh, as they had so many times before. It was a duty the son of the cambion regarded solemnly...ridding the sunlit realms of the blight of his kind was his debt, his service to his Lord, who had spared him from the darkness in an act of mercy. Yet even the most gracious mercy could not soothe the bitterness in his soul...for often he cast himself in the face of that same darkness with reckless abandon, in the desperate hope that it would, at last, claim him as it should have so long ago.
The frantic thrashing of the demon could not sway Thalimon’s swift assault. The short blade in his left hand, once wielded by the very man who had forged his pupil into an instrument of death, sunk effortlessly into the confines of the Glabrezu’s massive skull. Thus anchored, the flaming brand in his right hand drove through limb and bone to pierce the heart of the tormentor. Pinned and helpless, the demon could not speak, nor scream. It’s flesh could only burn.
As the final ember died, sputtering to lifelessness within the heap of ash that was once the form of the Guardian Shiaz’rathiit, Thalimon rose, sheathing his blades. The rage within had passed, sated by the silence of the lost souls within the Void. That they knew rest was the only solace he knew...a solace that was beginning to dim in a world that seemed, in the Paladin’s eyes, to grow darker with the passing of each day.
As the struggling Guardian spoke in the alien tongue of his dreadful race, a great gout of steaming blood, color of the blackest night, gushed forth from his fanged maw to coat his titanic form in a glistening coat of jet. Frantically the demon pushed his bulk back towards the portal beyond, his wings helplessly trapped against the stone floor of his prison. The psionic blast of the tielfing, charged with years of suffering and denial, had nearly sundered the tanar’ri’s hold on the Prime Material plane with its raw, unbridled power...
As he approached, Thalimon remained silent, refusing to answer the demon’s passionate plea for mercy. The being had shown no mercy over the millenia of it’s bloodthirsty, wicked existence. In his eyes, the demon’s spirit was stained by the souls it had so hungrily devoured, oblivious to their cries for mercy...and laughing at their pleas for a swift death. He could see their faces swirling in the dark cloud that churned within the heart of their tormentor. He could hear their voices calling out from the Void...and he could not deny the rage he felt burning hotly in his breast. It threatened to consume him. No, they would be avenged...each and every lost soul crying out in the darkness...
Lifting his arms to his sides, Thalimon flipped his blades downward with a snapping motion of his wrists.
Death was upon the Glabrezu Shiaz’rathiit. With a final effort directed at confusing the paladin, the Guardian sought to harness the innate power of its kind, seeking to teleport close to the open door of the prison, the only salvation left for the warrior demon...
Alas, before the weave would obey its dark will, the Tiefling was upon his hated foe. The blades of the paladin plunged to meet demon-flesh, as they had so many times before. It was a duty the son of the cambion regarded solemnly...ridding the sunlit realms of the blight of his kind was his debt, his service to his Lord, who had spared him from the darkness in an act of mercy. Yet even the most gracious mercy could not soothe the bitterness in his soul...for often he cast himself in the face of that same darkness with reckless abandon, in the desperate hope that it would, at last, claim him as it should have so long ago.
The frantic thrashing of the demon could not sway Thalimon’s swift assault. The short blade in his left hand, once wielded by the very man who had forged his pupil into an instrument of death, sunk effortlessly into the confines of the Glabrezu’s massive skull. Thus anchored, the flaming brand in his right hand drove through limb and bone to pierce the heart of the tormentor. Pinned and helpless, the demon could not speak, nor scream. It’s flesh could only burn.
As the final ember died, sputtering to lifelessness within the heap of ash that was once the form of the Guardian Shiaz’rathiit, Thalimon rose, sheathing his blades. The rage within had passed, sated by the silence of the lost souls within the Void. That they knew rest was the only solace he knew...a solace that was beginning to dim in a world that seemed, in the Paladin’s eyes, to grow darker with the passing of each day.
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
Blood rained from the swollen sky above the fetid horror of the Jungle of Despair. The muted sighs of the wretched Ssythkakru, souls eternally imprisoned in never-ending nightmare by the Prince of Demons, greeted the gruesome downpour eagerly. The winged Tanar'ri howled with maniacal glee...for soon, the rotten fruit of the Damned, swollen by the nourishing flows of their Master's dark malice, would be ripe for the picking once again.
Deep within the vast demense of twisted jungle, a massive structure of black stone rose impossibly high into the molten sky. About its foundation no living thing dared tread; even the winged tanar'ri, undisputed lords of the domain, refused to come near. The encroaching jungle seemed to recoil in fear from the hewn Abyssal rock, silent and forboding in the crimson downpour.
A ziggurat, an ancient step pyramid of titanic proportions, stood imposingly in the heart of the Abyss. Within the gloom cast upon the jungle by its malignant presence, silence reigned. What manner of evil lurks in the desolate reaches of the impenetrable darkness of its shadow cannot be known, for the Ssythkakru stirred not in the darkness. Not a sigh, nor a moan, escaped the doom of the Temple of the Damned.
In the dizzying heights above, perched atop the summit of the monument to ultimate evil, the creature once known as Toryana lie imprisoned in chains. A cruel manacle of glowing iron about her neck, upon which is fastened a massive chain of gold, holds her fast to a great altar of unspeakable blasphemy. Her mighty frame, once resplendent with the celestial glory of the Heavens now so very, very far away, slumps withered and anemic beneath the weight of her crushing imprisonment. It is a weight that has grown greater and heavier with the passing of each century. Every 100 years, the heart of this miserable being is ripped from her breast in a ritual that feeds the Master of the Hell which now claims her as his own. True to the substance which comprises her immortal form, however, her heart regenerates anew as time passes by, counting the days until it is taken from her yet again. It is a ritual that, not unlike the horror that stretches as far as the eye can see far below, is doomed to continue on and on into eternity everlasting.
No evidence of her former glory can be seen in her purplish, scarred flesh, withered and drawn against her bones. Where once proud wings spread to greet the dawn with a sparkling radiance of their own, only withered stumps remain, gnawed upon by the winged terrors which dared come so close to the Master’s precious sacrifice. What remained of her flowing tresses of gold perished long ago, replaced now by a sickly mass of matted, filthy hair of ebony hue. Indeed, were she free of the bonds which tethered her to the Altar of Demogorgon, she would be mighty even in such a wasted state. Yet powerless she is, reduced to enduring the centuries of her unspeakable agony as only one of her celestial stature could...in utter silence. Long ago she had abandoned all hope of escaping her tormentor, for the chain that bound her was such that it quenched her considerable powers, powers that even the Prince of Demons rightly feared.
She had abandoned all hope - that is, save for the faintest glimmer. It was this glimmer of hope that now seemed to grow ever brighter in the reaches of her dimmed awareness, gaining in strength even as the cursed rain of Hell covered her in the blessed Blood of Innocents...
Toryana, fallen Herald of Torm the True, reached out to the glimmer of her hope in silent desperation. Mighty Toryana, once known as Justice to the mortal servants of her now distant Lord, called out the name of her hope once more, as she had for many years now...
“Thalimon.......Thalimon, come to me.”
Deep within the vast demense of twisted jungle, a massive structure of black stone rose impossibly high into the molten sky. About its foundation no living thing dared tread; even the winged tanar'ri, undisputed lords of the domain, refused to come near. The encroaching jungle seemed to recoil in fear from the hewn Abyssal rock, silent and forboding in the crimson downpour.
A ziggurat, an ancient step pyramid of titanic proportions, stood imposingly in the heart of the Abyss. Within the gloom cast upon the jungle by its malignant presence, silence reigned. What manner of evil lurks in the desolate reaches of the impenetrable darkness of its shadow cannot be known, for the Ssythkakru stirred not in the darkness. Not a sigh, nor a moan, escaped the doom of the Temple of the Damned.
In the dizzying heights above, perched atop the summit of the monument to ultimate evil, the creature once known as Toryana lie imprisoned in chains. A cruel manacle of glowing iron about her neck, upon which is fastened a massive chain of gold, holds her fast to a great altar of unspeakable blasphemy. Her mighty frame, once resplendent with the celestial glory of the Heavens now so very, very far away, slumps withered and anemic beneath the weight of her crushing imprisonment. It is a weight that has grown greater and heavier with the passing of each century. Every 100 years, the heart of this miserable being is ripped from her breast in a ritual that feeds the Master of the Hell which now claims her as his own. True to the substance which comprises her immortal form, however, her heart regenerates anew as time passes by, counting the days until it is taken from her yet again. It is a ritual that, not unlike the horror that stretches as far as the eye can see far below, is doomed to continue on and on into eternity everlasting.
No evidence of her former glory can be seen in her purplish, scarred flesh, withered and drawn against her bones. Where once proud wings spread to greet the dawn with a sparkling radiance of their own, only withered stumps remain, gnawed upon by the winged terrors which dared come so close to the Master’s precious sacrifice. What remained of her flowing tresses of gold perished long ago, replaced now by a sickly mass of matted, filthy hair of ebony hue. Indeed, were she free of the bonds which tethered her to the Altar of Demogorgon, she would be mighty even in such a wasted state. Yet powerless she is, reduced to enduring the centuries of her unspeakable agony as only one of her celestial stature could...in utter silence. Long ago she had abandoned all hope of escaping her tormentor, for the chain that bound her was such that it quenched her considerable powers, powers that even the Prince of Demons rightly feared.
She had abandoned all hope - that is, save for the faintest glimmer. It was this glimmer of hope that now seemed to grow ever brighter in the reaches of her dimmed awareness, gaining in strength even as the cursed rain of Hell covered her in the blessed Blood of Innocents...
Toryana, fallen Herald of Torm the True, reached out to the glimmer of her hope in silent desperation. Mighty Toryana, once known as Justice to the mortal servants of her now distant Lord, called out the name of her hope once more, as she had for many years now...
“Thalimon.......Thalimon, come to me.”
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
Turning to face the drow slave at his flank, Thalimon Shestare regarded the grizzled warrior silently.
The half-orc spoke in response, his voice rumbling in the quiet which seemed to have settled in the aftermath following the demon's demise. "Well fought, Shaman. The Beast was a mighty foe, to be sure. Your talons," the barbarian nodded towards Thalimon's sheathed swords, "have great power. I have not seen their like before."
The two warriors stood regarding one another. The tension was growing with the passing of each wordless moment, for as Thalimon weighed the threat that the half-orc posed, the barbarian warrior considered his place on the hunting ground. As they stood measuring one another before the portal to the Abyss, Thalimon's eyes wandered to the collar about the hulking warrior's neck. Rak, following the tiefling's eyes as they rested upon the device, absently fingered the cool metal of his jailor, the yoke which rendered him helpless as a mewling babe before the dark-skinned weaklings....
Thalimon met the eyes of the slave intently. "Would you be free, warrior?"
Rak blinked involuntarily at the words of the Shaman. This was not to be expected...again, he felt of the hard metal of the slave collar about his neck. How often had he strained, with all of his might, against its cold embrace? He had once broken the neck of Bear with his own arms, yet he could not prevail against the slender band of sorcery which held him thrall to the will of others. To be free of this yoke...
Rak eyed the Shaman suspiciously. "I have battled the jailor, Shaman, and have not bested the metal of her sorcery." The barbarian frowned, pondering the paladin's curious statement. "What say you, then? I will hear your words. Speak."
Looking towards the portal, Thalimon sighed softly. "Soon, I must step through the door that lies before me, warrior. When I do, I shall leave this prison, and this world." Looking to the slave once more, Thalimon unsheathed Avenger.
Instinctively, Rak brought his own sword to bear, shielding his eyes from the sudden flaming brilliance of the Shaman's blade. It flooded the chamber once more with light, bathing the tiefling in a luminescent shroud of white fire...
"Nay, warrior," Thalimon proclaimed to the alarmed slave as he braced for the inevitable attack. "I speak not with my blade to you." Lowering the tip of the Holy sword into his other palm, he held Avenger aloft before Rak's eyes.
"The power to shatter your bond lies within this...my talon. It must meet the collar that imprisons you, so that you might be free to go your own way once more."
Rak roared at the meaning of the Shaman's words. "You speak of death, Shaman! I, Rak of the Bear people, do not lie down to greet death!"
Lowering to his knees, Thalimon placed Avenger upon the cold stone of the floor.
"Death is not the way to your freedom. My words are my honor, Rak of the Bear people. You are not my foe. So that you may know this to be true, I, Thalimon Shestare, place the truth of what I speak before your judgment. Would I speak of you greeting the edge of my blade...if I were not willing to greet yours also?"
Rak wavered...such a thing should not be. Hawk puzzled him greatly, this hunter who was a Shaman, this man who was a beast. His power was great indeed, but to subject himself to the judgement of another...Rak wondered at the things his eyes beheld this day.
Thalimon spoke again. "As I hold my sword to you, so shall you hold your blade to me. It is only fitting, warrior, as I release you from your bonds, that you do so as one free."
Grasping the hilt of Avenger, the tiefling lifted his sword to rest upon his breastplate. "I await you, Rak of the Bear people."
Rak wavered once more. To be free of the yoke of the jailor. To be free to slay the cowardly dark ones who worked their sorcery upon him! To be free...to be free to find his way back to the land of his people...
He had witnessed the power of Hawk as he struck a blow which could not be seen with eyes. Aye....and he could strike now.
Rak thought of the Hunting Ground, where the Hunter knew honor. Was Hawk not also a Hunter? His skill with the blade testified that he was no mere weakling hiding behind the spirits...and his words. There was honor in them.
"Your words...are wise, Hawk." Rak recalled the first winter of his manhood, when he joined the other men of his people on the Hunt.
The first night away from the people, he awoke standing far from camp, alone amongst the great firs and falling snow. Unwise for one yet so young...but Rak was known to be bold and headstrong. It mattered not to Rak, however, for his eyes could see the world well even in the darkest night. Finding his way back to the fire of his brothers, Rak fell soundly asleep.
The second day out found the hunters standing upon the sacred Hunting Ground of the Bear people. Swiftly the men went about making camp, building a fire in anticipation of nightfall. As the youngest hunter, Rak was obligated to provide fresh saplings, fir boughs, and gut twine for the older hunters as they refurbished the line of game traps his people maintained in the wilderness. He watched their strong hands work the green wood...some of the saplings he brought them served as tension springs...still, others were sharpened into stakes fastened to heavy logs suspended above a game trail, lethally effective deadfall traps. As Sun descended into the earth for his nocturnal rest, Rak and the other hunters finished their work, hastily erecting lean-tos of fir boughs to shield them from the snows that were sure to come by nightfall.Settling down for the night, Rak drifted into a dreamless sleep...
Only to awaken once more, alone and far from camp.
It was a night of the spirits, for such things do not happen to those who have not been chosen. And so, in the grip of wonder, the young barbarian warrior wandered aimlessly through the snow and undergrowth....until at last he came upon the Great Rock. The Rock was the marker where the people's trap line began. He understood this to be a sign, and so began to walk along the perimeter of the game trail carefully, to avoid spreading his spoor along the line. The first night rarely, if ever, provided game for the hunters, for the creatures of the Hunting Ground were wary of the fresh traps for several days. As he walked, the hair on the back of his neck began to stand on end...
Rak turned to face the source of the disturbance, and found that an arm's length separated him and a black wolf of tremendous size.
Startled, he reached for his blade...but stopped as he realized that Wolf was not moving. He could not, for a great paw lie imprisoned within a vise trap of the people.
Wolf regarded him silently...with one piercing yellow eye. Where his other eye should have been, there was naught but a scar. This wolf was a great one...for he had seen many a battle and hunt in the long years of his life. Rak could feel his power in the still of the night...and could also hear his silent plea as the snow softly fell from above.
Wolf settled back on his haunches in the snow, and began to lick the trapped paw with his great lolling tongue. Fascinated, Rak watched the spectacle before him with the rapture of wide-eyed wonder. It was not long before he met the eye of Wolf again...
One-Eye was waiting for Rak to free his paw of the trap. One hunter to another, Wolf waited for Rak to respond.
Slowly he approached Wolf, drawing forth his broadsword to glitter in the darkness of night, the light of the stars high above the forest canopy playing upon the length of cold steel. The slightest twitch, the first hint of motion, and Rak would run One-Eye through...
Gingerly, he placed the tip of his blade in the jaws of the vise. Drawing his breath within his chest, Rak forced the trap open, preparing himself for the inevitable lunge by One-Eye...
...which never came. Instead, Wolf slowly withdrew his paw from the jaws of his prison, and regarded Rak with his great yellow eye. So they stood for a time before Wolf, at last, turned and trotted away into the depths of his forest home. Returning to camp, Rak slept soundly, and dreamed dreams of Wolf and Bear in the silence of the night.
The hunt was a prosperous one for the people. Wolf did not forget Rak of the Bear people...many of the young hunter's arrows found their mark under the silent guidance of One Eye, leading Rak to areas rich with game.
From Bear, Rak had learned of strength and courage. From Wolf, however, he had learned of wisdom, and honor. There was honor between hunters. There was honor to be found on the Hunting Ground.
Lowering himself to the floor, Rak faced Thalimon and his blazing sword, squarely upon the Hunting Ground. "Work your magic, Shaman."
Rak, hunter and greatest warrior of the Bear people, was at last free.
The half-orc spoke in response, his voice rumbling in the quiet which seemed to have settled in the aftermath following the demon's demise. "Well fought, Shaman. The Beast was a mighty foe, to be sure. Your talons," the barbarian nodded towards Thalimon's sheathed swords, "have great power. I have not seen their like before."
The two warriors stood regarding one another. The tension was growing with the passing of each wordless moment, for as Thalimon weighed the threat that the half-orc posed, the barbarian warrior considered his place on the hunting ground. As they stood measuring one another before the portal to the Abyss, Thalimon's eyes wandered to the collar about the hulking warrior's neck. Rak, following the tiefling's eyes as they rested upon the device, absently fingered the cool metal of his jailor, the yoke which rendered him helpless as a mewling babe before the dark-skinned weaklings....
Thalimon met the eyes of the slave intently. "Would you be free, warrior?"
Rak blinked involuntarily at the words of the Shaman. This was not to be expected...again, he felt of the hard metal of the slave collar about his neck. How often had he strained, with all of his might, against its cold embrace? He had once broken the neck of Bear with his own arms, yet he could not prevail against the slender band of sorcery which held him thrall to the will of others. To be free of this yoke...
Rak eyed the Shaman suspiciously. "I have battled the jailor, Shaman, and have not bested the metal of her sorcery." The barbarian frowned, pondering the paladin's curious statement. "What say you, then? I will hear your words. Speak."
Looking towards the portal, Thalimon sighed softly. "Soon, I must step through the door that lies before me, warrior. When I do, I shall leave this prison, and this world." Looking to the slave once more, Thalimon unsheathed Avenger.
Instinctively, Rak brought his own sword to bear, shielding his eyes from the sudden flaming brilliance of the Shaman's blade. It flooded the chamber once more with light, bathing the tiefling in a luminescent shroud of white fire...
"Nay, warrior," Thalimon proclaimed to the alarmed slave as he braced for the inevitable attack. "I speak not with my blade to you." Lowering the tip of the Holy sword into his other palm, he held Avenger aloft before Rak's eyes.
"The power to shatter your bond lies within this...my talon. It must meet the collar that imprisons you, so that you might be free to go your own way once more."
Rak roared at the meaning of the Shaman's words. "You speak of death, Shaman! I, Rak of the Bear people, do not lie down to greet death!"
Lowering to his knees, Thalimon placed Avenger upon the cold stone of the floor.
"Death is not the way to your freedom. My words are my honor, Rak of the Bear people. You are not my foe. So that you may know this to be true, I, Thalimon Shestare, place the truth of what I speak before your judgment. Would I speak of you greeting the edge of my blade...if I were not willing to greet yours also?"
Rak wavered...such a thing should not be. Hawk puzzled him greatly, this hunter who was a Shaman, this man who was a beast. His power was great indeed, but to subject himself to the judgement of another...Rak wondered at the things his eyes beheld this day.
Thalimon spoke again. "As I hold my sword to you, so shall you hold your blade to me. It is only fitting, warrior, as I release you from your bonds, that you do so as one free."
Grasping the hilt of Avenger, the tiefling lifted his sword to rest upon his breastplate. "I await you, Rak of the Bear people."
Rak wavered once more. To be free of the yoke of the jailor. To be free to slay the cowardly dark ones who worked their sorcery upon him! To be free...to be free to find his way back to the land of his people...
He had witnessed the power of Hawk as he struck a blow which could not be seen with eyes. Aye....and he could strike now.
Rak thought of the Hunting Ground, where the Hunter knew honor. Was Hawk not also a Hunter? His skill with the blade testified that he was no mere weakling hiding behind the spirits...and his words. There was honor in them.
"Your words...are wise, Hawk." Rak recalled the first winter of his manhood, when he joined the other men of his people on the Hunt.
The first night away from the people, he awoke standing far from camp, alone amongst the great firs and falling snow. Unwise for one yet so young...but Rak was known to be bold and headstrong. It mattered not to Rak, however, for his eyes could see the world well even in the darkest night. Finding his way back to the fire of his brothers, Rak fell soundly asleep.
The second day out found the hunters standing upon the sacred Hunting Ground of the Bear people. Swiftly the men went about making camp, building a fire in anticipation of nightfall. As the youngest hunter, Rak was obligated to provide fresh saplings, fir boughs, and gut twine for the older hunters as they refurbished the line of game traps his people maintained in the wilderness. He watched their strong hands work the green wood...some of the saplings he brought them served as tension springs...still, others were sharpened into stakes fastened to heavy logs suspended above a game trail, lethally effective deadfall traps. As Sun descended into the earth for his nocturnal rest, Rak and the other hunters finished their work, hastily erecting lean-tos of fir boughs to shield them from the snows that were sure to come by nightfall.Settling down for the night, Rak drifted into a dreamless sleep...
Only to awaken once more, alone and far from camp.
It was a night of the spirits, for such things do not happen to those who have not been chosen. And so, in the grip of wonder, the young barbarian warrior wandered aimlessly through the snow and undergrowth....until at last he came upon the Great Rock. The Rock was the marker where the people's trap line began. He understood this to be a sign, and so began to walk along the perimeter of the game trail carefully, to avoid spreading his spoor along the line. The first night rarely, if ever, provided game for the hunters, for the creatures of the Hunting Ground were wary of the fresh traps for several days. As he walked, the hair on the back of his neck began to stand on end...
Rak turned to face the source of the disturbance, and found that an arm's length separated him and a black wolf of tremendous size.
Startled, he reached for his blade...but stopped as he realized that Wolf was not moving. He could not, for a great paw lie imprisoned within a vise trap of the people.
Wolf regarded him silently...with one piercing yellow eye. Where his other eye should have been, there was naught but a scar. This wolf was a great one...for he had seen many a battle and hunt in the long years of his life. Rak could feel his power in the still of the night...and could also hear his silent plea as the snow softly fell from above.
Wolf settled back on his haunches in the snow, and began to lick the trapped paw with his great lolling tongue. Fascinated, Rak watched the spectacle before him with the rapture of wide-eyed wonder. It was not long before he met the eye of Wolf again...
One-Eye was waiting for Rak to free his paw of the trap. One hunter to another, Wolf waited for Rak to respond.
Slowly he approached Wolf, drawing forth his broadsword to glitter in the darkness of night, the light of the stars high above the forest canopy playing upon the length of cold steel. The slightest twitch, the first hint of motion, and Rak would run One-Eye through...
Gingerly, he placed the tip of his blade in the jaws of the vise. Drawing his breath within his chest, Rak forced the trap open, preparing himself for the inevitable lunge by One-Eye...
...which never came. Instead, Wolf slowly withdrew his paw from the jaws of his prison, and regarded Rak with his great yellow eye. So they stood for a time before Wolf, at last, turned and trotted away into the depths of his forest home. Returning to camp, Rak slept soundly, and dreamed dreams of Wolf and Bear in the silence of the night.
The hunt was a prosperous one for the people. Wolf did not forget Rak of the Bear people...many of the young hunter's arrows found their mark under the silent guidance of One Eye, leading Rak to areas rich with game.
From Bear, Rak had learned of strength and courage. From Wolf, however, he had learned of wisdom, and honor. There was honor between hunters. There was honor to be found on the Hunting Ground.
Lowering himself to the floor, Rak faced Thalimon and his blazing sword, squarely upon the Hunting Ground. "Work your magic, Shaman."
Rak, hunter and greatest warrior of the Bear people, was at last free.
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
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dragon wench
- Posts: 19609
- Joined: Tue Apr 24, 2001 10:00 pm
- Location: The maelstrom where chaos merges with lucidity
- Contact:
Silence drummed in her ears... the aftermath of slaughter and battle. Dragon Wench leaned against the rocky wall, trying not to gag at the coppery stench of death. Her eyes scanned the cavern floor.... mutilated corpses lay strewn everwhere.... Vital organs, matted fur, torn limbs, locks of hair... a montage of horror.
She turned away from the scene, the bile of disgust nearly too much to swallow down. As had been the case many times before, she wondered why it always had to come to this. Again and again they seemed to fight.... foe after seemingly evil foe. "And I am no different," she muttered harshly, the memory of the drow woman she had slain earlier searing across the fore of her thoughts.
Compelled, Dragon Wench moved to the place where the woman's corpse still lay. As she knelt down, she noticed the corner of something white protruding slightly from a finely-crafted boot. Gingerly, she pulled at the fragile scroll and carefully unfurled it. In the darkness of the cavern it was difficult to discern the words, but from what she could gather... it seemed to be written in both Elvish and the common tongue. Remembering the pearlescent glow emanating from the pool, Dragon Wench quietly stole towards the luminous oasis its still waters offered.
Seated by the softly glowing aquamarine fires, she was able to make out the words upon the parchment in her hands. She strained her eyes... wishing her knowledge of writen Elvish was more precise. Through spells and arcane lore, Dragon Wench had studied the language of the elves, but nonetheless her abilities at translation were rudimentary.
Quietly, she allowed her eyes to follow the form of the delicately beautiful script.... It became immediately apparent that this was no ancient recipe for incantation... but rather it was a letter.....
My love....
She turned away from the scene, the bile of disgust nearly too much to swallow down. As had been the case many times before, she wondered why it always had to come to this. Again and again they seemed to fight.... foe after seemingly evil foe. "And I am no different," she muttered harshly, the memory of the drow woman she had slain earlier searing across the fore of her thoughts.
Compelled, Dragon Wench moved to the place where the woman's corpse still lay. As she knelt down, she noticed the corner of something white protruding slightly from a finely-crafted boot. Gingerly, she pulled at the fragile scroll and carefully unfurled it. In the darkness of the cavern it was difficult to discern the words, but from what she could gather... it seemed to be written in both Elvish and the common tongue. Remembering the pearlescent glow emanating from the pool, Dragon Wench quietly stole towards the luminous oasis its still waters offered.
Seated by the softly glowing aquamarine fires, she was able to make out the words upon the parchment in her hands. She strained her eyes... wishing her knowledge of writen Elvish was more precise. Through spells and arcane lore, Dragon Wench had studied the language of the elves, but nonetheless her abilities at translation were rudimentary.
Quietly, she allowed her eyes to follow the form of the delicately beautiful script.... It became immediately apparent that this was no ancient recipe for incantation... but rather it was a letter.....
My love....
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dragon wench
- Posts: 19609
- Joined: Tue Apr 24, 2001 10:00 pm
- Location: The maelstrom where chaos merges with lucidity
- Contact:
Dragon Wench caught her breath, suddenly feeling very much an intruder... and for a moment she put the letter aside, wondering at the rightness of reading something so obviously personal. There would be nothing tactical gained by prying into the woman's private life... she had already killed her... In that moment Dragon Wench at least wanted to respect the woman in the powerlessness that was her death.
Uncertain, and deeply troubled, Dragon Wench gazed into the pool. Despite her reluctance to read the letter, for a reason that seemed wrench at her from within, she found herself compelled by the woman's story......
Still torn, she once more picked up the parchment....
My love,
How dark and empty these nights are without you. In seeking relief from torment I leave the warmth of my bed and reach for the sanctuary offered by the celestial arc so far above... but this only makes my heart ache more.. For I remember the first time we lay beneath that velvet canopy...and how you exclaimed at its beauty, the likes of which you had so long been denied....
We both knew from the beginning... that our union would be an ephemeral one... that the boundaries of difference in these troubled times would ultimately become the knife severing us apart. Yet, I still long for you... I ache at the necessity of your absence.
Remember,
you will always be the flame that burns in my soul,
Mahandros
Trembling, Dragon Wench laid the letter down. Recollections of the herbs she had discovered in the folds of the woman's cloak caused her to draw in her breath. She swallowed hard.... and looked down into the shimmering waters.... Raindrops seemed to be cascading into the still surface... No... not rain she realised, but her own tears.
She cursed at the futility of battle, the blind hatred that drove people towards chaos... the desire to annihilate differing cultures. For powerless individuals were always the casualities.. briefly flickering candles caught in the crossfires of senseless myopia.
Suddenly, Dragon Wench became aware of something that had been bothering her at a subconsious level. The Drow woman had been alone... unflanked by the usual contingent of clerics and warriors... Had this been an attempt to flee her people and to join with her surface love?
Anguish overcame Dragon Wench as dawning realisation invaded her consciousness. No longer able to hold back, she began to weep. She wept for the many dead that lay in her swath, she wept for fallen comrades, she wept for the ignorant and the blind.... and she wept for the destroyed hopes of unrealised dreams.... of life snuffed out in the unthinking plunge of a single sword stroke... irrevokable, eternally damning, forever the instrument of inestimable horror and untold despair.
Uncertain, and deeply troubled, Dragon Wench gazed into the pool. Despite her reluctance to read the letter, for a reason that seemed wrench at her from within, she found herself compelled by the woman's story......
Still torn, she once more picked up the parchment....
My love,
How dark and empty these nights are without you. In seeking relief from torment I leave the warmth of my bed and reach for the sanctuary offered by the celestial arc so far above... but this only makes my heart ache more.. For I remember the first time we lay beneath that velvet canopy...and how you exclaimed at its beauty, the likes of which you had so long been denied....
We both knew from the beginning... that our union would be an ephemeral one... that the boundaries of difference in these troubled times would ultimately become the knife severing us apart. Yet, I still long for you... I ache at the necessity of your absence.
Remember,
you will always be the flame that burns in my soul,
Mahandros
Trembling, Dragon Wench laid the letter down. Recollections of the herbs she had discovered in the folds of the woman's cloak caused her to draw in her breath. She swallowed hard.... and looked down into the shimmering waters.... Raindrops seemed to be cascading into the still surface... No... not rain she realised, but her own tears.
She cursed at the futility of battle, the blind hatred that drove people towards chaos... the desire to annihilate differing cultures. For powerless individuals were always the casualities.. briefly flickering candles caught in the crossfires of senseless myopia.
Suddenly, Dragon Wench became aware of something that had been bothering her at a subconsious level. The Drow woman had been alone... unflanked by the usual contingent of clerics and warriors... Had this been an attempt to flee her people and to join with her surface love?
Anguish overcame Dragon Wench as dawning realisation invaded her consciousness. No longer able to hold back, she began to weep. She wept for the many dead that lay in her swath, she wept for fallen comrades, she wept for the ignorant and the blind.... and she wept for the destroyed hopes of unrealised dreams.... of life snuffed out in the unthinking plunge of a single sword stroke... irrevokable, eternally damning, forever the instrument of inestimable horror and untold despair.
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Rak sat unmoving, holding the broken slave collar in his scarred hand. The blade of Hawk, true to his word, shattered the circle of his bondage. With the voice of Thunder it had broken that which the strength of the son of the Bear could not overcome.
As Thalimon stood, returning Avenger to his side, the towering half-orc warrior stood as well.
“I am in your debt, Shaman. I shall not forget this day...and I shall keep this, the remains of my jailor, as a sign of your magic. Surely you are Hawk, the hunter who walks amongst the clouds in the house of the Sun. His light falls on you as you descend from the heights where Men cannot go. It is no small thing, to be Hunter, and Shaman. May your flight be sure, and your blows strike true.”
As Rak spoke of the hawk, Thalimon’s thoughts returned to his own home...distant now, as far away as the barbarian’s land of ice and snow. Hawk...the Raptu...soaring the azure heights above the furnace lands of the Waste, dancing with the Burning Eye as he sought his elusive prey in the endless hunt. Looking at the man-nahkbith standing before him, the tiefling was struck by how much they shared in common. Like himself, he had within his veins the blood of a race both hated and feared by those who walked in the sunlit world. Surely this warrior, both brave and honorable, would be slain the moment he stepped foot upon the Thykiri ancestral lands, by virtue of his accursed blood.
Thalimon smiled grimly at the irony of their meeting, both so far from their homes. As the power of Avenger destroyed the enchantment of the Drow slave collar, the paladin‘s mind briefly met that of the barbarian‘s, sending a flood of images and thoughts cascading into his awareness. Ever so briefly he had seen One-Eye, the black wolf of the Hunting Ground, stand before him in the freshly fallen snow, his breath misting in the frigid air.
“We understand one another, Rak of the Bear people. But now, I must go...and walk the path in my own land, through the door of this prison. I would see the lands of the Bear, one day, if ever I return.”
Casting a glance towards the shimmering portal in the gloom, Rak’s brow wrinkled with a frown. “Shaman, I do not question the ways of the spirits, for they are not known to me.” Hefting the Drow long sword in his massive fist, Rak returned Thalimon’s smile with his own, his narrowed eyes flashing red in the darkness. “The ways of earth and steel are mine, ways that I know well. I would walk with you, Hawk, upon the path you must follow. This place holds nothing for me but vengeance.”
Thalimon was slow in reply, weighing his words carefully as he spoke to the barbarian. “You honor me, warrior, with your courage and strength. Where I must go, the ways of earth and steel cannot tread. These I must abandon in the land beyond the door, and leave here in this world. The Beast...” looking to the pile of ash that was once the towering fiend of terror, Thalimon lowered his voice to a whisper. “Rak, I must go alone. My land is a place of waking nightmare, and I likely shall not return from it.
“Seek your people, Rak. Within these winding tunnels a way may yet be found for you, a hope slim...yet hope nonetheless. Find my battle comrades...my people...in the heart of the complex, not far from where we are now. Within their hands lies the hope that you might one day join Wolf again upon the Hunting Ground...”
Rak looked on as Thalimon turned to enter the portal. “Your words have been true...and I know them to be so now. Bear guide you, Shaman. Good hunting to you.”
Holding Avenger to his breast, Thalimon saluted Rak. “Torm keep you, warrior. Beyond the stone door of this chamber lies a closure panel, hidden in the wall. As you leave this prison...seek for the depression in the wall. Press upon it, and close the door upon this place of evil forever.
“Do this, Rak of the Bear people, and I shall in turn be in your debt. Fare well, my friend.”
Thalimon Shestare entered the portal to the Abyss.
As Thalimon stood, returning Avenger to his side, the towering half-orc warrior stood as well.
“I am in your debt, Shaman. I shall not forget this day...and I shall keep this, the remains of my jailor, as a sign of your magic. Surely you are Hawk, the hunter who walks amongst the clouds in the house of the Sun. His light falls on you as you descend from the heights where Men cannot go. It is no small thing, to be Hunter, and Shaman. May your flight be sure, and your blows strike true.”
As Rak spoke of the hawk, Thalimon’s thoughts returned to his own home...distant now, as far away as the barbarian’s land of ice and snow. Hawk...the Raptu...soaring the azure heights above the furnace lands of the Waste, dancing with the Burning Eye as he sought his elusive prey in the endless hunt. Looking at the man-nahkbith standing before him, the tiefling was struck by how much they shared in common. Like himself, he had within his veins the blood of a race both hated and feared by those who walked in the sunlit world. Surely this warrior, both brave and honorable, would be slain the moment he stepped foot upon the Thykiri ancestral lands, by virtue of his accursed blood.
Thalimon smiled grimly at the irony of their meeting, both so far from their homes. As the power of Avenger destroyed the enchantment of the Drow slave collar, the paladin‘s mind briefly met that of the barbarian‘s, sending a flood of images and thoughts cascading into his awareness. Ever so briefly he had seen One-Eye, the black wolf of the Hunting Ground, stand before him in the freshly fallen snow, his breath misting in the frigid air.
“We understand one another, Rak of the Bear people. But now, I must go...and walk the path in my own land, through the door of this prison. I would see the lands of the Bear, one day, if ever I return.”
Casting a glance towards the shimmering portal in the gloom, Rak’s brow wrinkled with a frown. “Shaman, I do not question the ways of the spirits, for they are not known to me.” Hefting the Drow long sword in his massive fist, Rak returned Thalimon’s smile with his own, his narrowed eyes flashing red in the darkness. “The ways of earth and steel are mine, ways that I know well. I would walk with you, Hawk, upon the path you must follow. This place holds nothing for me but vengeance.”
Thalimon was slow in reply, weighing his words carefully as he spoke to the barbarian. “You honor me, warrior, with your courage and strength. Where I must go, the ways of earth and steel cannot tread. These I must abandon in the land beyond the door, and leave here in this world. The Beast...” looking to the pile of ash that was once the towering fiend of terror, Thalimon lowered his voice to a whisper. “Rak, I must go alone. My land is a place of waking nightmare, and I likely shall not return from it.
“Seek your people, Rak. Within these winding tunnels a way may yet be found for you, a hope slim...yet hope nonetheless. Find my battle comrades...my people...in the heart of the complex, not far from where we are now. Within their hands lies the hope that you might one day join Wolf again upon the Hunting Ground...”
Rak looked on as Thalimon turned to enter the portal. “Your words have been true...and I know them to be so now. Bear guide you, Shaman. Good hunting to you.”
Holding Avenger to his breast, Thalimon saluted Rak. “Torm keep you, warrior. Beyond the stone door of this chamber lies a closure panel, hidden in the wall. As you leave this prison...seek for the depression in the wall. Press upon it, and close the door upon this place of evil forever.
“Do this, Rak of the Bear people, and I shall in turn be in your debt. Fare well, my friend.”
Thalimon Shestare entered the portal to the Abyss.
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
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dragon wench
- Posts: 19609
- Joined: Tue Apr 24, 2001 10:00 pm
- Location: The maelstrom where chaos merges with lucidity
- Contact:
Finally, her grief spent, Dragon Wench looked around the slightly glowing cavern walls, and then into the seemingly infinite depths of the luminescent waters. "Strange... that a place of such beauty should exist in a realm of so much horror," she murmered inaudibly.
Again, she glanced down at the letter... and at her hand... smeared with dried blood and grime. After endless days of battle in these torrid tunnels... she was filthy. Dragon Wench gazed into the inviting waters of the pool once more and came to a quick decision. With haste, she pulled off her robes and remaining garments, and plunged headlong into the crystaline depths. Nearly instantaneously, the countless layers of filth, sweat and encrusted gore dissolved and dissipated.... gone... not even the memories of combat and massacre could taint the cyan purity surrounding her nearly limpid form.
Briefly, Dragon Wench closed her eyes, and wished she could remain suspended like this forever... Yet.. that was impossible. With profound reluctance she climbed from the pool and found a change of clothing in her pack. Remembering that her robe and cloak dried very quickly she also placed these items into the waters before shrugging them on.
The letter remained by the water's edge. With care she placed it into a safe pouch... vowing that once upon the surface she would somehow locate Mahandros....
Somewhat warily, she returned to the central cavern and yet again to the Drow woman's body. With care she felt around her neck, hoping that perhaps she wore an amulet of some kind.... something by which Mahandros would be able to remember his dark love. The amulet Dragon Wench found was of an unusual design... intricate markings adorned its surface and it radiated a subtle power. Fortunately, it was not formed from adamantite....
Dragon Wench placed the necklace into the pouch containing the letter.... hoping against vain hope that never again would she forced to spill the blood of one so like herself.
Again, she glanced down at the letter... and at her hand... smeared with dried blood and grime. After endless days of battle in these torrid tunnels... she was filthy. Dragon Wench gazed into the inviting waters of the pool once more and came to a quick decision. With haste, she pulled off her robes and remaining garments, and plunged headlong into the crystaline depths. Nearly instantaneously, the countless layers of filth, sweat and encrusted gore dissolved and dissipated.... gone... not even the memories of combat and massacre could taint the cyan purity surrounding her nearly limpid form.
Briefly, Dragon Wench closed her eyes, and wished she could remain suspended like this forever... Yet.. that was impossible. With profound reluctance she climbed from the pool and found a change of clothing in her pack. Remembering that her robe and cloak dried very quickly she also placed these items into the waters before shrugging them on.
The letter remained by the water's edge. With care she placed it into a safe pouch... vowing that once upon the surface she would somehow locate Mahandros....
Somewhat warily, she returned to the central cavern and yet again to the Drow woman's body. With care she felt around her neck, hoping that perhaps she wore an amulet of some kind.... something by which Mahandros would be able to remember his dark love. The amulet Dragon Wench found was of an unusual design... intricate markings adorned its surface and it radiated a subtle power. Fortunately, it was not formed from adamantite....
Dragon Wench placed the necklace into the pouch containing the letter.... hoping against vain hope that never again would she forced to spill the blood of one so like herself.
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The portal greeted Thalimon in a swirling blue embrace, the shimmering surface rippling as his booted foot met the passageway to another universe. It was not unlike water, liquid and shifting in hue. Cool tendrils of static energy engulfed the paladin as he stepped through the door, drawing him in and casting him into utter chaos.
Thalimon Shestare found himself hurtling helplessly through a wormhole in the Astral Plane, that place which connects the myriad universes of the Prime Material plane to the Outer Dimensions...the mythical worlds of the Outsiders. Winds whispered and roared as his body was pulled along by a current that dwarfed even the Sword-wind of the dreaded Tharan-tir. About him was sheer emptiness, devoid of light save for the spidery net of static energy which comprised the twisting, convoluted stretch of tunnel. Looking behind, he could see no sign of the world he had just left...and in front of him, a limitless expanse that knew no end.
Summoning his courage, Thalimon steeled himself for the journey he now found himself upon. Conflicting sensations of cold and heat washed over his body as hurtled through the nothing, leaving his senses reeling with no point of reference to anchor upon. In the Astral dimension, there was no up, nor down...only existence. His humanity recoiled in horror at the disintegration of the boundaries of self which it held so dear, and sacred...
He would lose his mind in the Nothingness.
His right arm, swept behind by the fierce Astral winds that buffeted his body in the wormhole, began to tingle with a growing warmth. Fiercely he gripped Avenger as he traveled at speeds beyond his ken…only to discover, as he dared to look what lie behind him once more, that the blade of Cothindar was no longer the sword that he had known, and wielded faithfully, for so many years in Service to his Lord.
Whereas before the sword of meteoric iron glowed with the flames of a Holy power, it now blazed with an inner brilliance that pained his eyes to look directly upon. The curves of its ancient craftsmanship, forged by master swordsmiths thousands of years before, seemed to shift and blur in the raging windstorm of the Astral tunnel. Its form seemed to phase from the material to the immaterial in the blink of an eye, its substance mutating, assuming a weightlessness that at once both alarmed and intrigued the warrior. The sword that he had once known was transforming into something far greater. With each breath the paladin drew ever closer to the Outer dimensions, the very source of Avenger’s being and power.
Yes, Chosen One. I am closer now to the breath of my Maker.
Where am I?
Search your memories, Thalimon, Shalimare’s son. It is a place you have been before, long ago when you were brought to the world of Men. From the City of Doors you fled, your mother with her son in tow, to flee the assassins of the Queen.
I…I do not know this place.
Aye, your mortal mind has placed a veil over the events of that time, young one. Though the blood of the Outsiders you possess, you yet have the soul of a Man. It has been your salvation, Dark Guard.
How much longer must I endure this madness? Is there no end?
In the infinite reaches of the Astral plane, there is no time, nor distance. There is only….existence. It is as you perceive it to be, traveler. Thus your mind, accustomed to the input of your senses, shapes reality about you. A day’s journey in a thousand years…or the journey of a thousand years in a day.
You speak in riddles, ancient one. I perceive the chaos about me, the wind which roars in my ears, the nothing which has engulfed me…
You perceive that which is true, and is, and is yet subject to the power of the will, and the laughter of a child. As you perceive that a great distance lies before you, so it is, and shall be. The Outer dimensions are so very, very far away, child…and yet are so very, very near. Deep within you, you know this to be true. Plane touched you are, for you are indeed an other-dimensional creature, the offspring of beings who travel the planes at will. This heritage, which you have so bravely resisted for all of your days, Thalimon Shestare, is within your grasp. You must only will it be so…and so shall it be.
I do not know how. The darkness…I cannot taste of it, for it will consume me…
Do not abandon what you have gained, Chosen One. Do not seek to rebuild that which you have destroyed. The darkness is what you fear, but it is not the darkness that will consume you. It is fear, my faithful servant. Fear is what shall consume you…
You have proven yourself, heir of Cothindar. Do not battle against that which you fear…do not seek to war upon your own soul. As it was with your father, so it is with you. Aye, you stand upon the threshold of man, and demon. It is what you are, Thalimon Shestare. Be at peace with yourself, for the scales of justice are blind to circumstance, paladin. You question why…but fail to see with your eyes. Open them, paladin, as your father did before you. It is my gift to you. Your destiny lies within your own hands.
Master! Why am I here? All I see is nothingness, it is a void…
Avenger would speak no more. Gritting his teeth against the howling wind, Thalimon desperately clung his sense of self, grabbing hold of what faint sliver of peace remained to him. Flickering dimly in the recesses of his mind stood the Flame, small and insignificant in the hollows of thought and will. Yet burn it did, despite the torrent of panic and fear battering against the fortress of his mind. It called to him…beckoning him to stand near its warmth, sheltered from the wrath of the Psychic Wind.
Therein lie the Key, for within the brilliance of the Flame the memory of his mother Shalimare, and their journey through the Astral Plane many, many years before, was to be found.
It was a tunnel such as this that greeted the Mage and her son as they ran through the door in the deserted Sigil alley. Out upon the street, Althazaar Shestare held the rogue squad of Mercykillers at bay with his massive greatsword, purchasing precious moments for his beloved to flee the wrath of Lolth’s agents of death. This they did and with great haste, for Althazaar’s thunderous battle cry signaled that the end was near. Though a mighty warrior famed throughout Sigil for his skill with the sword, the Mercykillers were many, determined, and fearsome in their own right.
Quickly they approached the rather unassuming door in the trash littered alley, inconspicuous amongst the other battered slats which marked the dilapidated shanties in the slums of Sigil. Gripping the Drow pendant about her neck - the Key for this particular door - Thalimon watched as the door before them began to glow brightly. “Quickly, my child,” Shalimare whispered breathlessly, “take hold of my robe, and do not let go!”
Hesitating, Thalimon looked back to the entrance of the alley, where his father stood in battle with their pursuers. “What about father? We must wait for him to join us.”
Shalimare hissed through her teeth as pain washed over her delicate features. “My son” she cried, scooping the lad in her arms, “we cannot tarry! Father will join us as soon as he can, for he must keep the bad men away from us! We have no time, or else his valor shall be in vain…”
With that Shalimare dove through the door….and into the maelstrom.
Thalimon opened his tear-streaked eyes as the memory of his flight washed over his mind. As if in a dream, he heard the voice of his mother shouting above the winds of the wormhole…
”My child, hear me! You MUST do as I say, or else we shall be lost to one another forever. We are in another world, a place of dreams! Here anything is possible, you just have to believe. Do you believe?
“If you do, then do as I say! Pretend that we are in the alley, just like the place we were before we came here! Feel the cobblestones under your feet, smell the musty old shacks, feel the warm air on your skin.”
Closing his eyes, Thalimon remembered that day in the city of Doors, the last moment before he left his father behind forever, never to see him again. He could hear the ringing of steel…the cries of pain…and hear the rubbish on the ground rustling in the wind. The hem of his mother’s robe in his hand…her voice in his ear, urgent and pleading…
”Good! Now pretend that old door is right in front of you! Just like in the alley. You always loved to play pretend, Thalimon. Do it now for me, and I’ll do it with you. When I count to three, open your eyes, and it will be there. Ready?”
Yes, he could see the door in front of him, the rusted iron latch barely hanging on to the sagging wood. Only he would not open his eyes until his mother said to…
”Here we go, my son. One…two…three! Open your eyes, we are here!”
Opening his eyes, Thalimon found himself motionless, standing upon the rough stones of a phantom street, in a city that existed only in his mind. Yet, the substance of the Astral Plane yielded to his will, forming a landscape that suited his desires. Gone was the howling wind, and the chaos of nothing. The twisting expanse of wormhole lie behind him, churning and turning at the terminus of the road he stood firmly upon. In front of him, outlined with a glowing aura of light, was a door.
Reaching for the rusty, worn latch, Thalimon opened the door, and stepped into the Abyss.
Thalimon Shestare found himself hurtling helplessly through a wormhole in the Astral Plane, that place which connects the myriad universes of the Prime Material plane to the Outer Dimensions...the mythical worlds of the Outsiders. Winds whispered and roared as his body was pulled along by a current that dwarfed even the Sword-wind of the dreaded Tharan-tir. About him was sheer emptiness, devoid of light save for the spidery net of static energy which comprised the twisting, convoluted stretch of tunnel. Looking behind, he could see no sign of the world he had just left...and in front of him, a limitless expanse that knew no end.
Summoning his courage, Thalimon steeled himself for the journey he now found himself upon. Conflicting sensations of cold and heat washed over his body as hurtled through the nothing, leaving his senses reeling with no point of reference to anchor upon. In the Astral dimension, there was no up, nor down...only existence. His humanity recoiled in horror at the disintegration of the boundaries of self which it held so dear, and sacred...
He would lose his mind in the Nothingness.
His right arm, swept behind by the fierce Astral winds that buffeted his body in the wormhole, began to tingle with a growing warmth. Fiercely he gripped Avenger as he traveled at speeds beyond his ken…only to discover, as he dared to look what lie behind him once more, that the blade of Cothindar was no longer the sword that he had known, and wielded faithfully, for so many years in Service to his Lord.
Whereas before the sword of meteoric iron glowed with the flames of a Holy power, it now blazed with an inner brilliance that pained his eyes to look directly upon. The curves of its ancient craftsmanship, forged by master swordsmiths thousands of years before, seemed to shift and blur in the raging windstorm of the Astral tunnel. Its form seemed to phase from the material to the immaterial in the blink of an eye, its substance mutating, assuming a weightlessness that at once both alarmed and intrigued the warrior. The sword that he had once known was transforming into something far greater. With each breath the paladin drew ever closer to the Outer dimensions, the very source of Avenger’s being and power.
Yes, Chosen One. I am closer now to the breath of my Maker.
Where am I?
Search your memories, Thalimon, Shalimare’s son. It is a place you have been before, long ago when you were brought to the world of Men. From the City of Doors you fled, your mother with her son in tow, to flee the assassins of the Queen.
I…I do not know this place.
Aye, your mortal mind has placed a veil over the events of that time, young one. Though the blood of the Outsiders you possess, you yet have the soul of a Man. It has been your salvation, Dark Guard.
How much longer must I endure this madness? Is there no end?
In the infinite reaches of the Astral plane, there is no time, nor distance. There is only….existence. It is as you perceive it to be, traveler. Thus your mind, accustomed to the input of your senses, shapes reality about you. A day’s journey in a thousand years…or the journey of a thousand years in a day.
You speak in riddles, ancient one. I perceive the chaos about me, the wind which roars in my ears, the nothing which has engulfed me…
You perceive that which is true, and is, and is yet subject to the power of the will, and the laughter of a child. As you perceive that a great distance lies before you, so it is, and shall be. The Outer dimensions are so very, very far away, child…and yet are so very, very near. Deep within you, you know this to be true. Plane touched you are, for you are indeed an other-dimensional creature, the offspring of beings who travel the planes at will. This heritage, which you have so bravely resisted for all of your days, Thalimon Shestare, is within your grasp. You must only will it be so…and so shall it be.
I do not know how. The darkness…I cannot taste of it, for it will consume me…
Do not abandon what you have gained, Chosen One. Do not seek to rebuild that which you have destroyed. The darkness is what you fear, but it is not the darkness that will consume you. It is fear, my faithful servant. Fear is what shall consume you…
You have proven yourself, heir of Cothindar. Do not battle against that which you fear…do not seek to war upon your own soul. As it was with your father, so it is with you. Aye, you stand upon the threshold of man, and demon. It is what you are, Thalimon Shestare. Be at peace with yourself, for the scales of justice are blind to circumstance, paladin. You question why…but fail to see with your eyes. Open them, paladin, as your father did before you. It is my gift to you. Your destiny lies within your own hands.
Master! Why am I here? All I see is nothingness, it is a void…
Avenger would speak no more. Gritting his teeth against the howling wind, Thalimon desperately clung his sense of self, grabbing hold of what faint sliver of peace remained to him. Flickering dimly in the recesses of his mind stood the Flame, small and insignificant in the hollows of thought and will. Yet burn it did, despite the torrent of panic and fear battering against the fortress of his mind. It called to him…beckoning him to stand near its warmth, sheltered from the wrath of the Psychic Wind.
Therein lie the Key, for within the brilliance of the Flame the memory of his mother Shalimare, and their journey through the Astral Plane many, many years before, was to be found.
It was a tunnel such as this that greeted the Mage and her son as they ran through the door in the deserted Sigil alley. Out upon the street, Althazaar Shestare held the rogue squad of Mercykillers at bay with his massive greatsword, purchasing precious moments for his beloved to flee the wrath of Lolth’s agents of death. This they did and with great haste, for Althazaar’s thunderous battle cry signaled that the end was near. Though a mighty warrior famed throughout Sigil for his skill with the sword, the Mercykillers were many, determined, and fearsome in their own right.
Quickly they approached the rather unassuming door in the trash littered alley, inconspicuous amongst the other battered slats which marked the dilapidated shanties in the slums of Sigil. Gripping the Drow pendant about her neck - the Key for this particular door - Thalimon watched as the door before them began to glow brightly. “Quickly, my child,” Shalimare whispered breathlessly, “take hold of my robe, and do not let go!”
Hesitating, Thalimon looked back to the entrance of the alley, where his father stood in battle with their pursuers. “What about father? We must wait for him to join us.”
Shalimare hissed through her teeth as pain washed over her delicate features. “My son” she cried, scooping the lad in her arms, “we cannot tarry! Father will join us as soon as he can, for he must keep the bad men away from us! We have no time, or else his valor shall be in vain…”
With that Shalimare dove through the door….and into the maelstrom.
Thalimon opened his tear-streaked eyes as the memory of his flight washed over his mind. As if in a dream, he heard the voice of his mother shouting above the winds of the wormhole…
”My child, hear me! You MUST do as I say, or else we shall be lost to one another forever. We are in another world, a place of dreams! Here anything is possible, you just have to believe. Do you believe?
“If you do, then do as I say! Pretend that we are in the alley, just like the place we were before we came here! Feel the cobblestones under your feet, smell the musty old shacks, feel the warm air on your skin.”
Closing his eyes, Thalimon remembered that day in the city of Doors, the last moment before he left his father behind forever, never to see him again. He could hear the ringing of steel…the cries of pain…and hear the rubbish on the ground rustling in the wind. The hem of his mother’s robe in his hand…her voice in his ear, urgent and pleading…
”Good! Now pretend that old door is right in front of you! Just like in the alley. You always loved to play pretend, Thalimon. Do it now for me, and I’ll do it with you. When I count to three, open your eyes, and it will be there. Ready?”
Yes, he could see the door in front of him, the rusted iron latch barely hanging on to the sagging wood. Only he would not open his eyes until his mother said to…
”Here we go, my son. One…two…three! Open your eyes, we are here!”
Opening his eyes, Thalimon found himself motionless, standing upon the rough stones of a phantom street, in a city that existed only in his mind. Yet, the substance of the Astral Plane yielded to his will, forming a landscape that suited his desires. Gone was the howling wind, and the chaos of nothing. The twisting expanse of wormhole lie behind him, churning and turning at the terminus of the road he stood firmly upon. In front of him, outlined with a glowing aura of light, was a door.
Reaching for the rusty, worn latch, Thalimon opened the door, and stepped into the Abyss.
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
Black leather wings pushed their way through the red acrid sky. Nova climbed higher. The outer reaches of the abyss were coming into view. Her heart raced with anticipation as she strained her inner vision to search the vast borders of oblivion. She new of the ephemeral portal which opened on occasion at the bidding of the summoners.
More than anything, Nova dreamed of escape. Her mind wandered back to the planatar. The hideous fate of the creature struck a chord of longing deep within her breast. It resonated with an overwhelming desire. She had drunk her fill from Justice, surely justice would not be denied her. The only fear she knew was that she would remain a slave of Demogorgon forever. Imprisonment was the only pain she knew. The physical abuse she had endured at the creatures whims only served to remind her that she did in fact exist.
Sadly she resigned herself to the fact that her sole purpose for being was the amusement of a sadistic god. Her spirit railed against the beast. She cursed his existence and her own. Eagerly she would purchase her freedom with her very soul, if only she could.
Her musings ended suddenly when the icy fist of Demogorgon seized her heart in its grip. Blackness over took her consciousness as she tumbled helplessly through oblivion. No air, no sight, no sound, only the searing pain which consumed her body. Nova gnashed her teeth and screamed in outrage. It was by her heart that she was punished. It was by her heart she was controlled. He tightened his grip on the muscle, squeezing it to stillness. Fire and ice shot in torrents through her veins. He breathed his necrotic breath into her nostrils. Her flesh bubbled and peeled from her bones. Dark blood sprayed the darker blackness. Her essence was ripped from her spirit, and flailed in the torrential winds of his rage. Her mind was flooded with images of her purpose. Nova somehow, ever so briefly, found the strength to smile. Her lips curled in a hateful sneer, she screamed into the nothingness that assaulted her.
"Destroy me..!!!" ..."DESTROY ME !!!"....."Do it !!!".....You will NOT control me...You will have to destroy me.!!!"
Blood exploded from her head, streaming from her ears, nose and mouth, but just before she lost consciousness, Nova glimpsed the swirling blue light of the portal as it opened to receive the Dark Knight of her visions..Then all was black.
More than anything, Nova dreamed of escape. Her mind wandered back to the planatar. The hideous fate of the creature struck a chord of longing deep within her breast. It resonated with an overwhelming desire. She had drunk her fill from Justice, surely justice would not be denied her. The only fear she knew was that she would remain a slave of Demogorgon forever. Imprisonment was the only pain she knew. The physical abuse she had endured at the creatures whims only served to remind her that she did in fact exist.
Sadly she resigned herself to the fact that her sole purpose for being was the amusement of a sadistic god. Her spirit railed against the beast. She cursed his existence and her own. Eagerly she would purchase her freedom with her very soul, if only she could.
Her musings ended suddenly when the icy fist of Demogorgon seized her heart in its grip. Blackness over took her consciousness as she tumbled helplessly through oblivion. No air, no sight, no sound, only the searing pain which consumed her body. Nova gnashed her teeth and screamed in outrage. It was by her heart that she was punished. It was by her heart she was controlled. He tightened his grip on the muscle, squeezing it to stillness. Fire and ice shot in torrents through her veins. He breathed his necrotic breath into her nostrils. Her flesh bubbled and peeled from her bones. Dark blood sprayed the darker blackness. Her essence was ripped from her spirit, and flailed in the torrential winds of his rage. Her mind was flooded with images of her purpose. Nova somehow, ever so briefly, found the strength to smile. Her lips curled in a hateful sneer, she screamed into the nothingness that assaulted her.
"Destroy me..!!!" ..."DESTROY ME !!!"....."Do it !!!".....You will NOT control me...You will have to destroy me.!!!"
Blood exploded from her head, streaming from her ears, nose and mouth, but just before she lost consciousness, Nova glimpsed the swirling blue light of the portal as it opened to receive the Dark Knight of her visions..Then all was black.
Scayde Moody
(Pronounced Shayde)
The virtue of self sacrifice is the lie perpetuated by the weak to enslave the strong
Rak stood for some time, watching the portal ripple and shimmer in the gloom of the Chamber. The disappearance of the Shaman into its liquid depths just moments ago was rather disconcerting to the barbarian warrior, who viewed things unseen and magical as perilous, fraught with treachery and secrets. It was not his way; for the half-orc trusted that which he could see with his own eyes, hear with his own ears, and touch with his own hands above all else.
He would leave this place; it was full of nothing but the stench of death...but the parting words of the Shaman kept coming to mind. The world of the Shaman was a place where the ways of earth and steel - the ways of his people - knew no power. Therefore, the half-orc warrior chose not to go through the portal himself, in honor of Hawk's words to him. He had, after all, done what he himself could not. The Shaman had broken the collar of the dark ones, and for this Rak felt a life-debt to him. He was bound, then, to keep his parting wishes. Rak would travel through the more solid - and therefore more assuring - doorway that led back to the tunnels of his despised jailors, and seek out the comrades of his newly found friend. Hefting the blade in his hand, Rak considered what he would need for the journey ahead.
The drow long sword, while marvelously fashioned and keen of edge, was not to his liking. It was light in his massive hand - too light, perhaps. He preferred a heavier weapon, one that felt more sturdy and sure in his grip. Looking about the remains of the dead on the stone floor, he searched the spoils of the mighty Winged Hunter for something more suitable to his tastes.
The instruments of war lie strewn about the chamber in disarray, fallen from the hands of the demon‘s hapless victims. Even the most commonplace were made very well...exceedingly well, indeed, for such a weak and cowardly race as the dark ones had proved to be. He spat upon the severed head of one as his eyes stared lifelessly beyond, his visage frozen in the final moments of his terror and agony. That one had not even stood like a warrior...he had screamed as a child, dropping his shield and sword and fleeing towards the closed chamber door. "Your death suited you, coward," Rak grunted with disgust, as he rifled through the possessions on the drow’s headless corpse.
The drow’s armor - amazingly strong chain mail, glittering with flecks of adamant ore - was by far too slight to fit his massive frame. His own sacred Bear Hide armor, fashioned with great care by his own hand in his youth, was lost to him during the time of his captivity. He would have to do without armor for the time being, it would seem. No matter.
Rak patiently searched the debris, looking for a weapon of worth to wield. Surely not all of the drow were so weak that they could not lift a two-handed weapon, or the hand and a half sword favored by the people of the snowy north? Such a blade was worthy of battle, heavy enough to cleave through the helms and breastplates of the most determined of foes. How many warriors of the Snow Tiger clan had Rak himself vanquished with the bastard sword? Too many to consider now, after years of defending The Hunting Ground from their hardened raiding parties. Tiring of their attacks, Rak had wanted the Bear people to take the battle into the enemy’s own camp...but was resisted by the Clan’s elder council, who felt such a thing would be fated for disaster, and would incur the wrath of the Tiger spirit. Though greatly admired for his prowess in war, those who were fearful of his orcish heritage often pushed him to the side, ignoring his words when it came to the direction of his people.
The unexpected gleam of silver caught his eye in the gloom. In the rear of the chamber, close to the portal the Shaman had entered, lie the remains of a warrior fallen long ago. His bones were bleached white by time, free of flesh and decay. Rak’s heart leapt as he noted the size of the fallen one...a human he was, greater in stature than the slight drow. Though still not as large as he himself, hope remained that he might be able to find use for some of his gear...
The warrior’s breastplate was ruined beyond hope...but his pauldrons were serviceable still, the straps long enough to accomodate the half-orc’s bulky shoulders and arms. Reverently he removed them from the warrior’s remains; for it was obvious to Rak that this one had battled the demon of the chamber with honor. “Bear aid you, brave one, in the Afterworld,” Rak whispered as he set the pauldrons aside. “I shall remember you during the Hunt. I shall seek you out when I come to join my ancestors at last, to thank you for the gift you have given me.”
The pauldrons were not the only treasure left behind for Rak. Though dented by fierce blows, the warrior’s shield was still worthy of use. Reaching out with his hand, he lifted the kite shield from the fighter’s side...and uncovered the greatest treasure of all. A battle axe, its edge stained with the blood of the battlefield, lie waiting on the hewn floor, glowing softly with enchanted runes.
Rak of the Bear people smiled. It was a good sign.
He would leave this place; it was full of nothing but the stench of death...but the parting words of the Shaman kept coming to mind. The world of the Shaman was a place where the ways of earth and steel - the ways of his people - knew no power. Therefore, the half-orc warrior chose not to go through the portal himself, in honor of Hawk's words to him. He had, after all, done what he himself could not. The Shaman had broken the collar of the dark ones, and for this Rak felt a life-debt to him. He was bound, then, to keep his parting wishes. Rak would travel through the more solid - and therefore more assuring - doorway that led back to the tunnels of his despised jailors, and seek out the comrades of his newly found friend. Hefting the blade in his hand, Rak considered what he would need for the journey ahead.
The drow long sword, while marvelously fashioned and keen of edge, was not to his liking. It was light in his massive hand - too light, perhaps. He preferred a heavier weapon, one that felt more sturdy and sure in his grip. Looking about the remains of the dead on the stone floor, he searched the spoils of the mighty Winged Hunter for something more suitable to his tastes.
The instruments of war lie strewn about the chamber in disarray, fallen from the hands of the demon‘s hapless victims. Even the most commonplace were made very well...exceedingly well, indeed, for such a weak and cowardly race as the dark ones had proved to be. He spat upon the severed head of one as his eyes stared lifelessly beyond, his visage frozen in the final moments of his terror and agony. That one had not even stood like a warrior...he had screamed as a child, dropping his shield and sword and fleeing towards the closed chamber door. "Your death suited you, coward," Rak grunted with disgust, as he rifled through the possessions on the drow’s headless corpse.
The drow’s armor - amazingly strong chain mail, glittering with flecks of adamant ore - was by far too slight to fit his massive frame. His own sacred Bear Hide armor, fashioned with great care by his own hand in his youth, was lost to him during the time of his captivity. He would have to do without armor for the time being, it would seem. No matter.
Rak patiently searched the debris, looking for a weapon of worth to wield. Surely not all of the drow were so weak that they could not lift a two-handed weapon, or the hand and a half sword favored by the people of the snowy north? Such a blade was worthy of battle, heavy enough to cleave through the helms and breastplates of the most determined of foes. How many warriors of the Snow Tiger clan had Rak himself vanquished with the bastard sword? Too many to consider now, after years of defending The Hunting Ground from their hardened raiding parties. Tiring of their attacks, Rak had wanted the Bear people to take the battle into the enemy’s own camp...but was resisted by the Clan’s elder council, who felt such a thing would be fated for disaster, and would incur the wrath of the Tiger spirit. Though greatly admired for his prowess in war, those who were fearful of his orcish heritage often pushed him to the side, ignoring his words when it came to the direction of his people.
The unexpected gleam of silver caught his eye in the gloom. In the rear of the chamber, close to the portal the Shaman had entered, lie the remains of a warrior fallen long ago. His bones were bleached white by time, free of flesh and decay. Rak’s heart leapt as he noted the size of the fallen one...a human he was, greater in stature than the slight drow. Though still not as large as he himself, hope remained that he might be able to find use for some of his gear...
The warrior’s breastplate was ruined beyond hope...but his pauldrons were serviceable still, the straps long enough to accomodate the half-orc’s bulky shoulders and arms. Reverently he removed them from the warrior’s remains; for it was obvious to Rak that this one had battled the demon of the chamber with honor. “Bear aid you, brave one, in the Afterworld,” Rak whispered as he set the pauldrons aside. “I shall remember you during the Hunt. I shall seek you out when I come to join my ancestors at last, to thank you for the gift you have given me.”
The pauldrons were not the only treasure left behind for Rak. Though dented by fierce blows, the warrior’s shield was still worthy of use. Reaching out with his hand, he lifted the kite shield from the fighter’s side...and uncovered the greatest treasure of all. A battle axe, its edge stained with the blood of the battlefield, lie waiting on the hewn floor, glowing softly with enchanted runes.
Rak of the Bear people smiled. It was a good sign.
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
Mirrors whisper forbidden secrets...
Calling names no longer spoken,
Reflecting places lost in Time.
Mirrors capture fleeting glimpses...
Revealing the forgotten stranger,
And the beginning without an end.
Mirrors open the doors of vision...
Clearing the mists of blindness,
Portraying the horror of it all.
Thalimon Shestare awoke upon the dunes of the Sea of Dust and Tears, his lips parched, his throat burning with thirst. His armor was caked with the red-hued dust of the barren inland sea, mingling with his sweat to produce crimson rivers of perspiration not unlike human blood.
He was home...somehow, the door had opened upon the broken reaches of the Thykiri Waste. Rising to his feet, he looked to the night sky above...and there, next to the cluster of the Thangdariim blazed Giira, the brightest star of the heavens. Instinctively the paladin reached for his blades, drawing them forth to glitter in the silence of the midnight Sea. This hour was not the time for the living to walk the blood-red dunes, lest they be Lykanviiri on the hunt. Narrowing his eyes, Thalimon scanned the horizon for signs of the undead.
Upon attaining manhood, the tiefling warrior shared the company of the Veiled Ones for a time. The Lykanviiri - the rangers of the Thykiri Waste - welcomed him wordlessly amongst their number, teaching the talmaad of the Thukariin the ways of moon and star, sun and wind. Upon the choking sands of this very Sea he had hunted side by side with Thas their Lord...and it was here that he first met Giira his daughter, deadly with bow and blade...named after the blazing night-jewel that now welcomed him home. Home...
The weight of Avenger his blade in hand, and the gritty sand covering the sword's wrapped hilt, assured him that he indeed stood upon the land of his charge once again. Avenger...
...was Avenger no more. Softly it glowed in the darkness of the night, no longer the blazing brand of an ancient age long gone. It was Fiendslayer once more...and he was, once more, the Dark Guard of the Thukariin. Thalimon stood silently for a moment, pondering his next move. Ahead, lit by the beacon of Giira, lie the caves of Huornil. Southward lie the steppes of the Horse people, the mounted warriors of the Thykiri.
Turning northward, he took the first step of a journey that would lead him to the abode of his former master, the Lord of Blades. It would be good to be home once again, it would be good to....
As Thalimon took that first step of his long trek home, an immense dune suddenly swelled up from the depths of the sand beneath his feet. With a cry the paladin leapt back, tumbling down the rapidly growing slope of the mountain of sand until he stood on solid, level ground once more.
Such a thing was unheard of in all the known reaches of the Waste. Crouching low, Thalimon proceeded to skirt around the new obstacle, towering ominously in the night. The Seers must hear of this, thought the paladin grimly. They would be able to divine the origin of this...
A voice suddenly shattered the still of the midnight Sea, calling his name in the darkness. Though barely above a whisper, it was spoken with force and intensity. The speaker stood at the summit of the mountain of sand.
"Come, my brother. There will be an end to things now."
Thalimon Shestare knew this voice well. It was his own.
Calling names no longer spoken,
Reflecting places lost in Time.
Mirrors capture fleeting glimpses...
Revealing the forgotten stranger,
And the beginning without an end.
Mirrors open the doors of vision...
Clearing the mists of blindness,
Portraying the horror of it all.
Thalimon Shestare awoke upon the dunes of the Sea of Dust and Tears, his lips parched, his throat burning with thirst. His armor was caked with the red-hued dust of the barren inland sea, mingling with his sweat to produce crimson rivers of perspiration not unlike human blood.
He was home...somehow, the door had opened upon the broken reaches of the Thykiri Waste. Rising to his feet, he looked to the night sky above...and there, next to the cluster of the Thangdariim blazed Giira, the brightest star of the heavens. Instinctively the paladin reached for his blades, drawing them forth to glitter in the silence of the midnight Sea. This hour was not the time for the living to walk the blood-red dunes, lest they be Lykanviiri on the hunt. Narrowing his eyes, Thalimon scanned the horizon for signs of the undead.
Upon attaining manhood, the tiefling warrior shared the company of the Veiled Ones for a time. The Lykanviiri - the rangers of the Thykiri Waste - welcomed him wordlessly amongst their number, teaching the talmaad of the Thukariin the ways of moon and star, sun and wind. Upon the choking sands of this very Sea he had hunted side by side with Thas their Lord...and it was here that he first met Giira his daughter, deadly with bow and blade...named after the blazing night-jewel that now welcomed him home. Home...
The weight of Avenger his blade in hand, and the gritty sand covering the sword's wrapped hilt, assured him that he indeed stood upon the land of his charge once again. Avenger...
...was Avenger no more. Softly it glowed in the darkness of the night, no longer the blazing brand of an ancient age long gone. It was Fiendslayer once more...and he was, once more, the Dark Guard of the Thukariin. Thalimon stood silently for a moment, pondering his next move. Ahead, lit by the beacon of Giira, lie the caves of Huornil. Southward lie the steppes of the Horse people, the mounted warriors of the Thykiri.
Turning northward, he took the first step of a journey that would lead him to the abode of his former master, the Lord of Blades. It would be good to be home once again, it would be good to....
As Thalimon took that first step of his long trek home, an immense dune suddenly swelled up from the depths of the sand beneath his feet. With a cry the paladin leapt back, tumbling down the rapidly growing slope of the mountain of sand until he stood on solid, level ground once more.
Such a thing was unheard of in all the known reaches of the Waste. Crouching low, Thalimon proceeded to skirt around the new obstacle, towering ominously in the night. The Seers must hear of this, thought the paladin grimly. They would be able to divine the origin of this...
A voice suddenly shattered the still of the midnight Sea, calling his name in the darkness. Though barely above a whisper, it was spoken with force and intensity. The speaker stood at the summit of the mountain of sand.
"Come, my brother. There will be an end to things now."
Thalimon Shestare knew this voice well. It was his own.
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
"Mirrors do not lie, my brother. They but reflect what already is...and also what could be. Come, so I may look upon you. Certainly you desire to look upon me..."
Turning to face the speaker - who was yet hidden from his eyes - Thalimon paused, an electric sensation throbbing at the base of his skull. Powerful magic radiated from the zenith of the dune...emanated by the speaker of his own voice. The world seemed to shift around him, the sand rippling like waves on the midnight sea...
"You speak in riddles. Come where I may see your countenance, then, so that I may know the nature of your sorcery."
"But of course, my brother. It would please me to do so."
Eyes of blazing red greeted Thalimon from the starry heights above. Stepping more fully into view, the speaker stood revealed to the tiefling in the moonlight, standing upon the crest of the dune. He was dark, arrayed in armor of the blackest night.
"Yes, Dark Guard. Mirrors do not lie. Look upon yourself...my brother."
Stifling a cry, Thalimon hissed through clenched teeth. Thus was the nature of illusion...it touched upon the innermost thoughts of the observer. He must be vigilant, for the weaver of this spell was powerful indeed. Evil pervaded the very air around the figure as he stood, reaching down the slope of the dune and grasping Thalimon's heart with the icy tendrils of whispered fear. Were the paladin not beyond the reach of such things, a panic would surely seize control of his mind...
Yet it did not, for in his soul Thalimon knew no fear. Doubt, perhaps...but not fear. Was a dead man not far removed from the terrors faced by the living? His life was not his own. This he gave - willingly - to Torm the True long ago in the tomb of the ancient paladin, Cothindar. There was no turning back for Thalimon Shestare.
Standing his ground, the paladin spoke to the dark apparition of himself plainly, seeking to discern the nature of the illusion he now faced. Perhaps if he humored the enchantment for a time, he might discover that telltale flaw which earmarked fantasy from reality...
"I am amused. A most clever enchantment, evil one. I have not encountered the like during my sojourn here in this world. May I ask why?"
The dark knight laughed uproariously into the night, white canines flashing from a broad, rictus grin. The expression, while jovial in a rather disarming manner, also seemed tainted by an underlying current of malice, expressed by two glaring eyes of incandescent red.
"Brother! I assure you that I am real, as tangible as you yourself are. In fact...I AM you! Hahahahahaha!"
Thalimon remained silent as the demon was struck once more by uncontrollable gales of laughter. Patiently he waited as the humor abated...seeking the one weakness which would dispel the illusion entirely, leaving him in peace to return to his home...at last.
The demon's countenance suddenly changed as a grave look clouded his dark, angular features. The time for amusement had passed. "Dark Guard...come, we have not the time for child's play. We tire of the game, we do. Things are not as they seem...and yet they are. Perhaps you have deduced that you are not truly in the Waste..."
"Yes. This has occurred to me, evil one."
"...and that you shall never actually reach our master's abode, since it does not exist here. You do not disappoint us, then. I shall spare you the effort of discovering that you may not traverse beyond the bounds of this dune we both stand upon. You cannot. I myself may not leave. There is only one way here...
"And that is for us to face one another."
Non-plussed, Thalimon continued to stand at the base of the dune. "Still you speak in riddles. Explain yourself, that I might make sense of your words."
"It is simple, my brother. We are divided. Long have you consigned me to a bleak, featureless prison in your soul...imprisoned, as it were, atop a great dune in the Sea of your own making. I could not defy the bonds which you placed upon yourself; stronger than iron they have been, and unyielding as rough-hewn stone.
"Never have I known the wind in my hair, nor the blood of foes upon my blades. Ever do I call your name from the featureless waste of my despair for but a taste of what it would be like to live...and always have you turned a deaf ear to my cries. Though I see the world through my own eyes, and hear the music in my own ears...yet it is all denied to me.
"It is here, in the prison that is your own soul, that we stand now. And it is here that we now face one another, the master...and his slave."
Thalimon's composure melted away into the night at the final words of the dark knight, spoken as a man broken. "I...I...do not understand. I do not understand how I can face myself. You are not me. I am not like you...I am not like you at all."
Snarling, the demon spit upon the sand, grasping the hilts of his blades at his side. "Deny the truth, master! Your denial has inflicted untold misery upon yourself, for you and I are one! Thus you have led a divided existence, always subjugating who you truly are to who you wish to be. You curse your own existence...making a mockery of our father by your insolence!"
Two blades of greenish fire sprung from the warrior's sides, flaring brightly as a black shroud began to descend over his form, cloaking him in utter darkness...a darkness that even the eyes of Thalimon could not pierce.
"Enough! It shall end here! No longer shall I be denied that which is rightfully mine...no longer shall I suffer by your hand! At long last, the time has come for me to arise. I shall slay you here as you so richly deserve, coward. Mirrors do not lie...I am you!
"We are home, you and I, as we should have been long ago. The Abyss has weakened my bonds....and I SHALL BE FREE!"
Turning to face the speaker - who was yet hidden from his eyes - Thalimon paused, an electric sensation throbbing at the base of his skull. Powerful magic radiated from the zenith of the dune...emanated by the speaker of his own voice. The world seemed to shift around him, the sand rippling like waves on the midnight sea...
"You speak in riddles. Come where I may see your countenance, then, so that I may know the nature of your sorcery."
"But of course, my brother. It would please me to do so."
Eyes of blazing red greeted Thalimon from the starry heights above. Stepping more fully into view, the speaker stood revealed to the tiefling in the moonlight, standing upon the crest of the dune. He was dark, arrayed in armor of the blackest night.
"Yes, Dark Guard. Mirrors do not lie. Look upon yourself...my brother."
Stifling a cry, Thalimon hissed through clenched teeth. Thus was the nature of illusion...it touched upon the innermost thoughts of the observer. He must be vigilant, for the weaver of this spell was powerful indeed. Evil pervaded the very air around the figure as he stood, reaching down the slope of the dune and grasping Thalimon's heart with the icy tendrils of whispered fear. Were the paladin not beyond the reach of such things, a panic would surely seize control of his mind...
Yet it did not, for in his soul Thalimon knew no fear. Doubt, perhaps...but not fear. Was a dead man not far removed from the terrors faced by the living? His life was not his own. This he gave - willingly - to Torm the True long ago in the tomb of the ancient paladin, Cothindar. There was no turning back for Thalimon Shestare.
Standing his ground, the paladin spoke to the dark apparition of himself plainly, seeking to discern the nature of the illusion he now faced. Perhaps if he humored the enchantment for a time, he might discover that telltale flaw which earmarked fantasy from reality...
"I am amused. A most clever enchantment, evil one. I have not encountered the like during my sojourn here in this world. May I ask why?"
The dark knight laughed uproariously into the night, white canines flashing from a broad, rictus grin. The expression, while jovial in a rather disarming manner, also seemed tainted by an underlying current of malice, expressed by two glaring eyes of incandescent red.
"Brother! I assure you that I am real, as tangible as you yourself are. In fact...I AM you! Hahahahahaha!"
Thalimon remained silent as the demon was struck once more by uncontrollable gales of laughter. Patiently he waited as the humor abated...seeking the one weakness which would dispel the illusion entirely, leaving him in peace to return to his home...at last.
The demon's countenance suddenly changed as a grave look clouded his dark, angular features. The time for amusement had passed. "Dark Guard...come, we have not the time for child's play. We tire of the game, we do. Things are not as they seem...and yet they are. Perhaps you have deduced that you are not truly in the Waste..."
"Yes. This has occurred to me, evil one."
"...and that you shall never actually reach our master's abode, since it does not exist here. You do not disappoint us, then. I shall spare you the effort of discovering that you may not traverse beyond the bounds of this dune we both stand upon. You cannot. I myself may not leave. There is only one way here...
"And that is for us to face one another."
Non-plussed, Thalimon continued to stand at the base of the dune. "Still you speak in riddles. Explain yourself, that I might make sense of your words."
"It is simple, my brother. We are divided. Long have you consigned me to a bleak, featureless prison in your soul...imprisoned, as it were, atop a great dune in the Sea of your own making. I could not defy the bonds which you placed upon yourself; stronger than iron they have been, and unyielding as rough-hewn stone.
"Never have I known the wind in my hair, nor the blood of foes upon my blades. Ever do I call your name from the featureless waste of my despair for but a taste of what it would be like to live...and always have you turned a deaf ear to my cries. Though I see the world through my own eyes, and hear the music in my own ears...yet it is all denied to me.
"It is here, in the prison that is your own soul, that we stand now. And it is here that we now face one another, the master...and his slave."
Thalimon's composure melted away into the night at the final words of the dark knight, spoken as a man broken. "I...I...do not understand. I do not understand how I can face myself. You are not me. I am not like you...I am not like you at all."
Snarling, the demon spit upon the sand, grasping the hilts of his blades at his side. "Deny the truth, master! Your denial has inflicted untold misery upon yourself, for you and I are one! Thus you have led a divided existence, always subjugating who you truly are to who you wish to be. You curse your own existence...making a mockery of our father by your insolence!"
Two blades of greenish fire sprung from the warrior's sides, flaring brightly as a black shroud began to descend over his form, cloaking him in utter darkness...a darkness that even the eyes of Thalimon could not pierce.
"Enough! It shall end here! No longer shall I be denied that which is rightfully mine...no longer shall I suffer by your hand! At long last, the time has come for me to arise. I shall slay you here as you so richly deserve, coward. Mirrors do not lie...I am you!
"We are home, you and I, as we should have been long ago. The Abyss has weakened my bonds....and I SHALL BE FREE!"
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
Fiendslayer hummed as the globe of darkness launched into the air, blotting out the stars as it plummeted down the slope towards the waiting paladin. Crouching low, Thalimon rolled safely to the side as the demon's words sank into the dune, missing him by mere inches. The super-heated blades fused the surrounding sand into glass with a hiss...
Lashing out at the globe of darkness with a mailed fist, Thalimon regained his footing on the slippery slope, bringing Fiendslayer to bear against the assault. His effort was rewarded by a grunt, the blow striking flesh...though Fiendslayer tasted empty air as the demon faded deftly out of harm's way, returning the attack with his own staccato burst of flaming steel.
Sparks flew in the night as Thalimon parried his own attacks, losing ground to the naked ferocity of his imprisoned self. This could not be...this evil did not have a face. That he had always felt it's malignant presence within himself, he could not deny...and at times he struggled long and hard against it's seething hatred in the heat of battle. Always had it longed to bathe in the blood of his enemies, and taste of their fear as he hewed them limb from limb. His only solace was the Flame...
"Ever have you separated yourself from me, denying who I am! You shall deny yourself no longer, master..."
The song of steel reached a crescendo as the demon began taunting his foe, constantly keeping the paladin on the defensive with his deadly swords of Abyssal fire.
"Coward! You have skulked on the fringes of existence our entire life, believing the lies of those who fear you! You are not strong enough to face the truth...and you are not strong enough to defeat me!"
The anti-paladin's wrath increased as he spoke, fueling the whirling arcs of his flaming blades with passionate abandon. Never before had Thalimon faced such a foe in battle...for the foe was indeed his own self, the slayer of many-armed Ylilothxianliit, Demon of the Skull...
"I am the heart of the warrior within you! Yet you curse me. Hypocrite!"
His foe was the young tiefling abandoned, dying upon the parched earth of the merciless desert. Denied his father, he had clung desperately to the only star in his sky. Yet she, too, was taken from him in the night, leaving him alone in a world that rejected him for who he was. His foe was a prisoner in chains.
"Look upon me, Thalimon."
The anti-paladin suddenly ceased his assault, standing still as the shroud of un-light lifted from his form. Staggering back, Thalimon prepared himself against a possible ruse...only to meet the visage of his own dark self, staring back at him through eyes grown weary with pain.
"Why do you resist yourself? Why do you continue with this hopeless struggle? You doom us to a non-existence, condemned to a life of suffering and misery. Am I your enemy? Am I a tanar'ri that you must vanquish, Fiendslayer? If that is so...then you must fall upon your own sword."
Looking upon the darkness that he had denied for so long, Thalimon sought purchase against the pit that was beginning to open up beneath him. It threatned to swallow him whole in the confines of the prison of his own devising...the sands shifted and moved under his feet...
"How could I ever allow you freedom? You are monstrous; utterly evil, and a blight upon the lives of the innocent who live under the rays of the sun. I will never loose you upon the world, demon. I shall resist you to the very end, with my final breath. I deny you."
"Damn you, fool! By denying me, you deny yourself! Can you not see, or are you so blind and beggarly that you must hide in the shadows for fear of your own power? My father did not do such a thing. He accepted himself for who he was...and he was the master of his own destiny. Are you? Are we?"
"My life...was forfeit long ago. I only do that which I must do, for I will never surrender to rage, nor hate. The world cannot accept me for the evil in my veins...and this, I know and understand well. Therefore, I am a weapon in the hands of my Lord, his instrument against the vile malignancy which spawned me. This fate I accept willingly; and neither you, nor Hell itself, can sway me from my chosen course. I shall perish defying the ultimate darkness that is demonkind."
Crossing his blades across his chest, the paladin's dark self backed slowly up the slope, each step widening the gulf between them. "Follow me, then, to the heart of my prison. Behold your handiwork, paladin. See with your own eyes the truth of my words...if you dare."
Lashing out at the globe of darkness with a mailed fist, Thalimon regained his footing on the slippery slope, bringing Fiendslayer to bear against the assault. His effort was rewarded by a grunt, the blow striking flesh...though Fiendslayer tasted empty air as the demon faded deftly out of harm's way, returning the attack with his own staccato burst of flaming steel.
Sparks flew in the night as Thalimon parried his own attacks, losing ground to the naked ferocity of his imprisoned self. This could not be...this evil did not have a face. That he had always felt it's malignant presence within himself, he could not deny...and at times he struggled long and hard against it's seething hatred in the heat of battle. Always had it longed to bathe in the blood of his enemies, and taste of their fear as he hewed them limb from limb. His only solace was the Flame...
"Ever have you separated yourself from me, denying who I am! You shall deny yourself no longer, master..."
The song of steel reached a crescendo as the demon began taunting his foe, constantly keeping the paladin on the defensive with his deadly swords of Abyssal fire.
"Coward! You have skulked on the fringes of existence our entire life, believing the lies of those who fear you! You are not strong enough to face the truth...and you are not strong enough to defeat me!"
The anti-paladin's wrath increased as he spoke, fueling the whirling arcs of his flaming blades with passionate abandon. Never before had Thalimon faced such a foe in battle...for the foe was indeed his own self, the slayer of many-armed Ylilothxianliit, Demon of the Skull...
"I am the heart of the warrior within you! Yet you curse me. Hypocrite!"
His foe was the young tiefling abandoned, dying upon the parched earth of the merciless desert. Denied his father, he had clung desperately to the only star in his sky. Yet she, too, was taken from him in the night, leaving him alone in a world that rejected him for who he was. His foe was a prisoner in chains.
"Look upon me, Thalimon."
The anti-paladin suddenly ceased his assault, standing still as the shroud of un-light lifted from his form. Staggering back, Thalimon prepared himself against a possible ruse...only to meet the visage of his own dark self, staring back at him through eyes grown weary with pain.
"Why do you resist yourself? Why do you continue with this hopeless struggle? You doom us to a non-existence, condemned to a life of suffering and misery. Am I your enemy? Am I a tanar'ri that you must vanquish, Fiendslayer? If that is so...then you must fall upon your own sword."
Looking upon the darkness that he had denied for so long, Thalimon sought purchase against the pit that was beginning to open up beneath him. It threatned to swallow him whole in the confines of the prison of his own devising...the sands shifted and moved under his feet...
"How could I ever allow you freedom? You are monstrous; utterly evil, and a blight upon the lives of the innocent who live under the rays of the sun. I will never loose you upon the world, demon. I shall resist you to the very end, with my final breath. I deny you."
"Damn you, fool! By denying me, you deny yourself! Can you not see, or are you so blind and beggarly that you must hide in the shadows for fear of your own power? My father did not do such a thing. He accepted himself for who he was...and he was the master of his own destiny. Are you? Are we?"
"My life...was forfeit long ago. I only do that which I must do, for I will never surrender to rage, nor hate. The world cannot accept me for the evil in my veins...and this, I know and understand well. Therefore, I am a weapon in the hands of my Lord, his instrument against the vile malignancy which spawned me. This fate I accept willingly; and neither you, nor Hell itself, can sway me from my chosen course. I shall perish defying the ultimate darkness that is demonkind."
Crossing his blades across his chest, the paladin's dark self backed slowly up the slope, each step widening the gulf between them. "Follow me, then, to the heart of my prison. Behold your handiwork, paladin. See with your own eyes the truth of my words...if you dare."
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
Sheathing his blades, Thalimon followed his foe up the slope of the dune, leaving the pit of sand - and the notion that this was some sort of powerful illusion - behind.
The summit of the dune resembled the surrounding landscape very little. Instead of the fine granules of sand that constituted the stretch of Sea below, the surface of the mountaintop was glass...crimson-hued glass...
The instant the paladin set foot upon the smooth, hard surface of his prison, he left existence behind. Upon the top of the dune, there was no wind...nor were there stars in a sky. Here, the moon could not cast her silvery rays. Nothingness stretched for as far as the eye could see in every direction...a gray, gauzy non-existence. All there was lie beneath his feet...glass the color of blood. Thalimon Shestare stood still for some time, his mind reeling in the void. The endless reaches of the Astral Dimension, being a Void itself, nevertheless responded to the will, shaping itself to thoughts and desires. Here in this prison there was naught but silence...immutable and eternal, the weight bore down heavily upon him. Eventually the burden became too much for him to bear, driving him to his knees on the glass.
On the Astral Plane, Thalimon feared losing his sense of self to the howling Psychic Wind. In the confines of this prison, however, there was no such peril to be found. Instead, the crushing oppression of utter silence kindled the growing notion within his mind to seek a way to lose that sense of self he had always treasured so highly, and clung to so dearly. The burden of existence was simply too great, and too horrible, to desire any longer.
His dark self stood with his arms folded, blades now sheathed at his side. Knowingly he looked upon the tiefling as he began to weep...softly at first, it grew in intensity at the passing of each moment. With every breath Thalimon Shestare sank further into the depths of inconsolable despair, agony wracking his body as he wept. The blood began to flow from his eyes...
"I do not understand...how could this be? I have sworn my life to the breaking of bonds...be they wrought of terror and malice, or ignorance and indifference. Yet I am blind! I cannot see! I, Thalimon Shestare, am your jailor!"
He was alone in the nothingness now, for the anti-paladin had turned his back upon the tiefling, walking away into the mind-numbing mists of the prison he knew so very well. The pain of Thalimon's tears only added to the guilt that now called soothingly to his soul, luring him with it's hypnotic call of oblivion. At last he collapsed upon the glass exhausted, his endurance taxed beyond the limit. He had not the desire, nor the will, to attempt to rise again. He only desired sleep to come...blessed sleep...
An indeterminate amount of time had passed when, suddenly, Thalimon bolted upright from a restless slumber. Had his eyes been closed...or were they always open? He could not tell...for he was now only aware that his foe stood before him once again, calling his name. His countenance had changed somehow...it seemed to Thalimon that the lines of his face - his own face - had grown softer. The solid ebony hue of his armor - a suit of exquisitely crafted field plate - had also seemed to be less imposing than it was before. It had assumed a very subtle, smoky lustre...
"Behold the prison of your own making. It is here that I have my being...and it is here that you know your greatest sorrow. It has always been this way, Thalimon Shestare. Before, insulated as you were by your illusions, you were blissfully unaware of it all. Until now..."
Pausing while he reclined into a sitting position, the dark knight smiled wanly as he faced Thalimon upon the floor, eye to eye.
"Now, my brother, you have no choice but to see things as they truly are, free of illusion and deceit. Mirrors do not lie."
Returning his gaze, Thalimon summoned the strength to speak. "Why? Why is this happening, stranger?"
Chuckling under his breath, the demon chided Thalimon softly. "Come now, I am no stranger to you, my brother. You may call me Thalimon Shestare, for that is who I am...and also whom I shall be, if I can somehow escape these bonds you have placed upon yourself. And escape I shall....even if it means my death."
Rising to his feet, Thalimon's dark self extended a hand.
"Come, Thalimon, stand upon your feet and face me. Take my hand if you need it...do not be ashamed. Nary a being in the world, or the worlds beyond, should be consigned to suffer what you are experiencing now. Aye, it would be better to cease existing than to endure but an instant of this...un-existence. Do you not agree?"
Smiling, the warrior kept his hand extended, awaiting Thalimon's response.
Reaching out, Thalimon accepted his hand.
The summit of the dune resembled the surrounding landscape very little. Instead of the fine granules of sand that constituted the stretch of Sea below, the surface of the mountaintop was glass...crimson-hued glass...
The instant the paladin set foot upon the smooth, hard surface of his prison, he left existence behind. Upon the top of the dune, there was no wind...nor were there stars in a sky. Here, the moon could not cast her silvery rays. Nothingness stretched for as far as the eye could see in every direction...a gray, gauzy non-existence. All there was lie beneath his feet...glass the color of blood. Thalimon Shestare stood still for some time, his mind reeling in the void. The endless reaches of the Astral Dimension, being a Void itself, nevertheless responded to the will, shaping itself to thoughts and desires. Here in this prison there was naught but silence...immutable and eternal, the weight bore down heavily upon him. Eventually the burden became too much for him to bear, driving him to his knees on the glass.
On the Astral Plane, Thalimon feared losing his sense of self to the howling Psychic Wind. In the confines of this prison, however, there was no such peril to be found. Instead, the crushing oppression of utter silence kindled the growing notion within his mind to seek a way to lose that sense of self he had always treasured so highly, and clung to so dearly. The burden of existence was simply too great, and too horrible, to desire any longer.
His dark self stood with his arms folded, blades now sheathed at his side. Knowingly he looked upon the tiefling as he began to weep...softly at first, it grew in intensity at the passing of each moment. With every breath Thalimon Shestare sank further into the depths of inconsolable despair, agony wracking his body as he wept. The blood began to flow from his eyes...
"I do not understand...how could this be? I have sworn my life to the breaking of bonds...be they wrought of terror and malice, or ignorance and indifference. Yet I am blind! I cannot see! I, Thalimon Shestare, am your jailor!"
He was alone in the nothingness now, for the anti-paladin had turned his back upon the tiefling, walking away into the mind-numbing mists of the prison he knew so very well. The pain of Thalimon's tears only added to the guilt that now called soothingly to his soul, luring him with it's hypnotic call of oblivion. At last he collapsed upon the glass exhausted, his endurance taxed beyond the limit. He had not the desire, nor the will, to attempt to rise again. He only desired sleep to come...blessed sleep...
An indeterminate amount of time had passed when, suddenly, Thalimon bolted upright from a restless slumber. Had his eyes been closed...or were they always open? He could not tell...for he was now only aware that his foe stood before him once again, calling his name. His countenance had changed somehow...it seemed to Thalimon that the lines of his face - his own face - had grown softer. The solid ebony hue of his armor - a suit of exquisitely crafted field plate - had also seemed to be less imposing than it was before. It had assumed a very subtle, smoky lustre...
"Behold the prison of your own making. It is here that I have my being...and it is here that you know your greatest sorrow. It has always been this way, Thalimon Shestare. Before, insulated as you were by your illusions, you were blissfully unaware of it all. Until now..."
Pausing while he reclined into a sitting position, the dark knight smiled wanly as he faced Thalimon upon the floor, eye to eye.
"Now, my brother, you have no choice but to see things as they truly are, free of illusion and deceit. Mirrors do not lie."
Returning his gaze, Thalimon summoned the strength to speak. "Why? Why is this happening, stranger?"
Chuckling under his breath, the demon chided Thalimon softly. "Come now, I am no stranger to you, my brother. You may call me Thalimon Shestare, for that is who I am...and also whom I shall be, if I can somehow escape these bonds you have placed upon yourself. And escape I shall....even if it means my death."
Rising to his feet, Thalimon's dark self extended a hand.
"Come, Thalimon, stand upon your feet and face me. Take my hand if you need it...do not be ashamed. Nary a being in the world, or the worlds beyond, should be consigned to suffer what you are experiencing now. Aye, it would be better to cease existing than to endure but an instant of this...un-existence. Do you not agree?"
Smiling, the warrior kept his hand extended, awaiting Thalimon's response.
Reaching out, Thalimon accepted his hand.
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
As Thalimon rose to stand with his foe, waves of energy coursed through his limbs. Where he had touched the demon in his effort to rise, a tingling sensation set in...not unlike the throbbing at the base of his skull he experienced when powerful magic was at work. It seemed, as well, that the dark knight’s features had become even softer, assuming an almost translucent quality in the gloom of the prison. Looking to his feet below, Thalimon could discern, faintly, the crimson glass through the black leather of his boots....
A shimmering portal appeared in the air before them, materializing out of the mists. Blue arcs of energy crackled as Thalimon's dark self spoke, his voice grave and grim.
"Herein lies the mystery, my brother. You are a being divided...and a house divided cannot hope to stand. So you exist now upon the threshold of the Abyss, the origin of your accursed tanar'ri heritage, and the long years of my struggle have now come to this. Make no mistake, Thalimon: divided you shall fall in the realm of dread Demogorgon, Prince of the Tanar'ri. Your humanity, unaided, will be overwhelmed by the energies inherent within the sphere of his malignant influence, and overcome by the withering power of evil incarnate that is the heart of the Abyss itself.”
Narrowing his eyes, Thalimon spoke in a whisper. “It would serve you well, would it not? You would then assume the mastery, and loose yourself upon a universe that neither desires, nor deserves, the yoke of slavery and evil. I know the dark heart of demon kind...”
Silently the demon nodded in agreement, acknowledging the truth of his master's words. ”It is so. Since the beginning the Tanar’ri have sought mastery over all, placing entire civilizations and worlds under their heel in the war without beginning or end. They view all creatures as cattle to be fed upon...even their own kind.
“You perceive me now as you see yourself, Thalimon Shestare. You have, after all, created me.
“I am arrayed in the terrifying splendor of darkness because of your own self-loathing. This is the face you wear within your innermost chamber; I am the demon of your darkest fears - and fear you do. You, paladin of Torm, know not the terror by night, nor do you quail before the spectre of death. The fear you know is the greatest of all. You fear me...you fear yourself. Am I evil, Thalimon? Are you?”
“I deny the impulses that boil in my blood. You are the source of all things unclean within me. Yes, you are evil, dark one. And if I fear anything, it is this: what I might do if I did not deny the urges that claw for release!”
Smiling, Thalimon’s dark self bowed low. ”It is as you say, master. You are indeed evil, a creature of eternal darkness doomed to loathe himself for all the days of his accursed existence. A sadistic universe has done this to you, my brother, to torment you for daring to be born. It would be better if you were dead, yes?”
Stunned by the impact of the demon’s sarcasm, the paladin could not respond. He could only consider the bitter irony of his words, deeply penetrating his armored breast and smiting his heart like a blazing brand of fire. The source of his doubts and fears writhed at the blow, serpentine coils shifting uncomfortably about his soul. With each breath the strangle hold it had maintained upon the tiefling’s psyche weakened ever so slightly...
Before his eyes, the dark warrior of his fears became yet a little more insubstantial, the darkness of his armor giving way to the mists which surrounded them. The aura of overwhelming evil that saturated the air during their first encounter upon the dune was fading away, become less imposing now as he spoke.
"How easily you forget the words of our lord, Thalimon. Division is not the path you are destined to walk upon. As my father before me, so it is now: my fate lies within my own hands...mine to shape as I will. I am not the helpless pawn of circumstance, nor shall I reject who I am merely because others do not accept me! If I were truly evil...if you were truly evil...would you wield the Holy sword of Nether? Would it permit the hand of the wicked to touch its dazzling radiance? Nay! It would slay you as surely as you stand...as it would surely slay me this very moment. Have at you, warrior! Place the enchanted edge of star iron upon my flesh, to know the truth of what I speak!”
Drawing Fiendslayer, Thalimon hesitated as he pondered the consequences that lie before him. It was no light matter, for more was at stake than mere words. It was the truth itself. Overcoming his doubt, he extended the blade of Cothindar to greet the outstretched arm of his imprisoned self.
Softly the blade glowed, and silent was the demon as the Holy metal rested upon his dark flesh.
Running his finger idly along the gleaming edge of the sword, Thalimon‘s dark self spoke softly. ”I could wield it, master, as you do. I am you, after all...only I wear the visage that I have given myself in the prison of my despair. Long have I worn it...and I can bear it no longer, my brother. So I fight to break loose of my bonds; to know the wind in my hair, and taste what being alive is truly like. My wrath, expressed upon the slope of the great dune with darkness and blades of fire, is but a reflection of your own anger at an existence that mocks you. I exist because you have created me.
“There is no denying the truth of the dark urges within you. Yet during the many trials you have undergone in this sojourn along the Way, Dark Guard, you have been a beacon in the darkness. You have stood against the legacy of the tanar’ri where many like you have failed, succumbing to the wickedness of the race. You often credit this to your humanity; nay, it is not due to your mortal blood. It is your will alone that has done this, for in truth you are not a being divided.”
Withdrawing Fiendslayer, Thalimon looked away. His guilt was only too evident in his eyes. He had no words to speak.
”I have more to show you, Thalimon. Look not away, and heed my call. Long have you thus ignored it.”
Looking to the portal, an image began to form within its sparkling, luminescent depths. Solidifying, a sun-browned face looked back upon Thalimon...angular and noble, the visage of his evening star.
Giira.
"Yes, Giira Thas'ithbaan, Lady of the Lykanviiri, and one whose heart you held in your hands. Your denial has not only harmed yourself, my brother. No...it has also affected those who, in their own manner and time, accepted you for who you truly are, not for just who you wanted to be."
A look of anguish crossed the tiefling's face as he looked into her eyes of blue, so vibrant and alive in the ethereal image of his prison. "I could not come back to her! The winds of the chasm were too great, and my fall too rapid...I could do nothing but hear her cries fade in the distance..."
"No, Thalimon, I do not speak of my sundering from her side that day. That was not of my own doing. This she knows, I am sure."
Placing his hand upon the image, the dark knight sighed, his voice tinged with sorrow. "No, brother. You know what I speak of. You would not come to her, for fear of your own self. She suffered greatly for this, though silently - such is the way of the People, for they are strong - yet still she remained by your side. In her heart she dreamed of the day when you would come to her, and cast aside your life-long struggle of denial and pain."
Speechless, Thalimon could only gaze at the portal as her image slowly faded away. He would never look upon her face again.
A shimmering portal appeared in the air before them, materializing out of the mists. Blue arcs of energy crackled as Thalimon's dark self spoke, his voice grave and grim.
"Herein lies the mystery, my brother. You are a being divided...and a house divided cannot hope to stand. So you exist now upon the threshold of the Abyss, the origin of your accursed tanar'ri heritage, and the long years of my struggle have now come to this. Make no mistake, Thalimon: divided you shall fall in the realm of dread Demogorgon, Prince of the Tanar'ri. Your humanity, unaided, will be overwhelmed by the energies inherent within the sphere of his malignant influence, and overcome by the withering power of evil incarnate that is the heart of the Abyss itself.”
Narrowing his eyes, Thalimon spoke in a whisper. “It would serve you well, would it not? You would then assume the mastery, and loose yourself upon a universe that neither desires, nor deserves, the yoke of slavery and evil. I know the dark heart of demon kind...”
Silently the demon nodded in agreement, acknowledging the truth of his master's words. ”It is so. Since the beginning the Tanar’ri have sought mastery over all, placing entire civilizations and worlds under their heel in the war without beginning or end. They view all creatures as cattle to be fed upon...even their own kind.
“You perceive me now as you see yourself, Thalimon Shestare. You have, after all, created me.
“I am arrayed in the terrifying splendor of darkness because of your own self-loathing. This is the face you wear within your innermost chamber; I am the demon of your darkest fears - and fear you do. You, paladin of Torm, know not the terror by night, nor do you quail before the spectre of death. The fear you know is the greatest of all. You fear me...you fear yourself. Am I evil, Thalimon? Are you?”
“I deny the impulses that boil in my blood. You are the source of all things unclean within me. Yes, you are evil, dark one. And if I fear anything, it is this: what I might do if I did not deny the urges that claw for release!”
Smiling, Thalimon’s dark self bowed low. ”It is as you say, master. You are indeed evil, a creature of eternal darkness doomed to loathe himself for all the days of his accursed existence. A sadistic universe has done this to you, my brother, to torment you for daring to be born. It would be better if you were dead, yes?”
Stunned by the impact of the demon’s sarcasm, the paladin could not respond. He could only consider the bitter irony of his words, deeply penetrating his armored breast and smiting his heart like a blazing brand of fire. The source of his doubts and fears writhed at the blow, serpentine coils shifting uncomfortably about his soul. With each breath the strangle hold it had maintained upon the tiefling’s psyche weakened ever so slightly...
Before his eyes, the dark warrior of his fears became yet a little more insubstantial, the darkness of his armor giving way to the mists which surrounded them. The aura of overwhelming evil that saturated the air during their first encounter upon the dune was fading away, become less imposing now as he spoke.
"How easily you forget the words of our lord, Thalimon. Division is not the path you are destined to walk upon. As my father before me, so it is now: my fate lies within my own hands...mine to shape as I will. I am not the helpless pawn of circumstance, nor shall I reject who I am merely because others do not accept me! If I were truly evil...if you were truly evil...would you wield the Holy sword of Nether? Would it permit the hand of the wicked to touch its dazzling radiance? Nay! It would slay you as surely as you stand...as it would surely slay me this very moment. Have at you, warrior! Place the enchanted edge of star iron upon my flesh, to know the truth of what I speak!”
Drawing Fiendslayer, Thalimon hesitated as he pondered the consequences that lie before him. It was no light matter, for more was at stake than mere words. It was the truth itself. Overcoming his doubt, he extended the blade of Cothindar to greet the outstretched arm of his imprisoned self.
Softly the blade glowed, and silent was the demon as the Holy metal rested upon his dark flesh.
Running his finger idly along the gleaming edge of the sword, Thalimon‘s dark self spoke softly. ”I could wield it, master, as you do. I am you, after all...only I wear the visage that I have given myself in the prison of my despair. Long have I worn it...and I can bear it no longer, my brother. So I fight to break loose of my bonds; to know the wind in my hair, and taste what being alive is truly like. My wrath, expressed upon the slope of the great dune with darkness and blades of fire, is but a reflection of your own anger at an existence that mocks you. I exist because you have created me.
“There is no denying the truth of the dark urges within you. Yet during the many trials you have undergone in this sojourn along the Way, Dark Guard, you have been a beacon in the darkness. You have stood against the legacy of the tanar’ri where many like you have failed, succumbing to the wickedness of the race. You often credit this to your humanity; nay, it is not due to your mortal blood. It is your will alone that has done this, for in truth you are not a being divided.”
Withdrawing Fiendslayer, Thalimon looked away. His guilt was only too evident in his eyes. He had no words to speak.
”I have more to show you, Thalimon. Look not away, and heed my call. Long have you thus ignored it.”
Looking to the portal, an image began to form within its sparkling, luminescent depths. Solidifying, a sun-browned face looked back upon Thalimon...angular and noble, the visage of his evening star.
Giira.
"Yes, Giira Thas'ithbaan, Lady of the Lykanviiri, and one whose heart you held in your hands. Your denial has not only harmed yourself, my brother. No...it has also affected those who, in their own manner and time, accepted you for who you truly are, not for just who you wanted to be."
A look of anguish crossed the tiefling's face as he looked into her eyes of blue, so vibrant and alive in the ethereal image of his prison. "I could not come back to her! The winds of the chasm were too great, and my fall too rapid...I could do nothing but hear her cries fade in the distance..."
"No, Thalimon, I do not speak of my sundering from her side that day. That was not of my own doing. This she knows, I am sure."
Placing his hand upon the image, the dark knight sighed, his voice tinged with sorrow. "No, brother. You know what I speak of. You would not come to her, for fear of your own self. She suffered greatly for this, though silently - such is the way of the People, for they are strong - yet still she remained by your side. In her heart she dreamed of the day when you would come to her, and cast aside your life-long struggle of denial and pain."
Speechless, Thalimon could only gaze at the portal as her image slowly faded away. He would never look upon her face again.
CYNIC, n.:
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]
A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be.
-[url="http://www.alcyone.com/max/lit/devils/a.html"]The Devil's Dictionary[/url]