Dawn Glory (FR fantasy)

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A wake up call for Sir Yerril of Morningmist! Are you out there? Is there any more story coming?

 

Whatever you say.

...

As the years continued, so too did Yerril’s training. Six summers came and went, and the young man excelled in all his classes. He studied and worshipped the Morninglord with a devotion and dedication that rivalled the most powerful of the clergy. He was a fountain of inspiration and creativity, his shrewd insights often catching his teachers and fellow students off guard. He took the view that, even if he himself had not been chosen by Lathander, he would do his best to follow Tirik’s example, and become as great a man as he could. He displayed great promise in the art of warfare, his tactical intelligence and knowledge on a par with his natural talent for battle. He could easily defeat any one of his classmates in sparring sessions, his thrusts and lunges coming with a measured ease that could not be gained through practice alone. Much to the annoyance of the other acolytes, Yerril’s natural flair for combat rapidly earned him a place as Tirik’s favourite student, and the two became firm friends. However, at no point did the young paladin let his pride get the better of him. He never gave in to arrogance, preferring to take a modest attitude. He followed the teachings of his god to the letter, confronting and defeating any doubts to his faith head-on. Slowly, Yerril developed from the battered and confused forester’s lad he had once been, into a strong, virtuous, wilful man, armed with an unconquerable shield of faith.
Lamuhia, his mentor and friend, watched the changes time wrought with mixed emotions. On one hand, she was overjoyed at the man Yerril was becoming, noting the startling similarities between him and her lost love. Yet, she was concerned at the amount of time they spent together. Despite his rigorous training, and his many hours of study, he still found time to share with her, and she with him. They watched each sunrise together, contemplating its own unique beauty. They spoke little of the events of the Time of Troubles, concentrating instead on nurturing their own friendship. They often talked of the future, and what it would bring. Yerril remained steadfast in his desire to become a paladin, and to spread the holy word of the Dawnbringer to lands both strange and distant. He continued to refuse the aid of divine magic, claiming he would prove himself alone, without the aid of a greater force. With all of their hours spent together, Lamu grew more and more concerned for her young protégé, and for the eventual separation that would come between them. It would be harsh on both of them, and Lamu feared for Yerril. She only wished there was some way of avoiding it.

Since the unfortunate accident with his barbarian illusion six years ago, the gnome Gebalo had grown no wiser, and ever more adventurous. He was the bane of his master’s sanity, but for all his carelessness and inconsiderate actions, he remained under the high wizard’s tutelage. Although the powerful mage would not care to admit it, the would-be illusionist had an incredible understanding of the Weave. He grasped complex magical concepts almost instantaneously - he comprehended the workings of any spell within minutes of studying it. His impressive intelligence gave him great potential, one that could prove to be either immensely beneficial, or immensely destructive. Given a little more tact, insight, and good judgement, the gnome could grow to be one of the most powerful mages Faerûn had known. It was just, as the high wizard and stressed so many times, impossible to get through to him!
The tower at which Gebalo and his fellow apprentices studied received great financial support from the nearby temple of Tymora, goddess of luck. The clergy remained on friendly terms with the high wizard, and it frequently sent a high-ranking cleric to visit and inspect the development of the apprentices. As Gebalo prepared for the taxing spell he would soon be casting, he relished the thought of the shock the visiting priest would get on his latest assessment.
He stood in his quarters, the small, circular room high up in the wizard’s tower, his place of refuge for the past decade. However, with the changes he had recently made, it resembled more a wizard’s lab than a simple apprentice’s bedroom. A heavy woollen cloak had been drawn over the single narrow window, and the only light illuminating the room came from four large candles placed at random points amongst the clutter. Complex patterns, phrases and diagrams had been scrawled over the floor in indelible magic chalk, and spider webs hung thick from the ceiling. Many ornate tables, desks and shelves were placed around the outside of the room, all loaded with ancient tomes, crystal balls, and other ornaments of magical origin. Gebalo was thoroughly pleased with the overall effect the room had, but in all honesty it was just for show. Little of the paraphernalia scattered around was magical, and that which was contained only trivial magicks, easily mastered and understood by even the most thickheaded of apprentices. Gebalo’s true talent lay in the art of illusion, not enchanting items, or using a complex mix of rituals to summon beasts from hellish planes. Perhaps, in a perverse way, the gnome thought wryly, the various accoutrements were an extension of his own brand of magic; after all, both were concerned with deception and making the unreal seem real.
He sat on his lumpy bed once more, preparing himself mentally for the spell. It was similar to his failed experiment of six summers ago, but of a much higher level of power, and consequently, mental strain. He would need to pluck many of the invisible strands that composed the living Weave, and knit them together with his own life force to wield the desired amount of power. It would take all of his concentration to manipulate the complex threads, and he fully expected to be utterly exhausted at the end of it. It was a price he was willing to pay, however, for the chance to show the world what he was capable of.
A gentle knock on his oaken door distracted him from the peace of his meditations, and, grumbling under his breath, he hopped off his bed and waddled over to meet his visitor. His sour mood soon disintegrated, however, as he was met with the slim figure of his closest friend, Drienne. She had changed little since their less-than-daring retrieval of Rhygytin’s Essence of Illusion over six years ago; she was once again clothed in light blue robes, pockets crammed with arcane notes and journals, and her face carried the same open smile. Her hair fascinated Gebalo; in anything less then the bright of day, it appeared to be a dark chestnut brown, almost jet-black. Yet, in well-lit rooms or outside, Gebalo could have sworn it changed to a deep, rich red. It was as though it had a mind of its own, he mused, deliberately changing its hue to attract the eye, and drawing in the attentions of any unsuspecting male. It was like-
“Geb, what are you doing?” With a start, the illusionist realised he had been standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Drienne’s hair, mouth agape, while she waited for him to let her in. He shook himself and, blushing a deep red similar to the colour of her hair, mumbled a reply.
“Ah…sorry…uh…Drienne. Got a little…distracted there. Ahem. Won’t you come in?” She flashed him a knowing look, and stepped into his apartment. Glancing around, she called:
“You’ve made a few adjustments since I last was in here?” Gebalo closed the door and trotted over to her side, his small build placing his head on the same level as her stomach. He risked a quick glance sideways, and gulped. Even though she was swathed in her robes, and admittedly a little on the tall side, he couldn’t help but notice her slender form. He gulped again.
“Ah, yes. Well, you know, might as well make an effort. You need to be professional in these matters, after all.” Her amused expression shamed him more than he would care to admit. He cleared his throat. “Would you like a drink?”
“You never cease to amaze me, little Geb. If the Master found out you had alcoholic drinks up here, he’d probably explode!” Gebalo grinned evilly, and strolled over to one of the many desks.
“Well,” he stated, “what Baldy doesn’t know, can’t hurt him, right?” Drienne’s eyes widened in shock.
“Geb!” she warned, “Don’t say such things!” Gebalo stopped clearing the clutter from the desk, and turned to face her.
“Whyever not?” he asked. “I have the potential to become twice the wizard he is - he shouldn’t be able to push me around!” Drienne shook her head.
“Just because you will someday exceed him, doesn’t mean you can’t learn anything from him. There is so much to discover from just listening to people, don’t block them all out just because you’re more powerful than they are.” She sighed, and sat down on his bed, a resigned expression on her face. Gebalo’s thoughtful expression betrayed how close her words had come to home, but he scowled them aside, and turned back to the desk, and started fiddling with some knobs on the side.
“What are you doing over there?” Drienne called.
“This is a little present given to me by my family in Turmish,” he called back, “completely indestructible. Only I can open it, too. Rather ingenious, really.” Apparently satisfied with the knobs, the gnome pressed his hand to the underside of the desk and spoke an arcane phrase. There was a click, and a panel slid open on one side of the desk. Where Drienne would have expected a secret compartment, there was in fact a small patch of nothingness behind the panel. Confusion was clearly stamped across her face, and it heightened as Geb stuck his hand right into the small square of black. His little arm reached in far beyond the dimensions of the desk, and Drienne heard the sound of clinking glass. Geb smiled to himself, and withdrew his arm, carrying with it a large bottle of red wine. Placing it upon the desk, he reached in a second time, and withdrew a pair of tall wineglasses. Drienne looked astonished.
“How did you…?” Gebalo winked at her, and began to pour the wine.
“It’s a pocket plane. Created by my uncle Fonkeil, a great lover of all things intoxicating. The desk responds only to my hand, and there are metal plates around the edge creating tiny dead magic zones. Undetectable by magical or mundane means.” Drienne looked visibly impressed as the gnome handed here one of the glasses. She sipped it appreciatively as he sat down next to her.
“Now, Geb, tell me about this project, please?” Drienne pleaded, “You’ve been enlisting my help randomly for seven years. I know you’re likely to live to four hundred, but this has still been going on for quite a while. If you’re nearly ready to finish it, won’t you at least tell me what it is? Oh, and simple terms, please. I’m more of an invocation girl, as you know.”
Gebalo sighed resignedly. Now he thought about it, it probably was only fair that he tell Drienne.
“Fine. It starts wi-” Gebalo stopped abruptly. Drienne looked at him, and the strained expression on his face.
“What? What is it, Geb?” The gnome paid her no heed, continuing to sit absolutely still. He closed his eyes.
“Can you hear them?” He whispered, without moving his head. Drienne listened, but heard nothing. Gebalo suddenly hopped up, and rushed to the window. Peeling back the heavy woollen cloak, he peered out into the daylight. The faint sound of voices in conversation far below reached Drienne’s ears. Gebalo jumped back excitedly, a huge, mischievous grin on his face.
“They’re here,” was his only explanation as he bolted out of the room, “it’s about to start!”

...

MORE SPAM. Please.

 

I don't feel like been creative, its too early to be creative...

 

HEYALL!!

The quasit perched on a rusted, cobweb-encrusted torch bracket, and watched his master pace back and forth on the ground below him. He scratched at his repulsive greenish skin with one talon, and thought of the path that had brought him up to this point. He had been dragged forcefully from his home in the abyss many centuries ago by his master’s summoning spell, and although he had initially rejected the thought of serving a prime as a mere lackey, he soon grew to know and love his master’s cruel, devious and, above all, destructive ways. It was a most admirable quality, he grinned inwardly, the power to destroy. Yet, even more admirable was the will to do so, for surely when one possessed the latter, the former soon followed.
His master truly was a malicious, hateful being - so much so that there was a tangible stench of evil around it, which the scraggly demon found delightful. He often wondered if it was his master’s hatred that had sustained him for all these years – whether his sheer, burning malevolence kept him alive. If this theory was correct then it was a strong emotion indeed – beneath the cowl a creature lurked that was anything but fragile. He had watched his master kill thousands of times, but each moment of slaughter seemed to do little to cure its unending desire to destroy. His master roamed the realms, seeking to bring destruction to all, and never seeming to have sated its thirst. He did not seem to have an ultimate aim – it was as though his hatred had bound his sanity with red-hot chains, and would offer no release until its wishes had been carried out.
The quasit idly wondered what it was that had originally given his master his burning desire to quench life and hope, the same burning desire that had eventually conquered its formidable mind and laid it to waste. With a shake of his head, he realised he honestly did not care. Even if it was insane in terms of its goals and directions, the master spoke and acted coherently enough, and it seemed to enjoy sharing his lust for obliteration with its familiar. Theirs was a partnership based on shared enemies, rather than on friendship. As long as his master continued to wreak havoc on the prime, the quasit was happy. He thoroughly enjoyed watching the light fading from the eyes of an innocent, and as long as he stuck with his master, that sight was not in short supply.
However, there was one rather annoying trait of his master’s that regularly got on the little demon’s nerves. It was its fear of renewal, of redemption. So filled with boiling destruction was his master, that the thought of losing its hatred became akin to its own death. Should something happen to it that would cure its insanity, remove its loathing somehow, its mind would simply collapse from lack of support. Yet, every day it strived to relieve his hatred by sating its wishes. His master’s greatest fear, and its greatest wish, was to be free from his hatred.
As far as the quasit saw it, a being of such power had no use for fear; it was just another shackle that tied down the weak. His master did not need shackles, and the imp was inclined to believe it was the twisted brain of a maniac that gave it its bizarre fear, rather than what little remained of its rational intellect. Nevertheless, the fear of the opposite emotion drove it, rather irritatingly, to seek out and destroy individually the paragons of purity, justice and forgiveness – the paladins. Somehow, the master held the paranoid notion that every paladin had the ability, and will, to forgive it, to release it. To prevent this catastrophic prophecy from ever being realised, the master made it its quest to capture and cage the souls of every paladin in the realms with its magicks. That way, it had reasoned, there would be no-one left to free it but itself.
Recently, the master had paid specific attention to the paladins of the Morninglord, the true believers in revival and revitalization, noting the movements of each one individually with a care and attention that defied sanity. However, it had confessed to its familiar once that it greatly feared the one paladin who could restore it had slipped past it – and was already of a sufficient calibre to challenge him, and perhaps defeat him.
Far below, the master’s pacing on air ceased abruptly, causing its black cloaks to sway momentarily. The quasit craned his neck to see what was about to be announced. The master stood in the ruins of an enormous hall of significant age, granite walls stretching to a high arched ceiling. Broken furniture was scattered across the floor, and shadows slunk silently about beyond the flickering light emanated by the master’s gnarled staff. The windows used to contain stained glass of wondrous shades, but were now coated in such a thick layer of grime that no light entered the building at all. The quasit blinked its green eyes in anticipation of its master’s decision.
“The hive of...the Morninglord...has taunted me...long enough,” the figure declared in its rasping tone, “yet any attack by myself would...draw his direct attention. I cannot risk his wrath yet. A less direct route is called for...I feel. No matter how it...manifests itself...the destruction of the Dawnbringers...shall be as nectar...” The master pulled back his cowl, and looked directly at the suddenly quaking quasit.
“A favour from thee, my little...friend?”

...

Spam away...

 

Hey! its my first post with my new nickname! Your posts are too short, you should writes lots and make a massive post.

 

Good story keep it up

 

Well, more than a month since my last update, I feel I should 'fess up to what's been goin' down.

The story is not dead. I have had a lot of crap going on since my last post, including, but not limited to, a break-up with my girl, an enormous pile of GCSE coursework, new duties as deputy head boy that never seem to end, a trip to Germany, and much much more. An update will be coming as soon as I get a spare moment, I promise.

[ October 21, 2002, 18:51: Message edited by: Sir Yerril of Morningmist ]

 

Yeah yeah, you said that last time. Do hurry up, it realy is a good story.

 

Bah, I know it's short. More coming soon.

Gebalo pounded down the narrow spiral stairs to the entrance hall, closely followed by Drienne. He burst into the circular lobby, and dashed to the centre of the spiral pattern that stretched the breadth of the chamber. There he abruptly sat, cross-legged, and began to meditate.
Drienne drew up short a few paces behind him, and sighed in exasperation. She desperately hoped the little illusionist wouldn’t try anything too stupid, but she knew all too well that this was as unlikely as a peaceful tanar’ri. A quick glance around revealed that the visiting priest was still outside with the high wizard – the chamber was empty. It was a featureless hall, besides the enormous, ornate double doors leading to the grounds, which Drienne jogged towards now, hoping to at least warn the poor Tymoran. Behind her, Geb’s voice took on a supernatural quality, and she quickened her pace.
Before the apprentice could reach the entranceway, the door creaked open, and through it stepped the high wizard and the visiting clergyman. She paced back respectfully, and bowed her head. Caught up in conversation with the priest, the high wizard did not at first notice the gnome sat chanting in the middle of his lobby, it was only after the heavy door had creaked shut behind him that the sound reached his ears. His eyes flew open as he sought the source of the noise, and immediately narrowed as they discerned it. The priest, an old, overweight, bored-looking man with more chins than hairs on his head, immediately perked up.
“I say,” he exclaimed, “what’s this? A demonstration! Most excellent!” The high wizard, looking greatly alarmed, whipped around and began to offer an excuse, but the Tymoran was having none of it.
“Now, now, old boy, don’t try and be modest, I want to see what it is your students are offering!” Before the high wizard could reply, an echoing boom ran through the tower. The high wizard’s mouth clamped shut, and he closed his eyes in a mixture of exasperation and apprehension. The priest merely clapped his hands excitedly, and Gebalo continued to chant, a smile on his face.
From her corner, Drienne scrutinized the little gnome for any signs of disaster, but none seemed forthcoming. Another boom shuddered across the earth. Outside, the birds stopped singing, and the heavy silence fell like a blanket over the assembled observers. A couple of apprentices skidded to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, obviously keen to see what the fuss was about, but stopped dead when they saw who it was casting the spell. Their faces turned pale, and they attempted to fade into the walls.
A third boom erupted from the distance, louder this time. The high wizard sunk his forehead into his hands, and the priest’s smile began to falter a little. Still Drienne watched, intent on catching any mistakes, but the little gnome seemed to know exactly what he was doing. The ridiculous smile shone through his chanting.
Another loud rumble, even louder, and the priest stopped smiling.
Yet another, and the high wizard slowly shook his head.
The sixth boom was so loud there was a physical shuddering about the room, like a small earthquake.
The Tymoran glanced nervously at Drienne.
Drienne stared intently at the sweat dripping down her little friend’s forehead.
Another boom, then nothing.
The silence stretched on and on. No one moved, not a word was spoken. Not even Gebalo, who seemed to have completed his chant, lifted a finger.
The priest opened his mouth to speak.
Before he could, Gebalo’s eyes snapped open, dread black voids replacing what had once been pupil and iris. His grin widened to encompass the entire lower half of his face, wisps of black smoke pouring from between his teeth.
With an almighty, jolting, shredding noise, an enormous claw tore through the wall of the tower, almost drowning out the sound of the illusionist’s fey laughter. A gigantic portion of the brick was torn away, and to the Tymoran’s absolute horror, a colossal, scaled head burst through the hole, and towered over him. The red dragon, showering bricks and mortar, ripped through the tower’s side like it was tearing through paper. The priest, transfixed with terror, could only gibber, and stare upward at the conical visage leering back at him. In an instant, the dragon had pulled itself almost entirely into the chamber, and, rearing its head, it let out a mighty roar. A shower of bricks and roof tiles cascaded about the poor priest.
Whipping its head around, the gargantuan beast inhaled deeply. The priest whimpered, and cringed away from the burst of white-hot flame that erupted from the thing’s mouth, and straight through the opposite wall. It’s breath left a gaping hole in the tower, and the stone lay in molten pools upon the floor, gently popping and crackling. The dragon roared once more, and then raised a claw directly above the priest. Its tongue flicked out, and tasted the stench of fear about its prey.
It was at that moment that the old man’s heart finally gave out, and he collapsed in a crumpled heap upon the floor.
Gebalo, who had been sitting in the centre of the room wearing his illusionary face, suddenly became very worried. He clapped his hands, and the dragon froze. Drienne, who had been standing with raised eyebrows, marvelling at the complexity of the gnome’s illusion, became similarly anxious, and rushed over to the fallen man. The high wizard strode through the dragon, its form no more substantial than air, with an expression that was arguably more terrifying than the dragon’s maw painted on his face.
The three reached the Tymoran at the same time. Geb, his face ashen, lingered behind the high wizard as he bent to examine the priest. Putting his hands to the man’s neck and wrist, the high wizard waited for a few seconds, and then straightened. Strangely, it was Drienne he addressed when he spoke,
“Dead. His heart just couldn’t take it.”

All traces of colour drained from the gnome’s pale face.
“I didn’t mean to… I didn’t…” he stammered, but the high wizard continued to stare into space, a neutral expression upon his face. He raised his hands, making the panicked gnome jump, and uttered a short phrase. The air about them rippled, and the dragon, the destruction, and Gebalo’s false face all vanished. It was only after the illusion had been dispelled, that the mage turned to face the gnome. Drienne backed away from that expression, and Gebalo stared up with plain fear in his eyes. It was hard to believe that such anger, such rage, could be contained within one person’s face, but there it was before them.
Without glancing aside, the high wizard flung out an arm. A deafening crack tore through the air, and within a second, a churning portal had opened at the far end of the hall, indistinct and hazy colours shifting on the other side. With a deep, primal scream, the high wizard swung his hands towards Gebalo, and the little gnome felt himself being lifted from the ground by unseen hands.

Drienne watched as the wizard grasped the helpless illusionist with his magic, and flung him towards the portal. With a startled yelp, Geb soared across the room, and disappeared into the gateway.
“Do not ever return!!” bellowed the mage, and began firing fireballs around the room, screaming as he did so. Instinct took over for Drienne, her base need to look out for all the people who trusted her. She sprinted across the chamber, dodging fireballs spawned by the high wizard’s pure rage, and leapt through the portal into the murk of whatever lay beyond.

 

hat little bit will be suffice to once again believe that this thing is coming back to life!
YES!

 

Awwww yeah...

Yerril awoke to the sound of pattering footsteps on the marble floor of the corridor outside his quarters. It was a sweaty summer night, but a cool breeze drifted through his open window, billowing the satin curtains. Without opening his eyes, Yerril lay unmoving on his bed, straining his ears. Judging by the speed and regularity of the tapping, whatever was making the noise moved on four legs, which meant it was no resident of Morningmist.
He opened one eyelid, and squinted through the open door of his bedroom. Amongst the shadows cast by everyday objects moved one that was a little less ordinary. Indistinct in shape, the shadow was relatively small, but moved with alarming speed. It was approximately the size of a cat’s shadow, but the thing was moving far to fast to be an errant feline. Whatever it was seemed to be pacing back and forth in the corridor, as if waiting for him.
Yerril narrowed his eyes, and slowly climbed out of his sheets. Standing upright in his nightshirt, he felt more curiosity and annoyance than fear. Staying in the gloom against the wall, he reached for a tinderbox and a candle from his bedside table. At the sudden flare of light from his tinderbox, the shadowy creature outside stopped its pacing for a second, and bolted, as though it was being shot at by hunters. Yerril could hear its footsteps pitter-pattering down the hallway. He rolled his eyes, and charged out of the door just in time to see the shadow disappear around the corner at the end of the corridor.
As he sprinted across the marble flagstones, he glanced out of the arched window. A full moon hung in the sky, a blood red shadow cast across its surface. That was strange, the young paladin thought to himself; he had never seen a crimson moon before. Perhaps it was some sort of natural phenomenon.
As he rounded the corner, he was able to catch a glimpse of a tail disappearing down a flight of stairs. He relentlessly pursued it; pounding down the dimly lit corridor, and diving down the narrow circular staircase, candle flame flickering like an elven dancer.
The chase continued for several minutes, the shadowy creature leading Yerril on a merry chase out of the acolyte’s dormitories, through the kitchens, the training rooms, and finally back up the stairs to the clergy’s tower; the area where all the clerics of the Morninglord slept. Beginning to tire now, Yerril caught a brief view of Tirik’s bedroom as he passed, and was alarmed to see the room empty, lit by the ghastly crimson light of the moon glaring thought the open window. He quickened his pace, and continued after the creature. He appeared to gradually be gaining on it, and he figured that there was probably a way of cornering the thing. He reached the second-highest level of the tower, and watched the shadow retreat into Lamu’s room. He slowed to a tiptoeing creep, knowing full well that there were only two ways out of his mentor’s bedroom; the door, and the window that was always kept shut. Lamuhia was a woman of warmth, and felt the cold much more than most.
Yerril crept up to the door, his candle held aloft, and peered around the frame. What he saw made him drop his candle in fright.
The room was bathed in the same awful crimson light as Tirik’s, but it was far from empty. Crumpled against the wall in a pool of her own blood lay Lamuhia, the ghostly white pall of her face revealing her long lost chances for survival. Towering above her broken form stood a figure, cloaked in black, its hooded head raised to the moon, savouring the kill. Revulsion, disbelief and anger seized Yerril, and he charged at the thing’s back.
He collided heavily with the thing’s surprisingly substantial form, knocking it to the ground. It let out a low moan as it skidded across the floor. Yerril rolled and sprang to his feet, but the figure simply lay against the wall, its fangs glinting from the dark interior of its hood, coated in blood. Without a word, the young man grabbed it by the front of its black robes, and, arm muscles snapping taught, lifted it up and smashed it against the wall. Holding the thing aloft with his left hand, Yerril pounded his fist into its cowled face again and again, screaming in his anguish and horror.
Over and over he punched the thing, until it began to occur to him that it was not fighting back. But it was too late now; caught in an enormous wave of anger he simply could not stop beating the mangled visage before him. His surroundings faded from view, his vision narrowing just to the object of his hatred. He screamed again, ruthlessly pounding with all his might.
Suddenly, a strong hand grasped his shoulder, and with a gruff shout of “Yerril!” he was torn away from the figure, and thrown to the floor, where he blacked out.

Yerril’s eyes flickered open a few seconds later, and he took quick stock of his surroundings. He was still in Lamu’s bedroom, but the crimson illumination was gone. The room was once more lit by a pale blue moon, and everything seemed dramatically less hellish. He sat up quickly – too quickly, and the rush of blood from his head fogged his vision for a moment.
When he could see again, he became all the more confused. Gone was Lamuhia’s crumpled body, gone were the bloodstains, and there was no sign of the black-cloaked figure. In its place sat his mentor, fully alive, but in very bad shape. She lay unconscious with her face bloodied and mangled, bruises welling all over her head. Tirik kneeled by her side, his eyes closed in silent prayer for healing.
Yerril stood, and approached them.
“Wh-what happened?” he asked, bemusement clear on his face, “Where is the figure, the moon? Why is she alive?” Tirik looked up at him, and Yerril was shocked by the look of disappointment on his face.
“What have you done to her?” he asked softly. Yerril took a step back.
“Me? But, there was…the cloak…and…she was dead…I tried to save her! That thing attacked her, not me!” Tirik shook his head, and anger began to creep onto his face.
“Oh no, Yerril, your screaming woke up half of Morningmist. I ran in here to find you mercilessly beating Lamuhia, shouting at the top of your voice. There was no one else here. You are lucky she didn’t retaliate, or you would be very dead indeed.” Yerril’s mouth opened to say something, but he thought better, and closed it. Finally, he settled on replying, in a very small voice;
“But…I was trying to protect her.”
Tirik’s face darkened, and he stood to face Yerril eye to eye.
“You call repeated punching in the face…protection? Honestly, Yerril, I would have expected more than that from you!” he yelled. By now, a sizeable crowd had gathered at the door, standing in shocked silence.
“It wasn’t her I attacked,” Yerril protested, “I followed a…some sort of creature in here, and when I arrived there was some sort of beast – I don’t know, it may have been human – but it had killed La! That’s what I attacked!”
Tirik raised an eyebrow.
“Please,” the younger paladin pleaded, “you have to believe me! I would never harm her!” Tirik glanced down at the battered form of the cleric, and then looked straight back at Yerril.
“Very well, you have no memory of this, and I am fairly sure I can trust you in these matters. We will commence a full investigation soon, and you will be scanned for magical possession, but it seems to be me that you merely have a very violent problem with sleepwalking.” Tirik turned away, and went back to healing Lamuhia’s bloodied face. Valanther approached Yerril from the doorway, and led him away. He turned back once to see that his mentor had awoken, but the brief wash of relief at her ensured safety was utterly quelled by the look of intense fear she gave him. He tried to call an apology to her, she had buried her face in Tirik’s shoulder, and began to cry.
That look stayed with Yerril for the rest of his days, a terrible lesson learned, and learned well; nothing is ever as it seems.

 

Yay! Does this mean we can expect more soon? I thought this was dead, but yay!

 

Its one of the best pieces I've read

 

For the second time that tenday, Yerril was awoken by pattering footsteps. His eyes flew open, and he leapt out of his bed. Before he could take any further action, he remembered that his door was locked from the outside. He remembered that there were two guards outside his room, and that he was not permitted to leave his quarters. He remembered the awful look Lamuhia had given him the last time this had happened.
He retreated to his bed.
This was most likely another dream, and even if it wasn’t, the guards would deal with it. He curled up under the sheets, and shut his eyes, frowning.
Before sleep claimed him, however, a deep bellow of rage from a male voice obliterated the peace of the summer night. Yerril sprang up to the window, in time to see a flare of magical fire erupt from Tirik’s window in the clergy’s tower, across the courtyard. He made a snap decision, deciding that this was no dream, and his instincts took over.
Yerril charged at the door with his shoulder, knocking it directly out from its hinges. He stumbled into the corridor, and jumped back at the sight of the two dead guards. Each had a morbid, twisted expression on his lifeless face, and inflated purplish marks on his neck. It appeared that the creature he had imagined was not as fabricated as he had suspected. These were unmistakable signs of poison, and a fast acting one at that. Without stopping, he dashed off in the same direction he had travelled a few nights ago.
Several other acolytes joined him on the way, but not a word was spoken between them. Each had a worried and slightly groggy expression on their face, as they hurried along, obviously woken by the dreadful racket coming from the tower.
Yerril was the first of the acolytes to haul himself up the last flight of stairs, and reach Tirik’s room. He skidded to a halt, and drank in the scene around him. Chansobel Dreen crouched over the charred body of a spindly, winged creature, obviously killed by one of the many magical items Tirik kept about his sleeping quarters. The room was in complete disarray; scattered papers, smashed wood, and torn wall hangings pointed towards a recent, ugly scuffle. The outermost wall had been blasted away completely, evidently a result of the same magic with which Tirik had slain the creature.
Lamuhia risked him only a quick glance as he joined her at the formidable paladin’s bedside. Head cradled in Valanther’s arms Tirik lay on his bed, his face ashen, and a fine sheen of sweat covering his skin.
Valanther looked up, tears streaming down her face, and explained;
“That creature…it attacked him in the night. He used his ring on it, but it poisoned him first. You weren’t dreaming, Yerril, someone is trying to destroy us. They poisoned him, they poisoned Tirik. He’s dying.” Confusion and concern were stamped on the young man’s face.
“What? But…how? He can’t be killed, can he? You said yourself,” he turned to Lamuhia “he’s a chosen! He can’t die now, can he?” Yerril was pleading in desperation now, but Lamu simply bowed her head.
Behind them, Dreen straightened, and announced,
“These are grave circumstances indeed. If even our most powerful warriors are not invulnerable, we are in great danger. Worse, there is little information to be gained from this quasit - its soul has returned to the abyss to join the infernal legions of the Tanar’ri, far beyond our magical questioning. We can administer what healing we can, but the poison coursing through our great friend’s veins is devouring his blood. I fear that should we remove the poison, there will not be enough left to sustain his brain.” Dreen sighed, and joined Lamuhia and Yerril to stand around the chosen of Lathander.
Tirik stirred slightly, and his eyes fluttered open. The pupils had contracted to tiny spots of black in the centre of his milk-white orbs. With evident difficulty, he focused first on Lamu, then on Yerril, and finally gazed up into the eyes of his lover. Each breath coming at a strain, he spoke,
“Forgive me… I have failed you all.” With these words, the last light in the paladin’s eyes faded, and he let out his last, shuddering sigh. Valanther burst into floods of new tears, and the watchers at the bedside turned away.
Confusion and grief tightening his voice, Yerril begged,
“Surely there’s some way of bringing him back. You’re clerics, aren’t you? I’ve watched you resurrect people before, can’t you just raise him?”
Lamuhia, who had barely spoken to him in the last few days, shook her head and stared at the floor, leaving Dreen to explain.
“He was old, lad, more than a century so. The favour of Lathander sustained him, but if he leaves the green fields of Elysium to rejoin us, he will be nothing more than an ancient man. It appears that we were wrong, he was not the one foreseen by the Dawnbringer. This is very troubling, I must return to my chambers and give serious thought to our course of action.” Dreen strode off to his quarters, and Lamu, glancing only once at Yerril, hurried after him.
The young paladin was left alone in the corridor, a myriad of confusion encircling his mind. What did this mean? Who now would protect Morningmist, take up the great sword? Did this mean that his vision of the Negative Material Plane bore some significance after all? The image of a Cormyrean mage, magically testing his intentions in the rain over six years ago, came unbidden to his mind. “So soon,” he had said, “so soon.”

Beneath towering pillars of marble and a thick blanket of oppressive darkness, Vlaxxisrin’inyon, once avatar of Talos, lord of destruction, reclined on air, his rune-laden robes draped around his decayed form. He had once been a muscled, broad-shouldered brute of a sorcerer, with a mentality and physicality perfectly suited for the Destroyer’s needs. He had served as the mortal host for his master’s essence during the avatar crisis, but the pure force of this domination had stripped most of the flesh from his body, leaving him a near skeletal echo of his former self. He was not one to complain about aesthetic merit, however, being as he was almost completely insane, and hell-bent on the destruction of one specific young man.
As he floated, he glared deep into the whirlwind of souls that served as the major component of most of his spells. It was a physical representation of the results of the hatred that sustained him, and consequently held great power and significance to him. It was his collection of the paladins that had fallen by his hand, and he kept them in eternal torment, thrashing between this life and the next. Through it he had watched his servant’s failure, and grown in his anger.
The quasit had killed the Chosen, just as he had demanded, but not the one he had in mind. Perhaps his enemy was more devious than he assumed; preparing two Chosen in case of an accident. Now one was dead, but one still remained, and he was servantless, helpless, and filled with violent rage. He could not approach the place himself; the paladin would be too strong in the temple, surrounded by his allies and his God. That accursed scum would be free to live his life, spreading the weak attitudes his kind epitomized.
No, it seemed there was nothing he could do but wait. Wait, for the young man to grow in power, to take up the accursed sword, and strike him down. Vlaxxisrin’inyon’s anger flared, and he waved his hand, dissipating the whirlwind. There was nothing he could do, nothing.
Unless…
The idea that popped into the corridors of his twisted brain filled him with morbid glee, and he stood up suddenly. Acting fast, he drew his staff out of nothingness, and jabbed it at the floor in front of him. Red light erupted in a flash from the end of rune-engraved wood, and the room was instantly filled with people.
Peasants, the lot of them, gated in from the fields of nearby villages. They stood around in confusion and worry, surprised by their sudden change of environment. They were like cattle, he thought, cattle ready for the slaughter, and he stood in the centre of this throng, the instrument of their ruin.
Turning, one of the twoscore peasants noticed him, and uttered a scream. Hearing the noise, the others peered around, and beheld the unmoving spectre in slowly rippling cloak. Their fear was unanimous, glorious. It fed him, made him stronger. He grinned, stiletto teeth glinting in the gloom.
Like terrified rabbits, the men and women scattered and ran, eventually congregating in a fearful group against the cold, unforgiving granite of the walls. Throughout this moment of activity, the Talassan had not moved other than to smile to himself in anticipation of what was to come.
They cowered; worthless, spineless, and weak. Their eyes all fixed on him, faces frozen in predictable dread. They were so pathetic, these creatures. If only they had used the natural advantages of body and mind, each of these people could have become an opponent even worthy of challenging him. Together, they may even have defeated him.
But no, they had chosen to remain weak, as helpless as newborn babes, and now they would pay the price for it.
One of them had managed to pluck up the courage and step forward. He addressed the sorcerer in squeaking tones;
“Please, gentle spirit, we mean you no harm. Please, just let us be on our way – we have nothing to offer you.”
The mere thought of these worms harming him made him laugh, loud and rasping and shuddering. The crowd of farmers rippled with shivers, and the one plucky soul retreated to the safety of group.
Vlaxxisrin’inyon finally addressed them.
“Believe me, Darwold of Narfell,” (the man’s eyes widened at the mention of his name) “when I tell you that there is much you can offer me…”
He jabbed his hand out at the crowd, and they simultaneously gasped in pain and grasped their chests. He sniggered to himself, and clenched his fist. The pain increased.
Slowly rising his hand, the sorcerer watched as the peasants seemed to rise slightly from the ground. Their heads seemed to inflate slightly, and their eyes bulged. Then, as if something had finally snapped, he snapped his hand back.
Blood, gallons and gallons of it, came pouring out of the mouths of the innocent farmers, rising in morbid, twisting columns of crimson to coalesce above far above their heads. Laughing uncontrollably with his dry rattle, Vlaxxisrin’inyon pulled more and more from the mouths of the collapsing bodies, the huge frothing sphere of blood growing ever larger.
In a few seconds, it was done, and forty desiccated corpses littered the floor. Suspended by his magicks, stood the sorcerer’s creation. A creature it was, but not one of independent mind. A golem, constructed entirely of writhing blood, rising twenty feet high, with fists the size of boulders. Liquid, crimson boulders.
It had no face to speak of; it was merely a vaguely humanoid shape, swaying slightly, and awaiting its master’s command.
Mentally, Vlaxxisrin’inyon relayed his commands, and the great lumbering thing turned, slowly and ponderously to leave. Its great feet sloshed on the solid stone floor, sending shockwaves of raw force rippling about the entire structure. As the twisted Talassan regarded his creature, he laughed once more, the dry sounds ripping from his dry, rattling lungs.
The Chosen was doomed, by the blood of innocents.

 

go Yerril!
Were you having a Shura moment?

 

Hey, Aik! I resent that remark!



j/k

Anyway. Nice work, Yerril.

 

I just read this whole topic from the start, and I have to say, that was amazing. Can't wait for your next post!!!