Memory
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The Prisoner 1 - "Awaken"
His breath caught in his throat as he awoke, startled, confused.
It was dark around him, the air stale and dry. He felt the ground beneath him, grainy and warm. It was smoldering hot, to the point that he felt rivets of sweat beginning to form and flow down the seemingly bald pate of his head. He heard harsh voices a fair ways away, speaking in a tongue he did not fully understand. All of these things the man knew clearly.
Beyond that, he was completely at a loss.
His mind raced as his eyes adjusted to what little light was available to him. He saw a glint of metal and moved up slowly, reaching out and grasping the steel bars that lined whatever room he was in. “A jail cell. How did I get here? Am I a criminal? What did I do? Where am I?” His thoughts came frantically, each question coming immediately on the heels of another as he frantically looked about the cell he awoke in.
“Easy der mon, easy. Just calm yaself.”
The prisoner’s head shot around, looking to the corner where the raspy voice came from, watching th direction warily. Slowly into view came a thin Halfling, bronzed skin with long knotted hair and showing a yellowish smile as he approached slowly, his hands out unthreateningly.
“I be afraid o’ dis ‘appenin when ya wake up. Da guards say ya be actin crazy when ya come to, like ya don know who ya be. Seems da shadow man used ‘is magicks on ya ‘ead; swirled it up like a sandstorm. I ‘oped dey be wrong but seem’s ya no be so lucky.”
The prisoner looked at the Halfling, every word stinging due to their obvious truth and yet doing naught but to further his confusion. He sank down then, empty and helpless, trying to push the torrent of questions from his mind. Resting his head in his hands, feeling the flaws and tears along the skin of his face, he exhaled and tried to silence his mind. After a moment he finally rose his head back up towards the Halfling, a slight bit of moisture apparent at the very edges.
“Who are you?” the prisoner asked meekly.
“I be Vosh’jin, son o’ Dez’druo, tracker o’ da Sandspears”
The prisoners voice cracked slightly as the next question, the one that was the prevailing one repeatedly finding its way to the forefront of his mind, slipped out of his mouth in a tone filled as much with dread as hope. “Who am I?”
“Who you be ain’t a question I kin answer, but least I can give ya a name. Ya be Ezekial Realm, ‘cept ya ‘ad me call ya Zeke. Beyond dat, I know little”
Ezekial Realm. His name, yet as he heard it felt no more familiar than any other. He weakly nodded his thanks to the Halfling, leaning back against the cell as the weight of the situation truly hit him, and he let the tears come until sleep stole over him.
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~END~
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**The Prisoner 3 – ”Arrival”
The Prisoner stood at the bow of the ship, staring ashore towards the foreign land he was told might hold the answers he sought. Yet his mind could not move past the thoughts of his two saviors; the pair of elves who rescued him those tendays before.
Li’liin and Quinal were their names and though he had no recollection of their faces they both informed him that he had saved their lives many years ago. Indebted to him they had searched the desert, seeking to discern his fate. They had taken many years to truly track down the Cult that had taken him, as the group had changed leadership and purpose over the various years. It was only their fear in their original leader and his edicts that had apparently spared the Prisoners life.
It was those elves that had launched the attack on the camp on the day of his escape, and had ferried him away after he was struck unconscious. They had fled into the desert then, harried by his former captors, fighting a losing battle against their pursuers and Anaroch itself. Finally, tendays into their run and with all three badly burnt, feverish, and injured, the elves ended their flight at an outcropping of rocks with a strange symbol drawn upon it.
Hidden within those rocks was two wands, each with the power to teleport the individual a substantial distance to a location they named. The elves forced the wands along with a bag of gold upon the Prisoner, telling him that if either were to stay behind and perish life would be little different from death for the other. They told him that with these wands he could make it to a land known as Narfell and that they had reason to believe the Prisoner might find the answers to his questions there.
That was three days ago, when he was flung halfway across the world from burning sands to the freezing shores of the Icelace. The Prisoner closed his eyes, thinking one last time to the likely doomed elven couple who acted as his guardian angels.
“Alright folks, get your selves ready to disembark. We’ll be arriving in Norwick within the next few minutes”
The shout of the ship’s Captain woke him from his thoughts as he peered out towards the village ahead of him on the stream. He had made it to Narfell, this strange foreign land that was apparently home. He hoped it held the answers that his friends gave their lives for him to have the chance to learn.**
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**The Treasure Hunter 3 – ”Whisper”
Once again Zeke found himself bound in that same horrible stone chair. Every inch of his body ached, though he had begun to simply become numb to the pain. He was pretty sure a number of his ribs were broken, and the way the metallic copper taste continued to pass over his lips he was pretty sure his nose was broken as well. He kept his eyes closed, trying to compose himself as best as possible before the the next phase began.
The Treasure Hunter eyes shot back open instinctively as the heavy metal door grated and then slammed shut, watching the same scene that he’d watched so many times now. In walked a frightfully large figure, draped in loose clothing and whose face was hidden by a heavy cowl. He stopped a few feet from where Zeke sat prone, and took stock of the Treasure Hunter. Zeke’s body reflexively tensed, knowing what typically came next. However, to his shock, the figure simply stood there for a number of minutes before moving farther into the room, behind him. Suddenly there was light, soft and pale, but a light none the less. Then another source appeared, and another. Slowly Zeke began to realize that his captor was lighting a handful of candles placed around the room. As the man’s footsteps brought him once more to Zeke’s front he stopped and pulled back his cowl.
Blinking cold blue eyes took in the surprising sight. Before the treasure hunter did not stand a man at all, but rather half of one. The other half, clear by the glinting candlelight upon the obsidian scale like skin, was dragon. The large man’s black skin glinted with a strange hue, like smoke in the night, as his dark eyes peered out from beneath a shaved pate boring into the treasure hunter.
The two remained there for some time, eyes locked on each other, before the silence was finally broken.
“While I have my work these past months I promise you, what comes next can far exceed the pain that I have shown you thus far. However, before that, there is knowledge you possess that is important to me and I will have it. Cooperate, and what comes next will be the end and on my word you will be set free. Refuse, and you will not find such kindness.”
Zeke stared out at the man, a slow sardonic smile spreading across his face. “Far be it for me to doubt the quality of ‘your word’, nor wonder at your kindness, but I’ll be of no use even if I wanted to be. I don’t have a clue who you are, or what you think I may know, but I’m just a treasure hunter. You wasted your time on the wrong man. And even if I was the right one, after all you put me through, why would I want to cooperate.”
The Half-dragon’s laugh was cruel as he slowly stalked around the treasure hunter’s seat. The half-dragons hands were suddenly upon his shoulders, his talons puncturing deep into the soft flesh. Zeke felt the heat of the man’s breath as his head lowered next to his own, his words coming out thin and razor like.
“You may have no clue who I am, but I know exactly who you are. I know who your mentor is as well. I know that you and the blonde bitch helped him steal something precious from my mother, many years ago. And was that enough for your retched mentor? No, he had to return again with threats on his tongue and the sun in his hand, to further antagonize and enrage her. Did he give any thought to what he was doing? What he was ruining in his arrogance? Did you!? Of course, your kind never thinks before it acts. You care only for whatever result brings you the most gratification at that moment. No my good bard, you may not know who I am…but I know well of you.”
The Treasure Hunter tried to struggle, realizing now he was in far more danger then he previously surmised, but found that his body felt even heavier than before. The half-dragons words continued on with its horrible revelations. “Now, as I said, you could’ve chosen to do this the easy way but you acted as I assumed you would. By now I’m sure you’re feeling the light feeling building in your head, yes? These candles are not merely for show, but rather used for the smoke they produce. Soon, you will tell me what I want to know regardless of your desires. But since you decided to let your stubborn nature prevail, I will let your last thoughts be of what is about to befall you. While I have enjoyed the extent of bodily harm I have done to you in these months, we both know that it is nothing more than pain of the flesh. Such does not begin to approach the pain you and your mentor have caused me in my life. No, you see, to truly feel my pain you must have something of the utmost importance stolen from you…and you two stole from me.”
“Soon I will take from you what you hold most dear. I will take that which gives you your confidence, which gives you your hope, and which gives you your passion. I will take from you every ounce of knowledge, every piece of lore, every cherished memory. And then I will go, leaving you with nothing but loss and confusion and pain. Helpless, alone, and wholly ignorant of all that the world is. Enjoy these last moments of your memories, as they are the last you’ll have of them.”
As he felt the figure retreat Zeke tried to fight back, tried to shout out, but was being drowned by a sea of grey. His body grew heavier as his mind became more frantic, screaming helplessly at his limbs for action until his world went black.**
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The Twin 3 – “Hide”
“When the ritrual ends, you’ve got to run. Quickly and swiftly, and be sure nothing follows you. Get you to wherever Zeke calls home or has the most emotional attachment to, and hide yourself across that land. Place bits of your essence if the various places that will matter to him. And hope for all our sakes that he finds his way back there.”
“What about you Adeaphon? Will you be coming too?”
“Afraid not. I must admit, I had kept something from you. The reason I said we’re all lose if this doesn’t work is because it’d mean my sacrifice is going to be in vain. This is a powerful ritual on its own right, draining in my physical body. Here…like this…its likely to be the end of me.”
That was nearly a score of tendays ago, just before the ritual was completed and The Twin made his escape. He had guessed correctly with regards to his twin’s captor’s awareness of him, as it was not long before mastiff’s had given chase. He constantly had to work to elude his pursuers, knowing that all three souls were hinging on him. For months the mastiff’s followed and for months The Twin sought to hide, distance himself, and when necessary fight to continue on.
Still, despite his best efforts and winding travel path, the beasts continued on in their hunt. It was not until they reached the edge of the lands the twins had called home for so many years that he was able to truly put ground between them, knowing the terrain far better than his pursuers.
Suddenly an idea sparked in his mind, a means to end this chase. He slowed; waiting for the mastiff’s to close in on his position again before dashing off once more, south. Like the obedient beasts they were, the great hounds followed. Through the hazy hilly terrain he ran, through the shadowy outlines of a town, before coming to an abrupt halt and turning. The hounds were not far off, their paws thudding against the ground, when the Twin concentrated all his will and blinked.
The world suddenly was bright, painfully so. It had been so long since he had forced the step through on his own. He could hear shouting ahead, near the gate.
“Tha fark! Derk, do you see that! That tree’s shadow just popped up off the ground, I swear it. Look dag nabbit, its looking around…undoubtedly for some child to eat! I told ya them tree’s be up to no good!”.
The Twin rubbed at his eyes, trying to adapt to the light, while hearing the thick dwarven accent beyond him. He realized that he may need to improvise if his plan to work. The large human next to the stout dwarf, apparently the “Derk” he spoke of, was pulling his sword from his back while lightly nudging a sleeping elven woman to his side.
“Tackkor, I doubt that the undead abomination came out from the tree’s. Either way, we should probably be rid of it. There never seems to be just one of ANYTHING that shows up at this gate.”
The Twin warily approached, putting his hands up trying to look unthreatening, as the waking women bolted up upon sight of him. He spoke out to them, his voice coming out like a man trapped under water. “Meht yals tsum uoy, ereh hguorht emoc ot tuoba sbnuoh live owt era ereht tub! Daednu ton m’I! Mrah yna naem t’nod I esaelp, esaelp.”
“Derek, is that thing trying to talk to us? What language is it speaking?” As she spoke, the elf reached towards her neck, grasping at a symbol of Lathander. The Twin winced, thinking this was possibly a bad idea.
“Evil Terran I bet ya! The speech of tha tree’s! Turn the bugger, send ‘im back to his earthy home before he sends back for more!”
“Ereh hguorht pets I nehw deneppah tahw nettogrof dah I, slleh.”
“People! Best be coming out here! Something strange is happening!….again!” The human yelled over his shoulder to those gathered behind the wall before lowering his voice again. “Tackkor, I told you already, he’s not from the tree and I doubt he’s going to send back for-“
Suddenly the Twin, and the adventurers, turned their heads as to howls filled the air off to their side; the three Mastiff’s bursting forth into the material plane. The Twin bolted quickly to his right as the snarling hounds came his way, only to for the beasts to be intercepted by the charging adventurers. Thankful his plan worked, and not a moment too soon as the air of this place was beginning to stifle him, he slipped back into his home realm. “Never let it be said that there wasn’t benefits to the eagerness of adventurer’s at Norwick’s gate.”
With his pursuers vanquished the Twin set off into the Nars to begin his end of the ritual. As he came to various landmarks of import…the memorial in the Nars, a pile of rubble in the fallen Jiyyd, a wandering street peddler in Peltarch, and many others…he tore off a small portion of his shadowy self, of his essence, and left it within the shadows of those places. Throughout the Nars he moved, from peeks of the Giantspire to the deep recesses of the Rawlins, hiding the jigsaw like pieces of memory. Finally, with barely any energy left to keep his mangled frame aloft, the Twin hid the last of himself into one final location. His final thought as his physical existence came to an end was a prayer. “Please, may Luck guide his feet back to this land somehow …”
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The Son 3 – ”Adapt”
“Step forward driver. My guard said you had urgent news to tell me.” The Son’s eyes narrowed on the man as he sat straight backed in his chair. His posture presented a calm image, only conflicted by the tight grip of his fingers at the base of his arm rests, his nails digging into the material in frustration of the previous days events.
“Yessir master Fortè. The men in my grouping went in, just as you had ordered it. There were a pair of elves waiting in the library for us though, hidden. We got into a bit of a scrap after they quickly snuffed out our fires, but not before we managed to give them a decent fight. They quickly retreated off with and we gave chase afraid they may be able to gather the guards.”
As the man spoke The Son’s expression drew colder, causing the light flickering off his skin to give him a truly menacing visage. He spoke slowly, carefully articulating each word to let his thinning patience be made clear. “I do hope, for your sake, this story has a point other than telling me what failures you have been.”
The driver of the wagon swallowed hard, nodding his head nervously as he spoke through a dry mouth. “Yessir, absolutely sir. You see, it was what happened during this chase that’s why I’m here. We followed them through Silverymoons winding streets for a bit, but were tiring. That’s when our mage tried to stop them. He blasted a bit of a building with a fireball, raining down rubble. It would’ve trapped them good too, if not for a man who had been following them, hidden, jumping forth and shoving them both out of the way. Unfortunately for that gent, it meant the rubble landed squarely on him.”
The Son let forth a sigh, his finger nails on his left hand slowly clinking against the hard wood of his seats arm rest, feeling there was more to this than a mere chase and realizing that the man’s fear was causing him to ramble. He decided perhaps a different tact. “An unfortunate counter to your mage’s attempt, but I take it you at least retrieved the one who saved them?”
The driver relaxed, just a tiny bit, sensing that perhaps his leader was pleased with the news. He gave a smile and a soft nod, holding his hands up excitedly motioning that there was more. “Yessir, we did retrieve him. But there was more. We look at your orders each morning, as a squad, reading the people we’re supposed to be looking out for.” The driver pulled out a scroll case followed by the paper within it, reading from it confidently. “‘A silver haired man, in the upper years of age but in good health and physical condition, with a skill in the bardic arts and typically donning light blue and grey garb. A large and shapely blonde woman of exceptional strength who speaks somewhat simply and wields a greataxe. A blonde haired man, also skilled in the bardic arts, typically dressed in dark blue and silver and bares a tattoo of Mystra upon his back.’ We read those orders every morning and always are looking for them.”
The Son had not been aware that he had moved forward in his seat as he listened to the man’s tale, his fingers coming together in a steeple as he looked out over them with malicious hopefully eyes. “And this man, this man that saved the elves…matched one of those descriptions?”
The Driver nodded, but was slightly slow to start, seemingly now losing a bit of faith in his information given the levity in his leader’s voice. “Well…not exactly sir. You see, this man didn’t seem to sing or cast any spells that we saw in our time with him. And his hair, its black, not blonde. But the rubble, you see, it ripped his clothes up something bad and we saw what looked like a large tattoo on his back. Sure enough, when we pulled him out, there it was…the cursed Lady of Mysteries seven stars. We pulled him out and loaded him up on the wagon quick as we could, and made our way back home. He’s locked up now, in the dungeons. Along with another hostage our last group out recovered while the Dwarf was trying to tend to the Curator, though that one seems to be comatose. We were ho-…”
The Son was no longer listening. His mind was spinning. He had thought his hopes dashed with the inability to capture Curator Bromley to use as bait. Yet somehow, despite the night’s failures, could fate have deposited him one of those that might possess what he was searching for? While his best laid plans may have fallen through, a new avenue in finding that which initiated his lives downward spiral may have just opened before him. Perhaps it was time for a change of plans.
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The Twin – 2 ”Protect”
“We have to do something. If we wait much longer, there’s no hope for either of us.”
The Twin nodded at Adeaphon’s declaration, unquestionably agreeing and yet at the same time being unsure as to how. “What can we really do? He’s already cut your cord and stranded your essence here with no power over their plane. As for me, I am almost certain he knows I’m here. Why he doesn’t act I’ve still not figured out, but if I stepped forth to take action I fear it would be as useful as throwing pebbles at him.”
Adeaphon’s form winced at the reminder of that horrific night months back, when his life as he had known it was shattered. The pain that shot through his body when the blessed blade of his former gods faithful tore through is lifeline left him helpless for some time. He was sure the man would end him then, hoped it to be true, but all he did was laugh as he moved off for his now unsuspecting victims.
Adeaphon shook away the thoughts as he looked back to the Twin. “There’s a long shot, but it may be our best. It’s going to require you to cut your connection to him, but if that’s likely to happen anyways with what their planning. But it means you’ll only have a limited time before the energy holding you together dissipate. Even then, there’s still no guarantee. ”
The Twin lowered his head, thinking back to the moment of his consciousness and the confusion it brought. Of the years since then that he has known life, both here and in that other world. Gambling it all away was not something he was prone to do, though he knew that his own twin would. Steeling himself he looked up to the shade. “Alright, what does this entail and can we do it in time?”
The shadowed Tiefling nodded, pleased with the answer, and began to explain. “The ritural is an adaption of magic that wipes the memory. Instead, it replicates it. His memory will be imprinted onto the very fabric of your existence. You’ll need to get away from here, quickly…especially if you’re correct in him being aware of your presence. Get you somewhere that’s familiar to Zeke and hide yourself within places important to his memory. Don’t leave too much of you in one place, or the returning memories will overwhelm his mind. It’s going to be like putting a puzzle back together, and the picture won’t become clear to him until the last one is in place.”
“And what happens if they don’t set him free after all this? Or if he never makes it back to where I go? What then?”
If Adeaphon’s eyes still could present emotion, resignation would be displayed across them. “Then…all three of us lose.”
“Why is it you’re doing this? The chances of somehow bringing you back without the power of a high priest of your god is doubtful at best. I don’t mean to question your generosity bu-…”
With a cynical laugh the shade shook his head, “…but you’ve watched us enough to know I don’t act out of benevolence. No, I have a request, and it’s why I said we all lose if this fails. If this works, however far from now that it may be, make sure he finds a way to get my daughter safely away from that pit of misery she’s in.”
“I’ll make sure he does. Lets get started, I don’t know if we have much time.”
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The Son 2 – ”Rebuff”
Things were going anything but well. Somehow these miscreants had not just known of his men’s coming but somehow they knew of their exact movements. The curious foreigner had caught his men by surprise, dispatched their infiltration of the center of the complex. He was now moving off to the wing that housed the majority of the grand buildings sonnets and poems where battle had begun as well. Elsewhere, it seemed the Curator and her guard were proving rather capable in their own right, sending his initial scouts scurrying.
Still, despite the setbacks, the Son knew there was still a path to success within this act. The trick was simply to find where that path began. His brow furrowed as his narrow pupils strained against the grayish landscape, searching for the answer to his question. Suddenly, there it was. “Fool!” he thought, his left hand angrily clenching into a fist so tightly that his nails drew beads of blood. “How could I have not seen it before?”
He watched as some fifty yards away a shadowy, incorporeal form, of a humanoid floated about the library’s shadowy double. Attached to this Shade was a nearly translucent black cord that stretched through the landscape, back towards the Curator’s office. The realization of its meaning struck the Son instantly, and the path became clear.
• • •
Minutes later the Son’s eyes blinked, adjusting to the bright light of the Material Plane once again. Just beyond him, around the corner, he heard the voice of his prey.
“Bragun! Get some water or a potion or something, quickly! Adeaphon! Say something! What in the blazes was that explosion! Oghma clear my eyes, it’s like he’s vanished from himself.”
He listened as Tiana tried to awaken the mage, an endeavor that would prove to be fruitless. As the foot falls of the dwarf drifted away, following the Curators command like a good disciple, he made his move. Coming around the corner he levied his crossbow square for her squatted form. “There is no escape for you this night, no matter what comes next” he thought as his finger pressed upon the trigger, launching the poisoned bolt into the prone woman’s neck.
She turned, startled as he hand reflexively reached for the bolt yet already beginning to stiffen from the paralytic poison. To the Son’s side he heard the dwarf’s return and before recognition could fully set in he cast forth a spell of holding, watching the dwarf stand rigid in place.
Smiling with devilish glee, he turned his attention back to the Curator. He moved towards her slowly, the light of the room reflecting against his skin eerily, as he spoke in a hushed but spiteful tone. “Tiana, I had so longed to finally have this moment. You see, you are a special woman Tiana, a woman with a special name. A name which has caused great pain, and great loss, in my life. That makes the irony all the more delicious, as it will be your name that will finally bring me satisfaction. That will right some of those wrongs. It seems your friends have helped keep disaster from coming to your Library this night. A pity however, that they will not be able to do the same for you.”
It was then, just before the Son began to bend down to collect his pray, that the thudding pain of nearly a ton of force coming down upon his back shot through his body. The thunderous blow knocking him to the ground as he the dwarf’s footsteps approached.
“I’d not be so sure about that last bit. Did you expect a dwarf to be living around clerics and bards not to know how to mimic the effects of a Hold spell?”
The Son’s mind was frantic, knowing he had to act quickly. As he rolled over to meet the dwarf, he slid one hand to his beaded necklace while bringing his other gauntleted arm up. The dwarf’s next blow rained down, leaving the Son’s arm shattered but his consciousness intact. Grimacing through the pain he closed his other hand upon the beads and the room was suddenly filled with darkness.
He heard the dwarf belt a curse in his peoples tongue as he realized his dwarven senses were no match for the magical darkness. The Son took the opportunity to disengage and regain his feet. Realizing that his missteps may’ve cost him his ultimate prize he decided it was not worth his life. The sound of the dwarf approaching, using the sound of the Son’s armor as his guide, made the decision for him.
“I may not leave here with my prize, but I will not be fully without vengeance unless you act quickly. Your beloved Curator has but a few minutes before the paralysis reaches her heart. Either you deal with me, or with her.”
The Son waited, but a moment, before the smile crept across his face. “Typical” he mused in his head as the sound of the dwarfs movements ceased. Knowing the Darkness would last but a moment longer he spoke a word of recall, taking him away from this failed night.
-
The Treasure Hunter 2 - "Capture"
“Quick, it won’t take the Guardians long to get here. Pull the bastard free and then let’s get out of here. Hopefully it'll at least buy us a reprieve.”
Through the fogginess of his mind the Treasure Hunter heard the orders being given. His mind told him he needed to run, needed to get away from there, but his body laid unmoving. As he felt hands take his shoulders he resigned himself to his fate for the time being, beginning to try and think of his next move. However, that was cut short as the men grabbing him pulled and searing hot pain agony shot up from his legs, stealing his consciousness.
“Hurry, the gua-……
“…icker! Run quicker! They have some ma…”
“….lost’em, for now at least. Come on.”
“Throw his ass in with the other then get yourself back to camp!”
He groggily heard the conversation as he slipped in and out of consciousness, picking up pieces before returning to black. The last comment though was followed by a floating sensation, followed by hard wood as his body was heaved into the back of a solid wooden wagon. Trying to shake off the orchestra playing in his head the Treasure Hunter made a lunge for the door, but his legs would not react, leaving him prone as he watched the door shut.
“Beautiful,” he muttered to himself as his head hung, “this is what happens when you try to play hero. You’d think I’d learn by now.”
He felt the wagon shift, beginning its trip as he tried to spy around the dark cramped room. Hoping he was alone he took the chance to utter a quiet word and light illuminated the cabin. Much to his surprise there was but one other thing in the wagon; Adeaphon’s body, slumped against a wall with his head limply hanging in front of him.
“Quiet the spot we got ourselves into now huh Ad?”
No answer, as he feared. He hoped the mage was simply sleeping but dread was filling his gut. He tried again to stand but his legs, a mangled mess from the collapse, were having none of it. Instead he drug himself over using his arms and tilted Adeaphon’s head back, revealing the hollow expression on the face of his friend and the whites of his rolled back eyes.
Cursing himself, knowing it was he who caused the mage to get wrapped up in this mess, he pulled his body around to place his back against the wall. He rested his head back against the wood, questioning the decisions that brought him to this bleak situation. To his surprise, through the walls however he heard the drivers arguing back and forth, muffled through the wood.
“…no sign of the elves. They managed to get away somehow. Maybe one of them was a magic user”.
“Or they may’ve just known their way around the city better than us. They had a fair head start thanks to that damn rubble blocking the way. At least we got somebody out of all that trouble to at least drag back to Him. Just have to hope it keeps his temper sated.”
“Somehow I think anything short of that library turning to ash is going to stop his temper.”
“Pray for both our sakes that you’re wrong about that…”
The drivers went quiet for some time at that, apparently pondering what their own fate may be. The Treasure Hunter at least found some comfort in their words. His days may be shortly numbered but at least the Library would remain intact and his foolish act actually managed to save the elves.
“When you’re chained up in the back of some bandits wagon with half your body broken, I guess you have to look at any little scraps you get as the ‘bright side’.”
He gave a soft wheezing chuckle as he tried to relax, letting the sardonic thought play through his pain addled mind as it slowly gave way to sleep.
-
**The Prisoner 2 - "Escape"
“Dey be comin’ fo’ me soon, dat be certain. An when dey do you best not be tryin nuttin stupid Zeke. Ain’t nuttin we do, you an I, gonna change what dey be ‘avin a mind ta do. Ya just ‘old on ta what I been tellin ya all dese years and stick to da plan, ya ‘ear me? Da voodoo man dun moved on but it clear dey be wantin you alive, so ya use dat Zeke. Ya find what be left behind and ya hide it; Ya wait Zeke, and when dat moment be right you act quick. Ya ‘ead may’ave been emptied Zeke, but ya use dat to fill it with ‘ope and you’ll find what ya lost…”
That was roughly half a dozen years ago, the last time the Prisoner had spoken to the curious Halfling that had been his cell mate for the first years of his imprisonment. During those years Vosh’jin had given him much: companionship, knowledge of their captors, and stories of the world beyond. However, the more important thing the tracker had ever given him was the object the Prisoner had just let fly from his hand.
A dagger, which now found itself lodged hilt deep within the chest of the Prisoner’s guard.
The Halfling had launched himself in a frenzy of fists, feet, and teeth at their captors when they came to take him away. During the attack he managed to knock loose one of the guards daggers, the blade falling forgotten into the sand below. Once it was over the Prisoner had moved up, retrieving the blade, and kept it hidden since that day waiting for the right opportunity…
…an opportunity that had presented itself moments earlier.
The Prisoner awoke to light sounds of commotion from somewhere above. Bleary eyed he stood, brushing the sand from his body as he moved closer to the bars of his cell, straining to listen. Suddenly the noises, metal clanging against itself ringing out over the sound of shouts and screams, rose to a crescendo as the door connecting his dungeon with the rest of the structure was swung open. One of his guards, his face bloodied, came rushing towards his cell with a torch in one hand while the other fumbled for his keys.
“Hurry up and grab him, we gotta get out of here!” came the shout from beyond the door, urgency and fear filling the speakers voice. As the guardsmen looked back at the source of the command the Prisoner realized that whatever was going on above was perhaps his only shot at finally finding freedom. Reaching down into the sand he gripped the dagger and with a flick of his wrist, an action he’d later wonder how exactly he knew how to do, he sent it flying. The blade went end over end, striking true just as the guardsman turned himself back towards the cell intent on opening the gate.
Now running on adrenaline, the astonishment at his throw not yet registering, the Prisoner rushed forward to retrieve the keys from the dead man’s hands. A moment later the door swung open and for the first time that he could remember he left the room that had been his prison for untold years. Rushing forward to the stairs he began his ascent leading out of the dungeon, stopping for but a moment to retrieve the dagger from the man’s chest.
As he burst through the doorway he found himself stuck in place, shocked at the carnage around him and the contrast with the beauty that was a star filled night sky. In the distance it appeared combat was still ongoing as two lone figures, one mounted, battled against half a dozen of his captors with more coming. The Prisoners eyes could linger for but a moment however, as one of his captors spotted him and rushed forward with a sword. Seemingly on instinct the dagger shot up, blocking aside the man’s blade and in the same fluid motion stepping at an angle, his arm circling down to run the edge of the dagger across the man’s abdomen.
The Prisoner stepped back, watching in horror as the attacker fell to his knees, hands going to his stomach in an attempt to prolong the inevitable. Turning he ran, trying to take himself away from the camp and the brutality, seeking an escape. However he managed but a few steps before an arrow took him in the right side and a blast of magical energizes struck his back turning his vision to black.**
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The Son 1 - "Scheme"
One by one his fingernails clicked down upon the table, forming a rhythmic pattern as the Son sat within his chambers, his mind drifting back to how he finally had reached this point. He knew to always keep fresh in his mind the sting of his mother’s disaffection, her betrayal towards the love he showed her. It was that desertion, that loss of his mother, that was the fuel for which spurred forward his efforts these past years.
His mother at one point was a caring, nurturing parent. She offered him protection, enjoyment, and a promise of great things in his future. He had watched her love of art as she’d bring bard after bard forth to her home, bestowing upon them gifts for their performances, and biding them give themselves over to her at the end. It was a good life, with little danger, servants at his command, any object his heart desired, and a chance to perhaps one day rule a land of his own. That all changed however thanks to one petulant bard.
One cursed man brought his world falling around him as the contemptible man spurned his Mother’s affection for his skills and stole away with her gift while denying her the submission she so enjoyed from his kind. He had painfully struck his mother to a degree the Son had never before seen. For that he wished for the Man’s death, urging his mother to go after the bard and make him pay for his crimes. And while such pleas were heard and followed to a degree, the true damage done was worse than the Son could’ve imagined. His mother became obsessed, her previous desire for the performances of artists becoming a lustful endeavor focused upon with a singularity that excluded the care for anything else, including her child. She would endlessly spend her days searching for the next artist to perform for her, yet never being satisfied once she found them; her frustration boiling over into anger each time.
Slowly he watched his life change. The attention of his mother became non-existant. The performances now reserved for her alone. Her servants dwindled in number as did the luxuries he recieved. Any promise for his transcendence into power vanished when his mothers single minded obsession took over. In a final attempt at regaining his mother’s affection the Son had begun to practice art himself, having learned at a young age he had some minor talent at singing. However, when he attempted to show his mother what skill he had developed it was not love or affection she showed him but an unbridled rage he had never before witnessed. She had cast him out, bidding him to not return for some time lest her anger at his pathetic performance overcome the blood they shared.
He left her home that day, decades ago, and had not returned home since. It was then that his hatred for bards and for all they cherished…art, music, knowledge, emotions…came to be. Lost and alone he wandered until exhaustion. Through fate, or perhaps a less coincidental hand, he had passed out in a location prepped for use as a ritual that night. The Clergy found him and, believing the dark coloration of his skin to be an omen, took him in and gave him shelter. It was later with those priests that he found his faith, and his purpose.
Since then he had slowly but surely been gathering individuals that shared his hatred. They came from various walks of life: A woman who lost her husband to a dancing seductress, a politician humiliated and cast out of office by an activist poet, a man whose son humiliated the family by becoming a traveling jester. Followers of gods who had a disdain for the freedom and happiness art brought or had value for the power of lies rather than knowledge were easy to bring over to his cause. His band was not exceedingly large but enough to execute his desires.
Establishing a base of operations in the great desert of Anaroch they had launched attacks both east and west along the northern borders of Faerun. They saught out holy sites to bardic gods or places of art and knowledge for destruction. The band was patient, never trying more than one such attack a year so as not to draw to great of attention to their efforts of destroying that which the focus of their hatred treasure the most.
And now the Son, sitting within his chambers, was contemplating their largest and most meaningful move to date. To strike at one of the largest icons of Bardic virtue in all of Northern Faerun. He had been prepping for weeks, sending forth what spies he could during its open hours to find and prep the best locations for the fires to be ignited and to properly spread. More important to his true desires however was to discover where the curator stayed, for she was the Sons true focus for this strike. It was her who held the key to the potential for delicious vengeance and redemption. It was her, and what she represented, that caused him to prolong the planning stage of the attack and to allow for word of the attack to slip out of his camp.
This time any of the knowledge destroyed was but a bonus for him. His primary focus was the curator and what her lineage may draw out from the realm of history. In a way, she was to be his muse.
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The Treasure Hunter 1 - "Meddle"
Somehow, he mused, he always manages to find his way into trouble. Then again, when ones profession is that of a Treasure Hunter trouble is simply an everyday risk of the job; or a perk, depending on how you view it. The Treasure Hunter sat relaxed back in his chair, kicking it up to sit on its two hind legs while his feet rested crossed upon the nearby table. He remained quiet, a bemused smile on his face as he simply listened to those gathered in the small insolated room.
“So you’re sure they’re behind it Tiana? This spell isn’t exactly a walk through the park and I risk making my presence all to known to some former associates. Well paying or not, I’m not wanting to go through with this if you’re not positive.”
The Treasure Hunter gave a slight bemused shake of his head at Adeaphon’s typical cautiousness, or paranoia as its more often termed by others. However, in the little bit of time the Treasure Hunter knew the Tiefling he realized it’d be unfair to claim it as such; paranoia suggests his fears are unfounded. Adeaphon has previously been involved with a church of an unsavory diety until the recent birth of his daughter. The event caused him to re-examine his faith and realize he did not want to raise his daughter in an atmosphere of such hate and depression.
They had first met as the Treasure Hunter had come to the Tieflings aid late one night. Briggands had descended on Adeaphons camp and, having been nearly depleted of spells, the wizard was likely doomed if not for the Treasure Hunter’s arrival and aid. They shared a drink a meal that night and quickly felt at ease around each other. The Treasure Hunter had informed him of his purpose in Silverymoon, hoping to find information leading to an ancient cache of Myth Drannor era artifacts, and offered the Tiefling a chance to come along. A chance Adeaphon readily took, eager to acquire enough wealth to smuggle his daughter out of the churches grasp and into a comfortable life beyond their reach.
“I’m positive.” Tiana replied with her typical professorial tones, “The knowledge I gained on this was from a trustworthy source. This group’s leader has a strong tie to the plane of Shadow, I would not be surprised if they use it to infiltrate the Library. If we can see when and how many are coming we should be able to thwart their plot.”
Tiana was a Cleric of Oghma and current Currator for the Library, the youngest human to hold the post since its inception. The latter being a fact she was never remiss to point out; a bit of insecurity that caused her youth to occasional show through her normally academic front.
His first meeting with Tiana was far from what you’d call pleasant. It began with her grasping a handful of his pony tail, pulling the black strands with the strength of one protecting what she loves. In this case, that love would be directed to the highly restricted books he was casually strolling out of the library with.
His pleading of ignorance, a notion she was not quick to believe, was to no avail and in the end a bargain was struck once she had discovered his purpose and talents. Tiana offered up the potential for a trade; she would let him peruse the books all he wished after hours if in exchange she helped him with an issue she was currently facing.
Tiana had read his expedient willingness to agree with the deal as being attributed to his lust for whatever he thought those books would lead him to. In reality, her issue was the true reason for his trip to Silverymoon…
“I don’t like this one bit Ms. Br-…”
“Tiana, just Tania please Bragun.”
“Right, forgot again. As you wish Tiana. I’m just saying why didn’t you go to the authorities about this. I’m sure they could offer up some guards to watch the library.”
The stout clear speaking figure of Bragun Lorefriend had arrived in Silverymoon a few tendays prior to the Treasure Hunters arrival. An oddity amongst his fellow dwarves, Bragun was attempting to forgo his warrior heritage to become a priest of Denier. Sadly, despite his attempts at clear speaking and a neutral demeanor, his anger often bubbled up as frustration making the transition a difficult one. Still, he managed to convince Tiana to take him on as an assistant of sorts.
Bragun quickly gained a level of respect and protectiveness towards Tiana, seeing clearly Tania’s keen mind but also the keen looks of a number of the male scholars that frequented the library. However the formality from someone nearly four times her age had made Tiana somewhat uncomfortable. Often one patrons of the Library could hear her, sometimes rather forwardly, requesting that he simply call her Tiana rather than her family name.
The Treasure Hunter had actually had his first meeting with Bragun in one of those circumstances where the protectiveness shown was at the forefront. Flirting mildly as a roguish lad such as himself was want to do, the Dwarf came upon them. Threats were levied upon the raven haired man if he should so much as think of laying an uninvited hand upon her while warnings were given to Tiana against such vagabonds as the Hunter. However it was not the threat made of the dwarves hammer that had put an end to such future endeavors, but rather the illumination that came from Bragun making his typical slip of the tongue.
“Bragun,” Tiana went on as if she was lecturing a class, “I have told you this before. My position here is tenuous. There are a number of nobles who were vying for the chance to sit as curator of this Library and are ready to jump at a chance to be rid of me. They’d use it as an excuse to say I wasn’t capable, or claim my family’s legacy was causing these problems, or some other sort of ridiculous notion. Plus if we go to them and they launch an investigation this place will be filled with guards and investigators, stifling any decent atmosphere for learning. Not to mention the likely wreck they’d cause. No, we will do this ourselves.”
Just then a pair of elves entered the small room, the Treasure Hunter knowing them from a prior meeting as a pair of elven lovers, Li’liin and Quinal. They handed a large cylinder over to Tiana, who readily took it and produced a map of the library and its surrounding streets. She spread it across the table as all of those present gathered close now to where she stood.
“This group has been known to seek out and attempt the destruction of various works of art and knowledge across the north, and have now seemingly set their site on us here in Silverymoon. However, my sources inform me their numbers are spread thin. My hope is if we thwart their efforts and make it costly they’ll not find this target worth the risk. Then it’s simply a matter of getting word around the Marches to be wary of attacks elsewhere.“
“We believe they’re going to attempt to infiltrate and set fire to these three locations. Li and Quinn, you’ve got this the northwest corridor. Zeke, you assured me you’ll be good on your own in the middle. Don’t let me down. Myself and Bragun will be in the Southeast and we’ll have Adeaphon so as to protect his body while he acts as lookout. They’ll likely have flasks and flint at the ready so we’ll have a number of create water scrolls on the shelves near you all. Drive them out, stop any fires they manage to start, and then pursue if you can do so safely. Now, any questions or are we ready to let them know that destroying knowledge is a dangerous endeavour?”
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The Twin 1 - "Observe"
He realized that the dragon-kin knew he was there. He couldn’t explain how he knew; it was a feeling, a sensation. The type of notion that raises the hairs on the back of your neck or twists your gut. An idea that meets no rational explanation and yet smacks you like unquestionable truth. The question now was, what did the dragon-kin plan to do with that information?
For the time being it appeared the answer would be nothing. For that, the Twin was thankful; though weary of it none the less. Perhaps the dragon-kin wanted him to watch, wanted him to listen, and to realize how he was powerless to help the Prisoner. If that was his intent then he had succeeded with remarkable skill.
Every other tenday he’d watch the same song and dance play out again. The Prisoner would be drug up roughly from his cell and deposited in a room where members of the cult took turns softening his ever withering body up. After a time the Dragon-kin would come in, holding some instrument or another that he would use to perpetrate the vile acts that gave him such enjoyment. Throughout these, going on for months now, the Twin would watch on horrified and astonished as the Dragon-kin would go about such acts with little apparent remorse and without a seeming purpose other than inflicting pain. For nearly a year this went on and not once during that time did the man ever speak a word. Once the Dragon-kin was satisfied with the punishment he exerted the Prisoner was hauled up and deposited back in his solitary cell.
He was given enough food and water to live, but barely anything beyond that. At first the Twin watched as the Prisoner was resistant, attempting to fight back. The fighting turned, over time, to resignation, which did little to still the Prisoners tongue. He would hurl insights and taunts, making attempts to incite the cultists to take the action a step too far, though never fully succeeding. He’d do similar to the Dragon-kin, yet each time it seemed for naught as the Twin would watch the man continue to go about his stoic work and leave, without a word. Nine months in the Twin watched as he realized frustration was bubbling up in the Prisoner, as he actively searched through the sessions for what the Dragon-kin wanted, why he did as he did, even breaking his will partially to give him bits of information in hopes of sparking some reaction. Still, the Twin watched as the song and dance continued onward in its unerring repetition.
That was until their last engagement.