Dawn Glory (FR fantasy)

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Yerril, Toama and Nim arrived at the main, western gate to Marsember late in the night in midwinter. They had been travelling for nigh on a month, the presence of the ranger affording them a decidedly rough, but nevertheless shorter cross-country route. Although their journey was fraught with danger, Yerril felt safe with his two capable companions. Their overland trek had featured mainly small encounters; a few more kobolds, some gibberlings, and a small group of hobgoblins, but there was one particular occurrence that would stay in the back of the impressionable youth’s mind for many nights to come. They had been travelling along the borders of the Vast Swamp, and had set up camp on a small grassy rise next to the Darkflow River, in sight of the threatening marsh.
Nim was deep in reverie by the dying embers of the fire, Toama was asleep, his head propped up on his pack, and the hawk was out hunting in the night. Yerril was sat on a log staring out into the darkness with eyelids of lead, and it was because of his fatigue that he at first assumed the shambling figures approaching from the bog were a dream. Their slow, rolling advance certainly seemed unnatural and dreamlike, but as they drew nearer, a distinct prickling along his spine warned him that these forms were not a product of his own tired mind, but something inherently evil.
He shook himself awake and stood, squinting at the looming shapes. They appeared to be armoured in ancient chainmail, shields strapped to their backs, and helms on their heads. Yerril was surprised to see arrows protruding from various places on the warriors, and if these truly were humans, they were in bad shape. The final realisation hit him when the nearest one threw back its head and wailed, long and loud, with an element that bespoke of dusty bones and rotting flesh. He gasped and staggered back; these were no warriors, but the undead!
He whirled round to alert his companions, but a hand burst from the soil beneath him and grasped his ankle, sprawling him on the floor. It held his leg in a vicelike grip, cutting off the blood flow to his foot. Struggling hard, he craned his neck to see the thing. It was repulsive; bones poking through rotted green-blue flesh, and as he watched, a second hand emerged next to the first.
In one careful movement, the undead warrior rose from the earth like a wave, unseeing eyes glaring straight ahead as it did, and straightened out to stand. It stood almost seven feet tall, and held the writhing young man upside down in the air. The creature stood silently, waiting for the others to arrive, and Yerril took the opportunity to wriggle around until he could see the campsite. Despite his precarious situation, he relaxed slightly when he saw the spot where Nim should have been was empty.
Seconds later, he was released from the hold of iron and toppled to the floor, as a streaking flash of grey ripped through the Dread Warrior’s helm and out the other side. It was swiftly followed by three more streaks in quick succession across its body, each impact jarring the thing backwards. Finally, it collapsed, its binding magics shattered, and Yerril scrambled to his feet, quickly analysing the situation. The four remaining undead were metres away now, but in the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of crimson, and smiled nervously.
From atop the hill Yerril stared as a black shape danced in front of the four, cutting limbs and heads clean away as it passed with blinding speed. It was followed by a hail of streaking silver arrows, and in the space of approximately ten seconds, the undead were a reduced to four piles of softly smoking flesh.

Back outside Marsember, Yerril shuddered as he recalled those events, and drew himself back to the task in hand. The day had been spent circling the city in order to reach the main gate, and this had afforded him with a splendid view of the city. It’s maze of bridges and islands, and the often crazily angled buildings had piqued his interest, and he was keen to enter the city of spices, and immerse himself in the experience of it all.
The three stood outside the entrance to Marsember at night in the driving rain, their clothes more water than fabric, and examined the gate. It was a massive two-arched building with two identical portcullises, and the Purple Dragon flag flapped violently in the fierce wind. Three armoured men with halberds stood before them, bored expressions on their face. As the trio approached, one of the men stepped forward, and declared;
“Halt. You are about to enter the fair city of Marsember. By decree of the crown of Cormyr, your true intent shall be magically scried before you enter. Any attempts at resistance will result in arrest. And I need not tell you gentlemen that our laws are very strict, do I?” At this, another of the man let out a shrill whistle, and a moment later, a door opened at the base of the wall.
The man who climbed out was obviously a mage. His balding head was underlined with a short, white beard, and he wore long blue and purple robes. He hobbled over, grumbling all the way, and stopped before Yerril, Nim and Toama. Yerril looked to his friends for guidance, but they merely stood still in preparation for the coming spell. He followed their lead, and focused his gaze on the floor. The mage cleared his throat.
“Keep still, this won’t hurt a bit, and all that,” he spoke, and waved his hands in an elaborate gesture. Immediately, Yerril felt tingling all over his body as the strange magics searched every facet of his soul, seeking out ill intent. When the tingling stopped, and he raised his gaze from the ground, he found the mage gaping at him with an incredulous stare. He gave a questioning look back, and the mage shook his head and turned back to the guards.
“Yes. Yes, let them in, nothing wrong with them.” With that, the mage hobbled back through the door, mumbling something about “unbelievable” and “so soon?”

Minutes later, the trio were strolling through the darkened streets of the city, heading in the direction of one of the multitude of taverns of which Nim was a frequent patron. Yerril walked a little way behind his companions, absorbing all that they passed; the magically lit street lamps, the patrols of Purple Dragons poling their way along the canals in light skiffs, and the oddly angled boulevards down which they were making their way, and even at this late hour, he remained fully awake, head darting this way and that, taking in new sights. Thus it was that he never noticed a slender, dark figure dart out from an alley, and approach him from behind.
That is, he never noticed until he felt light fingers reaching at his waist for a gold pouch that was not there. He played along for a second, then suddenly turned and grabbed the thief by the collar, and hoisted him up in the air. Something unfamiliar, but not unwelcome rose within in him, and on an impulse he shouted into the dark rat-like face in front of him.
“Craven fool! Think you, in thine greed-addled brain, that taking advantage of the good fortune of others is a way to earn thy keep! Naïve cretin! Before thy days are numbered, thou shalt feel the full force of righteousness!”
Hearing the commotion, Nim and Toama whirled around, and for a moment Yerril appeared as if in a vision, illuminated by a street lamp, dispensing justice to evil. They could not help but stare at the scene, and once again, they were reminded of just who this young man they had grown so fond of was to become.

OoC: Whew, that took ages! Thanx, Big B, you're a great help, no-one else posts so I can barely ever post myself!

Prove me wrong!

[This message has been edited by Sir Yerril of Morningmist (edited March 12, 2002).]

 

You're wrong!

This is a really good story, so keep it up!

 

oh....my....god!!! Write a book you fool!!!!!! you could be rich.
Crimony this is ruddy brilliant...
Roll on the next part!!

 

They left before first light, a pale golden hue beginning to spread along the horizon in the east. Yerril stood; his tattered clothes washed, at least, under the gently swaying sign of the Cloven Shield, and yawned. Toama, leaning against the wall nearby, grinned.
“You’d better get used to this time of the day, lad,” he called cryptically. Seeing the confused look that was thrown back at him, he merely chuckled.
They were startled by a noise from above them, from an upstairs window. It sounded like a noise borne of anger, and was definitely female. Hearing the shriek, Toama sighed and strode out into the middle of the street. The sound of breaking china reached their ears. Yerril became somewhat more alarmed a moment later, when the sound of a male voice, and the sound of steel being drawn, followed suit. Toama merely sighed again.
A second later, there was an almighty roar, and a flailing black shape was flung from the second-floor window directly above them. Toama stepped backwards and deftly caught what turned out to be Nim; a grin the size of Kara-Tur sprawled across his handsome features.
“My brother,” he gasped, “I suggest we run.”

The inn Nim had chosen was on the southernmost of the islands that, when joined by shallow stone bridges across the old marsh, made up the city proper. This meant that on the trip to the next unknown location, Yerril was privy to the most bizarre architecture Marsember had to offer. The smaller islands were almost completely taken up by housing, so what little paving there was so thin, the three had to travel in single file to avoid being pushed into the murky brown fluid of the canals. One or two of the islands were built on rocks jutting up from the stagnant water, so the streets there, shaped around the uneven features of the stone beneath, were wildly paved, rolling like waves and causing entire houses to lean at a great angle. These jutting houses were eagerly sought after by the merchant classes, and the young man could see several of them preparing their stalls under the tilting shelter of their homes.
Nim led them on across several bridges, curving around in an arc towards the centre of the city. Their breath was misty in the early winter morning, but Nim continued to be an endless source of energy, bounding ahead as if he were a child in summer. Toama remained silent, his eyes straight ahead, and the hawk perched on his shoulder. As they walked on, they became aware of an armoured figure clanking up the street behind them in an apparent rush. Nim rolled his eyes and whispered;
“Purple Dragon. I shall handle him.” The man reached them at last, panting, his face red in the growing light to the east. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, and Toama made an imperious face behind his back, capturing exactly the aloof nature of the man. Yerril had to stop himself from laughing as the knight straightened and gave him a wary look. He pointed at Nim.
“You there, elf. Is that weapon peace-knotted?” he asked in a gruff, unfriendly tone. The assassin drew his katana with exaggerated movements, and put on an expression on his face that mocked amazement.
“Why, officer,” he gasped, “I don’t believe it is! I must say that I am very disappointed that, despite her many magical properties, my blade still cannot tie a knot around herself! Thank you for pointing out this grave discrepancy to me, I shall have the situation rectified at once.” Nim flashed a winning smile, and the officer made a cynical face.
“I do not care for your jests. The law of this city demands that all weapons be peace-knotted. Make sure you, and your hawk-bearing friend, follow it, or you shall be forcibly ejected via the gates. Understand?” The red-faced Purple Dragon turned sharply and stalked away in the opposite direction. Nim said something in elven, and Toama sniggered.

They continued on for a while longer, weapons tied to their belts, making them difficult to draw. The three rounded a corner, and beheld a magnificent sight.
At the end of an unusually wide road stood a tall, solid structure of grey stone. The main building was a rectangular hall with a high arched roof, and this was joined to a squat rotund tower with a spired peak. The tower held huge banners of yellow, orange and red, each depicting an emblem of a blazing dawn sun rising over shadowed hills. Small stained glass windows studded the side of the larger section of the structure, depicting scenes of winged heralds kneeling before the sunrise, of robed men and women dispensing healing touches to the sick and needy, of spring flowers blossoming into life. The easternmost end was dominated by a huge wall-high window portraying a young man in simple yellow clothes with pure orange, pupil-less eyes. His arms were outstretched, as if embracing the huge rising sun behind him. As the dawn finally broke over the roofs of Marsember, pale yellow light washed over the whole scene, reflecting off the breathtakingly beautiful window, and spreading dappled colours across the walls of the surrounding buildings.
Yerril stood in complete awe. This was without doubt the most beautiful view he had ever beheld. The image sent waves of comfort, security and a great sense of belonging through his entire being, and all at once he felt compelled to go inside. He wanted to stay here for the rest of his days, living out his life in the presence of such great splendour. This was Morningmist Hall, temple of Lathander and Yerril’s new home.
Nim cleared his throat.
“So… do you like it?”

The paladin set his feet, bracing himself for the coming battle. He flexed sweating hands inside his gauntlets, and reached up to touch the holy symbol of Tyr the Just around his neck. He stood in the middle of a narrow stone bridge spanning the distance between the two highest towers of an ancient fortress. The castle had been in ruin for centuries, and the bridge was cracked in several places, lending extra weight to his situation. The shadow fiends advancing to either side flicked long black tongues and chattered eerily. It was midnight, and he silently thanked the Maimed God for the ring of darkvision upon his finger. To his enhanced sight, the shadows appeared his vacuums of light, completely black against the white outlines of the architecture all around. He readied his shield, raised his longsword, and charged.
The nearest shadow leaped upon him as he neared it, long-nailed, insubstantial hands around his neck, and landed upon his back. He winced in real pain as the shadow’s fingers sank into his back, and began to drain his life-force. The other three shadows in front of him advanced slowly, and the four behind him slunk closer as well. He roared, and swung his gleaming white blade over his head, straight through the shadow and clanging against his armour. The magic burned straight through the beast and, screaming horribly, it evaporated into the air. He grimaced, and swung his raised sword straight down, cleaving another shadow in two. Its screaming essence drained slowly into the stone floor.
The paladin’s triumphant laugh was cut off, however, as two more monsters leaped on him from behind, crashing him to the ground. They started to claw at his face, leaving smoking wounds that would remain as scars for the rest of his life. He struggled futilely to raise his blade, but by this time another shadow was upon him. They tore at his armour, ripping it easily asunder and tossing shards of metal over the edge of the bridge into the void. Kicking his legs in an attempt at distraction, he moved his hand to the gleaming ruby tied around his wrist by a band. He managed to raise his arm a little, and uttered a command word.
Knowing what was to come, he shut his eyes. The blast of fire that flew from the ruby passed straight through the shades, doing no permanent harm, but causing them to shriek and jump back. The paladin pulled himself to his feet and, having regained his balance, swung his sword straight through a retreating fiend, draining it into the atmosphere. He angled the remainder of his swing, slicing the arm off another shade, setting off a leak of shadowstuff.
He took a deep breath, and analysed the situation. Of the original eight shadow fiends, he had dispatched three and injured another. The four remaining were taking a more cautious approach, having seen the extent of this prey’s power, and circled him slowly. He grinned. He still had one trick left.
Finally, the largest shadow clicked its spectral teeth, and all four jumped simultaneously. The paladin clutched his holy symbol, raised it, and shouted;
“Back, before the might of Tyr!” With this, the shadows seemed to freeze in midair. A white radiance grew inside their bodies, spreading along their limbs, and across their startled faces. The paladin watched in fascination. No matter how many times he had seen this, he never ceased to be amazed by the power of his God. There was a sudden flash of light, and a roaring sound. When the light died, they were gone.
Wasting little time, the paladin advanced on the injured shadow, leaking shadowstuff on to the hard stone. He swung his blade, and the threat died.
The danger had passed, the battle had been won, but he was gravely injured. He collapsed against the wall, breathing heavily. Calling upon the last of his diminished powers, he began to slowly heal himself, his voice lowered in a mumbled prayer to Tyr.
To the casual observer, the paladin would appear to be dead, lying in a crumpled heap, blood leaking from several major wounds, alone on a cracked bridge hundreds of feet into the air. In actuality, a closer inspection would have revealed the torn flesh to be slowly knitting back together, and a pale blue glow emanating from under the injured man’s firmly shut eyelids.

Several hours later, the paladin awoke. It was still darkest night, but his wounds were almost completely healed. He relaxed slightly, taking a short rest before he decided what to do next. He considered the benefits of returning to his order as opposed to continuing on. He sat contemplating for a while, until his attention was distracted by a faint hissing noise.
He looked up, but could not determine the source of the noise. The wind howled, the moon stood high in the velvet canopy of night, maintaining its silent vigil, and nothing moved. The paladin haltingly stood, and glanced around. The hissing had ceased, and he began to wonder whether it was just a product of a weary mind. He sat back down, and removed his battered helm.
All of a sudden, he caught sight of a flickering light in a window in the tower to his left. His head jerked up, and he was just in time to catch the shape of a robed figure silhouetted in a candle flame, before it disappeared with an unholy screech. Even though he had had but a brief moment to see it, he recognized the shape almost instantly. It seemed as though his past had caught up with him. He began to shake uncontrollably.
Once again, that unearthly wail sounded, and in the opposite tower this time, the flickering silhouette appeared once more. It remained still for a moment, the disappeared, leaving the candle still alight on the windowsill. The paladin staggered back; glancing around him desperately, panic welling in his chest.
He stopped when a black mist began to form slowly before him. It seeped upwards through the stone, and coalesced into a swirling vortex of blackness, occasional clouds drifting from its edge. The man merely stood, transfixed in horror. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his blade clattered to the stone beside him. The magical conjuration crackled with black lightning, and echoed with screams. The man swallowed. He knew those screams. They were all that was left of hundreds of holy warriors before him.
“Beautiful isn’t it?” at the sound of the voice from behind him, the paladin jumped, and whirled around. The cloaked figure he had expected stood towering, robes whipping in the wind, and quasit familiar on his shoulder.
“The vortex. Is it not beauteous?” The paladin’s eyes widened in absolute terror. He started to gibber, falling to his knees and attempting to crawl away. The formerly proud and powerful warrior was reduced to a snivelling child before the awesome presence of evil taunting him. Not the evil of a slaver, or a wife-beater, but an essence of pure untamed evil, fierce as a storm. No islands of compassion, no boats of reason, a sea of malevolence so utter it threatened to consume him completely. No demon could match it, could even hope to come close to it. It was the perfect opposite of all that he held dear. He was overwhelmed, and the dictates of his faith suddenly seemed pathetic and weak in comparison. It chilled him to the core of his being, and he felt as though at any moment his soul could be caught in the insane violence and torn to shreds.
A dry chuckling followed his demeaning retreat, and he was suddenly lifted into the air by an unseen force.
“Thorare of Tyr, you were fortunate to avoid me before, but you must know that I never, never, let a chaosbane slip through my fingers. To me you are a pest, an inconvenience. You and your kin shall soon be wiped from Toril. Your meddling benefits none. You are doomed.”
The cloaked figure turned, leaving him suspended in the air, and stalked off back to the to the tower door. On his way, he absently waved his hand. With a startled scream, the paladin was hurled from the bridge, and sent hurtling to the ground below.

The quasit murmured in its master’s ear.
“Excellently done, my lord. Another particle of scum cleaned from the pond of your ambitions.” There was silence from the hood.
“Master?”
The cloaked figure drew back his cowl, and the quasit shielded its eyes.
“He…is alive. All that I have worked for is in peril. He has reached a site of protection…a temple. We have failed. We must prepare for his emergence.” With that, the figure and his familiar disappeared, leaving silence and serenity once more upon the bridge.

 

Three things:

1) Ya gotta love the pure orange, pupil-less eyes

2) "Thorare of Tyr, you were fortunate to avoid me before, but you must know that I never, never, let a chaosbane slip through my fingers." (Nice)

3) You gotta be one crazy quasit to work for that guy

 

Whew, sorry for the long wait, the next part has taken a lot of planning and is very tricky to manouever. As yet, it is still a work in progress. Rest assured, however, more is coming.

Until then, to keep you occupied - a question.

Who can spot the obscure BG2 reference?

Oooh, and who can guess who the shadowy figure is? (Hint: Its in what he says...)

[This message has been edited by Sir Yerril of Morningmist (edited March 02, 2002).]

 

Great story, good storytelling and nice idea! I'd like to read more of this
Hmm, some chars remind me to your party for IWD-2

 

please post more. this is the only decent reading material i have left since Shura's gone

 

As Yerril watched, the man in resplendent golden robes ascended the few stairs to the dais. His expression was stern, but his eyes held a glimmer of playful light; appearing to be the only part of him that was smiling. He carried with him a golden sceptre, inlaid with glittering jewels, and a stylised dawn sun at its crown. He looked to be about fifty, and the scars on his wrinkled face told all who beheld him that he had once been an adventurer.
Adventuring, Yerril thought glumly, that was what set him apart, isolated him from all the other sombre faces in the temple. All around him stood grim countenances of battle-hardened warriors, an uncomfortable contrast to the beauty surrounding them. Yerril was stood in the centre of the main hall of Morningmist, guarded on either side by burly acolytes, maces in hands, facing the huge stained glass window on the eastern wall. To his left was a line of stony-faced armoured knights, whom Yerril had been informed were high ranking members of the Order of the Aster. They were holy crusaders, dedicated to fighting evils for the glory of the Morninglord, and somehow Yerril yearned to join them in their fight, to battle alongside them in their quest. To his right, reclining in a cushioned pew, were the brothers Nim and Toama. Seeing the assassin’s relaxed visage, the young man silently wondered whether there was anywhere in Faerûn where Nim was not at home. In front of him, a short distance away from the robed man were two women and a man. The man was in full plate, and wore a blue hammer at his waist. The first woman wore purple robes, with black hair tied tightly behind her head.
It was when Yerril turned to look at the second woman, however, that he noted the only smiling face in the entire room. Warrior or not, this woman was offering him some small measure of support, and he felt an instant attachment to her. She looked him directly in the eye, and he quickly averted his gaze. Blushing furiously, he pretended to examine his surroundings.
The stark stone floor was overlaid with fine carpets, the walls were held many paintings of great splendour. The high-arched roof extended just beyond sight, the oaken supports holding it up a healthy dark brown, as though the wood was still alive. Beneath the enormous window was an altar, the simplest item in the entire church. It was, in effect, a large chunk of granite, covered with a green velvet cloth. It was raised upon a platform, the same one that the golden-robed priest now stood upon. Upon the altar was a sword, held up by wooden supports. It had an elaborately carved hilt, a large, wide blade inset with runes of power, and although it was obviously magical, it appeared as a dead thing. There was no sparkle or shine to it, the metal appeared dull and lifeless. Perhaps, Yerril mused, it was due to the pommel, or rather, the lack of it; where there should normally have been a large gem at the end of the handle, there was on this particular blade a round, hollow metal clasp. He guessed that the key to unlocking the sword’s power lay in the pommel stone, but was interrupted from further ponderings by a loud announcement from the robed man at the altar.
“So, young man,” he intoned in a low voice, “you deem yourself worthy of entering holy service of our Morninglord?” Yerril swallowed, and stammered,
“I…I do” The man eyed him critically.
“Know this. I am Chansobel Dreen, high Morninglord of this temple. It has taken me many, many years to reach my position, decades of loyal service. I have fought foes both human and otherworldly, all in the service of my god. Think you that you are suited to such a task?”
“My lord, I know I may not be suited to a life of such hardships now, but all I ask is a little time. If you would but allow me into the service of Lathander, it is my wish to serve him as best I can, in whatever situation may present itself” As if to accentuate the point, the young man offered a hopeful smile. Dreen allowed a thoughtfully amused expression to cross his features.
“My, but isn’t this familiar,” he said, half to himself, “you remind me of myself when I was but a youth; bright eyed and eager to serve…” He shook away the memories with a toss of his head, and focused once more on the task in hand.
“Very well, a reasonable answer. To fully appreciate your worth as a member of the Order of the Aster, we must first assess your motives. Prepare yourself.” The man stepped down from the podium, and the woman in purple stepped forward and began to speak words in a language that sounded more like muted roaring than common. Sparks began to coalesce around her shoulders, and her words began to echo weirdly. Suddenly, Yerril’s vision faded and he felt a sensation akin to that of being hurled from an underwater catapult.

ps. There is more, but it is a very fiddly bit, and this is the only section of it that I know to be confirmed.

 

wow ... Sir Writesalot ... very good and very original. I can't wait for more

 

Sir Yerril, your story is very original, you should write more, I can not wait!

 

OOC: Don't read this, Shura, it will make you sick...

When he awoke he was standing. It was a strange sensation, he had never woken up upright before, and never encased in rusty plate armour. Startled, he looked down at himself. The armour was coated in blood; an unfamiliar stench rising from it he instinctively recognized as death. He was standing on top of a hill, surrounded by grassy plains, under an oppressive overcast sky. Scenes of war surrounded him - upon the slopes lay the remains of a bloody battle. Pikes and halberds bearing tattered standards stood planted in the soil, leaning heavily in the face of the brutal wind. Scores of bodies littered the battlefield, piled in enormous macabre heaps. There was no sign of life.
Chilled to the core, Yerril shook himself and refocused his gaze on the task in hand. He was holding a sword, and at the end of it was an extremely frightened looking man. The tip of the blade was pressed against his throat; he was on his back on the ground, obviously defeated. He appeared to be in worse shape than Yerril, his raven-black hair matted with sweat, rain and blood. When their eyes locked, Yerril’s head was suddenly filled with information.
He knew this man – they had been rivals for decades. They had grown up together, lived in the same street, trained for the royal guard together. They had served the Lords of Waterdeep for most of their working lives, promoted together, battled together, and ever at each others throats. Their trivial competition had been taken a step further, however, when, on the night of a particularly heated argument, Yerril had returned home to find his wife murdered in her bed. His children were under the kitchen table, tears streaking their faces, and fear stamped across their features. His “friend” denied his guilt, but he was transparent, his lies were obvious. The battle they had been called to was the perfect excuse for revenge.
Yerril knew he had always been right, his rival was always wrong. He was the one that made all the bad decisions, chosen the wrong sides, whereas Yerril had stuck to his morals. He knew it to be true. He had judged this man, and recognized him to be evil; there was no question about it. Plead he may, but Yerril knew the truth.
His anger, loss, sorrow, pain, and thirst for vengeance became as one in his mind; they united in the blackness as an indistinguishable, writhing red mass. Just looking at the man’s face sickened him, feeble and pathetic, sprawled in the mud like the worm he was. He always was weak, an insect to be crushed, and now was the time to finish it.
The thrashing crimson mist grew and grew, obscuring his vision, and filling his ears with primeval pounding. All he could see was the simpering, weakling face of his enemy. He gritted his teeth, raised his sword and brought it down with all his hatred behind it.

Before the swing even started, the red fog of loathing clouding Yerril’s brain was indelicately shattered by the shooting blue light of reason. His head was freed from the restricting emotions, and with sudden clarity, he saw what he had done. He no longer saw the man before him as a worm, he perceived truly now, and was disgusted by his previous attitude. The human he held at swordpoint was no more than a victim of circumstance. He had allowed his feelings to get the better of him. He had followed human nature, unresisting, until it led him to the brink of destroying a life.
Yerril saw clearly now his judgemental attitude. He had convicted this man based solely on his assumptions; for all he knew, he could be completely innocent. He had compromised in the face of justice, claimed a scapegoat. He was the one who had truly wronged, and his shame was great indeed. In the confines of his mind, a silent dawn broke, and flooded his thoughts with the light of truth.
This man was no more deserving of death than any other, and, if anything, more deserving of mercy.

Yerril bowed his head, and sheathed his sword.

 

A confrontation between the characters Shura the swordsman and Yerril the paladin would be interesting, though currently Yerril is far from Shura's level of power.
I would say that the only way he could win in a direct fight would be to call upon a bolt of holy power from the heavens to smite the swordsman, summon a powerful angel to do battle on his behalf, or attack him en masse with all the paladins and clerics in his church.
Yerril is an interesting character...a stereotypical paladin well written. Nice one.

 

When he next awoke, the events that had passed seemed as a dream. Happenings that may or may not have occurred, were existent in both past, present and future. He could no longer be sure of the details, but the knowledge that he had done the right thing remained.
This time he was certainly lying down. In fact, Yerril was fairly sure he could not have stood if he wanted to. He could feel tight ropes binding his hands and feet to the surface beneath him. Some sort of heavy material was covering his face, filling his nostrils with a slightly stale aroma. Judging from the many small echoes, he was in a high roofed hall or cavern of some sort. Before he could turn his thoughts to matters of escape, the sound of a slightly muffled voice reached his ears. It was the kind of voice that rapidly began to grate upon the nerves of all who heard it. Deep, yet ever so slightly nasal, the voice was borne on waves on smug self-satisfied arrogance. Before the first sentence was complete, the young man had taken an instant dislike to the speaker.
“So…awoken at last, have we? Funny, I thought a man of such greatness would have fought off such a meagre sleep spell sooner. In fact, I’m surprised, disappointed even, that you succumbed in the first place! Perhaps the ballads praising your brilliance have less basis in truth than your adoring fans seem to think. Wouldn’t the citizens of Mosstone be crestfallen if they learned that their beloved Labauncee was no match for a petty mageling? Dear me, what a disaster that would be, hmmm?”
Yerril’s mind opened like a floodgate. From some unknown source, a lifetime of memories flooded into his mind, warping his identity, fitting it to a new shape. Something clicked, and he was no longer Yerril of Kulta. He was Labauncee of Mosstone, protector druid of the town, and nature’s humble servant.
He was suddenly aware of the ground beneath him. He was aware of the great expanse of living Fearûn stretching out from beneath him; he could almost feel the subtle shiftings of the earth. His brain adjusted to this new level of perception, and as it did so, Labauncee once again felt the glowing power of nature, ever elusive, ever just beyond the reach of mere mortals.
He strained against the ropes – someone was barring his union with nature, he needed to feel the forest about him once more, the endless expanse of sky holding him to the ground, his rightful place. Another drop splashed into the lake of his mind. Labauncee remembered…the grove.
He was on his way to council with the wild elves resident of the forest of Tethir. He had let his guard down, stopped to observe a jackdaw search the soil for scraps to feed itself. He had become almost hypnotised by the rhythmic bobbing of its head, the relentless hopping about the sheltered grove he stood in. He lost awareness of his surroundings; his eyes had filled with contemplation of the millions of tiny wonders that made up the beauty of nature. To any observers he would appear as a statue.
He became aware of the ambush when the jackdaw let off a startled squawking noise, and stumbled into hasty flight. He reached for his scimitar, but by then it was too late. He felt a sharp pain at the back of his head and was jerked forward. He turned groggily to attack his assailant, but the figure was an indistinct haze to his shattered senses. He stumbled forward, but stopped when the indistinct yet unmistakable sound of a spell being cast reached his normally sharp ears.
The chanting stopped, and there was only spinning, tumbling blackness.
Now he was here, trussed up like hunter’s game, a thick black mask obscuring his sight. He struggled to free himself, but felt the tightness of his bonds as soon as he began.
“What is this?!” he shouted in frustration, “What do you want of me?!” The nasal voice returned bearing his answer.
“You have been captured by he clergy of the church of Malar. You are bound to a solid stone table in a cave deep in the forest. Should you make any further efforts at escape, I’m sure the wolfweres surrounding us will be all to happy to tear you apart.” Labauncee ceased his struggling, snarling beneath the cloth obscuring his face.
“What is it you want of me?” The response was accompanied by a high–pitched giggle that just verged on insane.
“Why…I would have thought that was obvious! You are a fighter of no small skill, with spells to match. You would make a worthwhile addition to our little...pack.”
“You are a fool to think I would join your twisted little organisation!”
“Oh come now,” the voice reprimanded, “all it takes is one little bite, and your powers will be doubled! You will run free through the forest, at one with all that surrounds you! Ultimate freedom is within your grasp!”
“Ultimate freedom,” sneered the druid, “what’s in it for you?”
“Oh, of course we would own you, but it matters little. You see, the church of Malar is a freedom loving one; we cherish the thrill of the hunt, we are free as birds.”
“I…I...” the druid began uncertainly. He could not deny that the offer appealed to him. Through all his life in the service of nature, he had always felt a sense of entrapment within his frail form. He often found himself longing to break free of his human body, and become truly a part of the forest. He shook away these thoughts, and concentrated on his responsibilities as protector of Mosstone. He doubted he could keep control of his monstrous form, and he affixed a scene of a deserted town full of bloodied corpses in his mind.
“No.” He spoke firmly. “Your offer means little to me.”
“Very well,” the voice was dismissive, “kill him.” Fear rose like a wave in his gut, as the sound of low growling surrounded him. Soft footpads grew closer, closer, all the while accompanied by the same low growling. It wasn’t until one of the creatures shrieked with the anticipation of the kill that the druid finally lost his nerve.
“Wait!” he cried, “wait!” The voice boomed an arcane syllable, and Labauncee heard the wolfweres growl and retreat.
“So…changed our mind, have we?” The druid used the pause to think. As he saw it, he had a choice; a life of hounding, blood, and base sensations, or death. With a start, he realised he had never paid homage to any orthodox god; his life had been devoted to mother nature alone. He nervously wondered whether, given the lack of deity, he would be consigned to the wall of the faithless, in the citadel of the dead. He shuddered at the thought of eternity spent in crushing, writhing agony. His mind was swirling mass of fear, and longing.
He made his decision.
“I…”
“Yes?!”
Before the druid could submit, the small part of Labauncee of Mosstone that remained Yerril rose up in protest. The druid was shocked back into reason as he was given the mental equivalent of a slap. He was told, in a calm, no-nonsense way, that there was only one choice. To submit to the evil of Malar was to defy all that his life thus far stood for. To yield would be to become a horrendous monster, a twisted perversion of one of nature’s creatures. That was no life, a distorted fiend. There truly lay the eternity of torment he so feared.
He was informed that he had remained faithful to mother nature all his life; to refuse to give quarter at the cost of his own life was an honour beyond measure. He knew, without doubt, that if he died in denial of this taint now, he was assured that true feeling of oneness with nature. He smiled.
“I refuse. You shall not take me.” Labauncee retained his smile, his head filled with images of the forest.
The wolfweres fell upon him.

 

what the @#$%. one minute he's some paladin guy and the next he's a druid. Is this guy a schitzo or something? and maybe a bit delusinal

 

Zaknafein - you'll find out whats happening soon, but for now just concentrate on the actions that Yerril takes, ok?

The still blackness of eternal nothing shifted, and melted to form the image of a large emerald. It was far from looking directly at the sun, but the sudden contrast in light made Yerril blink. He shook his head free of fog, and examined the gem more closely.
It appeared to be a ring, a ring that sat alongside many others on his right hand. However, this was not a hand that he recognized, as he lifted it up he noted with mounting horror its incredibly pudgy form. The sudden weight gain seemed to have spread to the rest of him as well, and waves of panic flooded inside him. He was an enormous creature – a shadow of a human, his belly extended far further than he would have thought possible. His arms and legs were tiny, flabby little stalks. He could only guess what his face looked like. He wore a stained black silken robe, with a jewelled short sword at his enormous hip. Some use that would be, Yerril thought, he could barely reach it, let alone defend himself with it
His self-analysis was interrupted by the sound of a door slamming open. His head snapped up, and for the first time he noticed his surroundings. He was in the centre of an octagonal room, on a large, comfortable red throne. There were doors on six of the eight sides of the room, windows on the other two. A brief glance out of one of them revealed a sandy-coloured metropolis extending to edges of vision. The walls of the room were wooden; the floor was covered with brightly coloured rugs, and the ceiling slightly domed.
The door that had just slammed open was the one directly opposite him. Through it came two men clothed in rich black, with hoods concealing their faces. Fine swords were displayed at their belts, and small hand crossbows were strapped to their backs. They dragged with them a man in considerably worse shape. The fact that he wore little more than a loincloth revealed his rickety form; ribs were clearly visible on his chest, there appeared to be no muscle on his arms and legs. All in all, Yerril noted ironically, a perfect contrast to the form he currently held. The two men dumped him on the floor at Yerril’s feet, and steeped back respectfully.
“Pasha,” one of them declared, “he refuses to pay. We have brought him before you to decide his fate.” Yerril paled.
“Uh…re…remind me of this situation again, if you would?” He blustered out the sentence, fervently hoping the thieves would not realise he was not whom he appeared to be. The first man shot a dubious look to his partner, but spoke anyway.
“Very well, Pasha. He is Emelorn of Ankhapur. If you remember, he arrived in Calimport last year, seeking to enter into honest business, after the illegal trading coster for which he was arrested in Ankhapur was destroyed. Due to his suspicious background, no legitimate loans were available to him, so he came to us. You agreed to lend him the sum of one thousand five hundred gold, with interest, of which two hundred has been returned.” Yerril pretended to understand, a false light of remembrance alighting on his features.
“Ah…yes …well, Evelan-“
“Emelorn,” the thief corrected.
“Ah, yes, quite. Well, Emelorn, what have you to say in your defence?” Yerril sought to use the question to buy himself some time, so he could determine what to do next, but the response put all thoughts of escape out of his mind.
“Pasha, please,” the man begged, “I implore you, spare me! It was not my wish to cause you such trouble! When I escaped from Ankhapur, I came to your fair city to begin anew, to start afresh, and leave my dishonourable past behind me. I did not know it would prove to be such a manacle! All I asked was to run my own small business, to provide for my wife and family. Thanks to your most gracious assistance, I was able to live out my wish, and escape what had occurred before.
“Alas, for my naïveté! I knew little of Calimport then. In time I realised that no one buys anything legally here, all purchases are made in dishonour. I refused to give in, however, I continued to pay my taxes, and gradually work up money for repayment of my loan. Times grew worse. What little purchases I received provided nowhere near what I needed to live, let alone to pay back debt, so I had to raise prices. This just made it worse, my shop was put out of business, and my family and I were forced onto the streets. If there is anything I can do to repay what is owed to you, I will do it. But please, Pasha, be merciful.” The man bowed his head. Yerril continued to stare, lost in thought.
During the ruined man’s little speech, many more thieves had crept in to the audience hall, keen to discover the source of the Pasha’s attention. They stood at the edges of the room, about twenty of them, eyes on their pasha, and the words “kill him” virtually written across their foreheads. For a moment, all was silent and still, until one thief found the courage to ask;
“Pasha, what is to be done with him?” Yerril looked up.
“It is not my place to end the life of another being,” he replied, “merely because they are the subject of misfortune. You heard the man, he came here to begin anew, not be pulled further into the swamp of his problems. I will not pass judgement on Emelorn of Ankhapur. Release him, and cancel all his debt.” There was a stunned silence. The thieves stood stock still, a mixture of disbelief and anger on their faces. Then, one by one, the turned and stalked out of the room, muttering to themselves, leaving Yerril alone with Emelorn. The ruined man had tears of gratitude on his face. Yerril sighed, and threw the emerald ring to him.
“Take this, and one piece of advice. No matter what the attractions, criminal dealings are not the way forward. Now go.” Emelorn hurried from the room, and Yerril closed his eyes.

 

ooooooookkkkkkkkkk right well umm. Heh I think I get itnow. Yerril is been set a test or something like that. i think. anyway, good story

 

OK, people, a little explanation is in order. Firstly, the story is NOT dead. Good for some, bad for others. There are currently two things holding me back from doing any work:

1. Geography coursework. I took Geography as a GCSE subject, and gee willickers do I regret it. At the moment I have to have completed a large piece about Superstores that counts towards 25% of my final grade.

2. The accursed addiction of BG2. I rue the day I restarted it. However, I should be finished (for the 6th time) soon, then I can get back to work.

Hopefully, I will have done enough work by the end of this holiday to let myself relax a little, so ,fingers crossed, I should have an update for you in about a week. Until then, here are Nim and Toama's stats.

Nimbule Amakiir
(Nim)
Male Elf Ass14/Brd3
CR: 17
AL: CG
STR: 13
DEX: 19
CON: 12
INT: 14
WIS: 15
CHA: 16


Toama Amakiir
Male Half-Elf Rgr 9/Drd 5
CR: 14
AL: NG
STR: 16
DEX: 18
CON: 14
INT: 10
WIS: 15
CHA: 10


Once again, I am sorry for the lack of posting.

 

Move along. Move along. It's time to rock and roll.

 

All senses were stripped of him. He could neither see nor feel his surroundings, no sound reached ears he could only trust were there. He could not move. There was nothing to move.
No outside information reached his brain, yet somehow, from the nothingness, he knew. What it was that he knew was unclear. He had the vague feeling of arrival, a journey’s end, but was met with only more nothingness when he attempted to probe this possibility. Frustration rose within him, and he fought to open eyelids that would not respond. He wanted to scream, but he knew this place would not allow it.
He recalled something his father had once said, something about what it was that made a person. It was memories, experiences, he had stated, that made us. What we had witnessed, taken part in, enjoyed, loathed, endured… defined the borders of our thinking minds, and the substance between them. Without events to shape us, mould us, we are nothing. Our minds can expand beyond their limit; we are unaware of the boundaries of existence. That was the reason, his father had theorised, why so many in solitude eventually went mad.
But even as he recalled, the memory was swept away from him, and he was left wondering what it was that he was thinking of. With a start he realised where he was. This was the embodiment of solitude. This was a physical manifestation of life without events and occurrences. This was the endless expanse of a mind uncontrolled by stark reality, and it could not tolerate his own rationalisations and knowledge of who he was in relation to the multiverse. It became clear to him that the infinity of It was sucking his own experiences from his defenceless mind, and adding them to its endless list of possible happenings. He was doomed to become an uncertainty, unlabeled either “real” or “illusion” by the enormous of expanse of mind, that was not aware of the difference between reality and illusion itself. He would remain ever so.
In a second, his awareness of events was ripped violently away from him, and what he knew as certainty was added to Something’s possibility.

Voices reached his ears, concerned voices. Yerril tried to clear through the ringing in his ears, and focus on what was being said.
All of a sudden, a wave of relief surged over him, as he realised the implications of the voices. He could hear; his senses had returned. He was no longer an immobile lump floating in that hellish place. His eyelids were slow to respond, but respond they did, and, albeit slowly, they obligingly rose. He could see little; his vision was a slurred, lazy sea of colours. However, with a little concentration, the colours slid to their allotted places, and Yerril saw once more.
He was lying on his side, the cold stone floor of Morningmist hall pressed against his cheek. He groaned, and began to rise.
“He wakes!” shouted one of the voices. Yerril stood unsteadily, one hand pressed to his throbbing head. He swayed, and began to fall, but strong, gauntleted hands caught him. He shook himself, and looked around. His eyes widened as he took in the scene.
Many of the knights of the Order merely stood in silent shock, but a few knelt in reverence. Respect kindled the fires of the High Morninglord’s eyes, and, smiling, he slowly nodded to himself. Nim’s face wore a grin bigger than Yerril would have thought achievable without the aid of powerful magics, but Toama merely sat regarding the young man from behind the forest-green pools of his irises. Yerril narrowed his eyes questioningly at Dreen.
“What…what has happened here?” The light in the priest’s face suddenly died, and he reclaimed his impassive tone.
“What indeed. You were put through a series of magical tests, courtesy of Valanther here,” the priest gestured in the direction of the purple-robed woman, “a standard custom for prospective acolytes. They are designed to test the true outlook of a man, and, it seems, you have passed with flying colours.”
“A…test…?” Yerril stammered, “then…the druid, Emelorn, all of them…are…” Dreen nodded.
“An illusion? Yes. We watched your progress through a magical projection. Most interesting, I must say.” Yerril’s face had darkened with the clouds of suspicion.
“Allow me to explain,” Dreen cleared his throat, “each vision was a test of a different facet of the Morninglord’s dogma. To begin with, you were tested for control over yourself. One cannot expect to be a hero in the eyes of the people, yet not be in control of his own base instincts. You avoided the judgemental attitude that would almost certainly have been adopted by a lesser man. Your senses, and your decency, shone through, the man was spared. What is more, you did this regardless of the possible implications for the future. The man you spared could have hunted you down, sought his revenge. Yet every paladin knows that death is a price worth paying for the welfare of others.
“Secondly, you were analysed in terms of loyalty. The road to purity is a hard one, and at times there is little to lean on but your faith. We cannot allow desertion. The Fallen are our greatest enemies, and we must do all we can to avoid losing any of our flock to the other side. You aided the druid in his decision, and took the right choice despite the very real consequences.” At this point, Yerril shuddered at the memory of the low growls that still echoed through the corridors of his mind.
“Finally, you were tested in regard to mercy. Compassion is a virtue in the Dawnbringer’s eyes, simple love and forgiveness for your fellow man. You showed this virtue, refusing to give in to the bloodlust of those around you. Most commendable. I congratulate you, you shall be a welcome addition to our ranks.” Dreen climbed down from the podium, and Yerril was suddenly surrounded by a sea of awed and congratulating faces.

But…what of the void?


OOC: Come on people, need more spam, especially (CONSTRUCTIVE) criticism. Note that this is the very very first draft, and as such there WILL be mistakes and unclear sentences. Just keep the comments coming, because for a start I can't continue if you don't!