Fever Dreams: Talas Marsak

[Pommel]

25 Eleasis 1352

A rolling storm filled the heavens, the black clouds sending forth a wall of heavy rain. His velvet finery was drenched, his hair stuck lank to his face as he shivered, squinting through the night. The gloom was only banished by the distant lightning and the stones underfoot slippery, treacherous. He had to walk on, he had to keep going. He knew not why. 

A dark figure up ahead. A human, its face hidden in the shadows of its hood. It turned, a flash of lightning lit it up, revealing no human face, in its place a metallic mask. Expressionless and cold. "You came." It said. A male voice. It backed away into the darkness. 

A door before him. He pushed it open. Hand slipping off the wet handle. The dry room beyond filled with utter silence. A doorway ahead, and to the right; more doorways beyond that, so many, as if one could walk forever through this silent building and never find the end. Silent and cold; abandoned. Only the storm raging outside breaking the still. 

Then a voice, a woman's voice, sweet and teasing, carrying lost love. "Trader, trader, I want to barter. Come to me trader, find me. I'll put away my sword. I'll negotiate." He gave out a small cry and blundered forward in the shadows towards the voice, the mocking laughter. The rolling of the storm merging with the beating of his heart, thump, thump, thump. 

He is in a room, dust covering every surface. Stone coffins fill it. The lid of one lies discarded on the floor, the contents open to the death-filled air. He can't see. He must see. The storm no more, the laughter a memory, he steps forward. The shadows coalesce on the far side of the open coffin, taking a wispy, insubstantial form, a bitter anger radiating from it. He feels it. He tastes it. He wants it.

"No." A tiny voice says behind him. It weeps as he walks closer, a pathetic, innocent sound. He whirls, tears in his own eyes, but there is nothing there but an empty doorway, yet more rooms beyond, yet more doors. There is a croak, a death rattle, from the open coffin behind him. Without the anger to shield him, he runs, he flees, desperate, his breaths short, his heart roaring in his chest, in his ears once more. 

He lost it, he lost it. He doesn't know what. 

There he is again, up ahead, the dark man in a metal mask. "Wait." The figure says, but he shakes his head and takes a doorway to the right, running through the maze with feverish abandon. 

A light shines from under a door. He pushes it open, breathing slowing. An impossibly beautiful man stands there, bathed in light, clad in shining armour. Serene eyes hold duty in them, his voice like silk and honey. "Purpose." A blazing sword appears in an angelic hand. "I bring this message to all." Fear grips him, he knows the man will cut something away. He flees, back out the way he came, footsteps loud on the stone floor. But he can't remember the way, he can't get out. He's lost, help him he's lost, he's lost it, he's lost.

The room ahead is filled with finery, insubstantial and translucent, he cannot touch it, he cannot feel it. A woman clad in a gold dress stands there, smiling, brown hair pooled around her shoulders, lines of light marked on her radiant, golden skin. Her eyes dance with warmth, her laughter as beautiful as her form as she offers him a goblet. He wasn't thirsty, but now he is. His hand reaches for the vessel, but its no wine within; it bubbles, black and bitter. A revulsion fills him. He dashes the cup away. "Why?" she says to his fleeing back.

He stumbles back out into the rain. The masked man awaits him, eyes behind the mask as dark as night, reaching a hand out towards him. "You came."  He shakes his head, recoiling, rejecting. The storms fury rumbled out across the heavens once more, and lighting flashed down, a trident striking down from the sky, filling his eyes with a searing light, a searing pain.

Talas awoke, breathing heavily, a sweat covering his chest.  The Beregost night outside was quiet and hot, summer's touch still lying heavy on the Sword Coast, but it took him a moment to adjust from the vivid dream. He sat up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, clearing his head. The half finished glass of Zzar from the night before helped, its bitter almond flavour filling his belly with warmth, bringing him to the here, the now.

Its then he noticed the charm she'd given him, hanging around his chest. Had he forgotten to take it off the night before? He couldn't remember, surely not. He cradled it in his hand, regarding the tiny oval face quietly, studiously. His face twisted, then, a bitter, guilty anger, and he pulled it off, casting it aside. Perhaps harder than he meant to. 

[Pommel]

29 Eleasis 1352

Selune was full, blessing the waters with her silvery touch. He saw her stood on the forecastle, alone, looking out to sea. Her thoughts always on distant shores, not on the current port.

Her scarlet hair was tied back and to one side, so it lay over her right shoulder. She wore a sailor's tunic and breeches, and from her hip hung her ever sharp, cuved blade. She turned as he approached, her sapphire eyes met his, and she smiled. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He remembered this night. It was a happy memory.

"You're no sneak," she teased.

"Remember that next time you drag me on some adventure." He replied, as he had that night. He knew what words could come even before he said them. "I wanted to talk."

Her eyebrow raised, and she folded her arms. "It can't wait until tomorrow?" Playing the game. She'd been avoiding him all day, deliberately. Or she had that day. This wasn't real, it was a dream, he kept on reminding himself. 

He shook his head. "No."

She stepped close, looking him right in the eye. He felt her warmth. "What is it, then?"

As he had that night, he let the words fall forth, unadorned. "Marry me."

She laughed, as she did then. He frowned, as he had then. "Aren't I a little old for you, Marsak? Aren't I a little wayward?"

"No!" His youthful self had protested. And so he did in this sleep memory. "I know what I want."

Her laughter was warm, but it had brought him despair at the time. Now, with hindsight, he awaited what came. "It must be good to be so certain."

And he saw her expression shift, as it had that night, so many years ago. And he felt a joy at her next words, just as he did then. "So am I."

Her arms encircled him, their lips met.

His heart ached, to steal back this moment, to live it again. Old wounds flowing with fresh blood.

She pulled back. And it was wrong. Her skin an unholy pale, not the sun-kissed tan of before. Her blue eyes dark, the whites almost black.

"You forgot." She hissed, voice full of accusation, as he stepped back in horror. "You forgot!"

Looming up behind her was a smokey shadow form, one he'd seen before, one he'd dreamed of before. Rage radiated from it, a rage and a sense of betrayal. It surged towards him, taking the form of the fiend from the cursed manor in the Cloakwood, malevolent, amused, whispers burning into his mind. "A noble choice to deny me, and a treachery!"

He staggered back, hitting the railing. He felt the lash of its chilling breath once more, coursing through him, sapping his strength, his feeling, his life. He screamed, toppling backwards, overboard, into ice cold waters, arms flailing in panic as his burning lungs filled with icy death. 

He sank.

There in the liquid gloom floated another figure, robes swaying in the water like the frill of some dark jellyfish. His metal mask familiar. "One." the man said, voice impossibly clear. 

And with that the roaring sound of water filling his ears became a booming peal of thunder, and blackness overcame him.

Talas' breath came in sucking gasps, clutching his throat. He lay on his back, shivering, taking several moments to return to reality. His mouth was parched but he wanted no liquid. Stumbling instead to the small, high window of his room, almost an arrow slit. The Friendly Arm was a fortress as well as an inn, after all. He gasped down the night air, savouring its purity. 

As he calmed, his dark eyes peered towards the glooming shadow of the Cloakwood, towards that dark mansion, towards where the fiend had nearly had his life and his soul. And for what? He'd risked everything, risked all he strove for, for another's ideals. Shameful.

Wasn't it?

Talas' head bowed, the muscles on his bare back tensing. He was silent, no answer coming.

[Pommel]

2 Eleint 1352

Downstairs, the last customers had left, and the Blade and Stars was shutting down for the night. Talas was tired, and his eyes slowly drooped. The bed was comfortable, much moreso than the thin bedrolls in the wild. Sleep came swiftly.

He awoke on a hard, stony surface, the crackle of torches breaking the silence. His eyes opened, and he saw he lay amidst the corpses of gnolls, all slain by clean, powerful cuts. Here a head removed, there a barbarous creature cloven in twain.

Light falls on him. Two figures are ahead, a male of pure silver, a female of pure gold.

"Purpose." says Silver, voice like burnished steel. "Their cruelty is punished."

"This I can do," he replies, pushing himself to his feet, an anger in his heart.

"Intent matters." Silver says in reproach.

"They won't harm others." says Gold, voice like warm honey, "who can now live in hope."

He replies with bitterness. "That's a lie."

"There can be more than you think." says Gold, sadly.

Yet even now they are fading away, and the shadowy ghost forms itself out of thin air in their place, radiating anger as it has in dreams past. At first, he reaches for the anger, feeling a familiar comfort in it. A gust of wind blows out the torches, leaving the cave in blackness. And a guilt settles on him, swirling about him, numbing that furious self satisfaction he sought.

He woke to the breakfast commotion downstairs, dawn's rays peaking through the window. Yet he felt as if he had barely slept at all.

[Pommel]

6 Eleint 1352

The Belching Dragon's stock was the best he'd found. Say what you want about Amn, but your coin bought you what you wanted there. And Talas wanted Zzar.

The almond flavour warmed his belly as he sat in the corner of the tavern, nursing the last of the bottle. Tired, so tired. Red rimmed eyes looked out over the patrons, their laughter and conviviality alien to him.

He brooded. Last night's dream was like a shattered glass in his mind, fragments of thought that had forced their way through the clouds of alcohol he had bathed himself in. Over time, the solitary drinker pieced it together.

And when he did, his features wrote a tale of shame, before he finished his drink, slammed down the glass, stood, and left.

He swayed as he stepped out into the cold highland air. Too much today, again. Footsteps plodded through the muddy puddles left by the showers earlier. Aimless, though, he was in no state to go training.

The drink might cloud his dreams, but it clouds his purpose too. Dammit.

"Purpose."

Talas froze, horror in his eyes.

"Not self pity."

His gaze dropped, looking at the small puddle dousing his right foot. His own reflection...

...a familiar mask looking up at him...

...his own reflection looked up at him. He blinked, but it did not dispel the tired, unshaven visage.

Something was spread about the bottom of the puddle, a sparkling powder, glittering in the setting sun. Talas reached down, grasping a handful of mud. A finger of his other hand poked through it, revealing tiny fragments of a gemstone mixed in with the mud.

He flung the mud aside, a shudder coming over him, confusion written on his features as he carried on his way.

[Pommel]

8 Eleint 1352

The damp wood of the pier creaked underneath his feet as he looked up at his city. It was just on the cusp of dawn, and a light, rapidly clearing fog still wreathed the city. Up near mountain's peak he could just make out the towers of the Blades and High Blade. One day, he'd have a mansion up there, amidst the demesne of the Zors and Zoras.

His anger swelled. No, that was what he wanted, before. Not now. Now, only one thought filled his mind.

The docks were already alive, busy hands loading and unloading the wealth of the Moonsea. Yet work stilled as he passed, and faces turned towards him to stare, silently. Faces weathed in darkness,they had no features, no identity. No relevance.

He strode on, climbing up through the city's quarters, up the side of the mountain, through empty streets and past the shadow stares of scattered early risers. They stopped and stated as he passed, wisps of darkness swirling in time with the pulsing of his heart.

He walked streets lined with the houses of wealthy merchants, looking neither left nor right, until he found that familiar one, his home. The glass from tthe broken window crunched underfoot. His key was in his pocket, it still fit, and the door swung open. It was dark inside, and dusty. He could hear a man weeping up ahead. His footsteps echoed on the stareway as he ascended to his study, to where it happened.

The room was empty of furniture, wisps of night decorating the corners. A skeleton lay on the floor, the bones of its face half melted away. It still had a shock of red hair clinging impossibly to its skull. Over it knelt a man, shoulders drooped. Hate filled him as he saw the figure.

"Evan." He snarled, striding forward.

"Its not what I wanted!" The man replied, tears on his cheeks.

There was a cup in his hand then, appearing from nowhere. Something green bubbled inside. "Drink." He commanded Evan. He grasped him round his throat. "Drink." He forced the man's head back, Evan gagged and guggled as he drank the noxious liquid.

He stepped back, as the gurgles became cries of agony, and smoke rose from Evan's mouth, as the acid did its work. Soon the villain grew still.

He felt his anger give way to satisfaction. It was done. He'd done it. At last. But something was missing. Something was missing. What?

The was a door in the wall to the left, where there shouldn't have been. He followed it. The passageway was dark beyond, but something impelled him on. There was a light up ahead. He strode towards it.

He found himself in a room, a family dining at a table. They ignored him, a pale haired, thin woman, and a boy with mousey brown hair aged around five or six. He could not make out their faces. Their shadow faces. It was the father that his gaze moved to though, the man's robes dark, his identity cruelly familiar.

The Cloak.

"You killed her." He growled, stepping towards the man.

The wizard looked up from his meal, dismay in his eyes. "I was following orders!"

"You killed her!" he roared. There was a cup in his hand again. This time he splashed it in the man's face, before leaping on him as he squealed in agony.

Wringing the life out of him with his bare hands.

Silence. Then weeping, that of mother and child.

To his left, it appears again, that whispy, shadowy figure, the bringer of anger. It exhults.

To his right, the masked one stands in judgment.

"Are you full?" He intones, contempt dripping from every syllable.

Grief fills him. "No."

And now, the shadow creature does not exhult. It rages.

The night is cold as Talas awakes on his bedroll. He takes several unsteady breaths, a mournful sigh issuing forth. His gaze moves up, to the gleaming moon in the sky, and the spread of stars. And he is silent.

[Pommel]

10 Eleint 1352

The forest was quiet, still as death, not even a breeze stirring the branches. Only the dripping of the recent rain off of limp leaves broke the silence. He walked over the sodden earth, staring into the darkness that filled the forest beyond his lantern.

He saw something move ahead. "Who is it?" He cried. "Who is it?"

No answer.

He set off in pursuit, they had to be caught.

The undergrowth thick. He stumbled, fell. The lantern was gone.

He peered ahead into the gloom. Scrambled up to follow that movement he saw again.

He burst into a clearing, panting. They were stood about, the bones of the dead, upright, animated by some dark power. Like so many ossified statues.

He moved among them, heart in his throat.

He heard a keening wail behind him. Inside one of the skeletons, inside it, a spirit struggling to be free, trapped in the bones, trapped in this world. Suddenly the same wailing echoed all about. The same in each skeleton, each ribcage a prison, tormenting an insubstantial captive.

Dread filled him, shivering and sweating.

He saw a living person kneeling before a dark-robed figure. He saw red, evil magic lash out, stripping flesh from bones, trapping soul. And yet another skeletal construct rose to take its place amidst the horde.

He quailed in horror, sinking to his knees.

"Why does your pain matter?" A voice boomed beside him. He turned, and the masked figure stood over him, impassive. "Why is it more than theirs?"

The keening wails around him became terrified screams and...

He awoke shining in sweat, the blanket wrapped tightly around his legs from his frenzied motions. Talas wriggled as he tried to kick it away, but only managed to free himself with some effort. Eyes cast about the room, looking for something, anything to reassure him.

And there it was, discarded next to his tunic. The coin.

[Pommel]

11 Eleint 1352

The bed in Talas' rented room in the Risen Phoenix lay undisturbed. Instead he knelt on the floor, having placed two things before himself. The first, a solitary candle, and the second, a silver coin bearing two heads on each side.

He stared at the coin, as he'd been instructed. His brow twitched and frowned, and now and then he would close his eyes and toss the coin. Sometimes it would land with the two angry faces upwards, others the two sternly benevolent ones would be visible. Neither seemed to please the warrior.

But in time, as the night drew on, the coin flipping became less and less frequent, and the brow more and more smooth.

His eyes closed.

Then, on impulse he reaches forward and spins the coin on its edge. Watching it spin, watching the coin spin...

Darkness.

Three figures sit in light ahead. One, a hunched, brooding figure in dark robes and hood, hiding his face. He contemplates a pair of scales, evenly balanced.

One pan is filled with feathers, and a man stands near it, grim in expression. He misses a right hand. His left adds one more feather, the last.

The other pan is filled with a red liquid. A beautiful woman with dark hair, dark eyes, and dark clothing pours into it the last few drops from a silver goblet. A coppery scent of blood fills the air.

The woman smirks a challege at the one handed man.

They wait.

Tension overcomes him as he watches.

Then, the brooding, hooded figure tosses a silver coin into the pan of blood, upsetting the balance. The scales topple over, and the blood spills out, coating the floor. Far more blood than there should have been.

A groan, a sigh of despair. "No."

And there is darkness.

The masked figure comes into his view. Faceless, yet a disappointment radiates off him, a grief.

"It does not have to be like that." A leather gloved hand shoots out, gripping him around the neck. He squirms, as the masked figure holds him tight.

"Do you want that?" The mask leans close.

"Do you?"

He stills, staring at the metal face.

Remembering words spoken and deeds done, and the feelings they brought.

He thought of what was and what he'd now seen.

And he shook his head.

Talas stirred. He must have slept on the floor, his mouth dry and his back sore. He uncurled himself, a bitter disappointment coming over him. One night, he couldn't even manage one night awa...

The coin lay there, close to his face. One set of faces pressed into the floorboards. The other ones looking right up at him.

He reached for it.

[Pommel]

14 Eleint 1352

They charged towards the rent in reality, him darkness and her light. Ahead, fiendish reflections of them, a comely fallen angel stood beside a hulking creature of flame and fire, its claws dripping with noxious ichor.

He'd been there as the hunter Sinclaire had won her vengeance from this creatures' ilk. The satisfaction at seeing it done was still seeping into his bones, but even so the portal was open. More had come, to rend and break bodies and plot against souls. This mattered, in that moment.

He charged at the devil-woman as she raised her hand to cast a spell, her concentration disrupted by having to parry his speeding blow.

She went straight for the creature from the pit, her shield high, lashing at it with a glowing sword.

He struck at the fallen angel, breaking her guard, the sharpness of the blade sending her back to the Hells with a cry of rage.

She took blows from the flaming brute on her shield, distracting it.

He lashed at the devil-lord's back, slicing through iron hard flesh, hot black blood spewing out.

It turned, angrily clawing at him. He ducked under the blow, crouching. Now it would end.

He sprang up, his blade like a thunderbolt, lashing out and taking the monster's head form its shoulders while he was still in the air.

He landed on his knees once more, in a fluid motion.

The fiend burst into flame and crashed to the floor, already disappearing as it was banished.

There was silence, but for the sound of the flames burning around about, hissing, roaring, rumbling. And his own breath, and heartbeet, thumping, drumming, rumbling.

Darkness.

The masked figure stood before him in the darkness.

"Why do you show me this?" He asks.

The masked figure is silent.

"This happened. It was real." He states.

Still the masked figure holds his tongue, as if he were some foreboding statue.

"It means nothing." He declares. He denies.

Wakefulness came on Talas slowly. He did not stir, nor did he gasp, cough, or splutter. Quietly, he looked at the ceiling, his expression unreadable.

[Pommel]

16 Eleint 1352

The flickering lamplight illuminated a spectacle of song and cheer. The bards played their music and wine and whiskey flowed. Smiles and flashing eyes shot across the table; all was joy, as brothers paid for more drink with a handful of silver discs thrust towards the waitress.

He drank his wine, feeling the warmth in his throat, in his belly.

A patch of stillness caught his eye in the thronging tavern crowd. The sound of the tavern fell away as his eyes rested on the now familiar steel mask. Fear gripped him. When his tormentor spoke, it was as if they were stood face to face.

"Have you forgotten your purpose?"

"You scorn me for anger!" He barked back.

The masked figure's head shook. "For misdirected fury. And now for idleness."

He jumped up, casting his wine aside. It splashed across the table and covered the now aggrieved revellers.

"Is that how you reward kindness?" the figure spoke, voice heavy in judgment.

"Make up your mind! No matter what I do, you plague me!" He snarled.

The tavern scene fades. "There is only one thing I want from you, the same thing you want, but you deny it."

Face down on his pillow, there were a few seconds of reprieve before the hangover fell like a hammer. Talas groaned, bitterness flowing freely within the sound.

[Pommel]

23 Eleint 1352

Talas' body ached from the training session. The beatings he'd had from skilled fighters like Vala and Ashan! Each twinge, each bruise brought satisfaction; and memories of a lesson learned.

It felt good to be part of something larger than himself, something that would bring a purpose.

Talas stopped that thought with a shake of his head. The damned paladin had a lot to answer for.

Tiredness settled on him quickly, and with it a disquiet. There were words he owed, but words beyond his reach. Perhaps they'd come after a good nights sleep.

His eyes moved to Sunniva's letter on the bedside table, his shoulders settling with a relaxed sigh at memory of the cyclopean witch's words. She'd banished the dreams, and sleep was no longer something to fear.

Dark eyes moved to the empty pocket ledger beside the letter, and the silver coin that lay on it. With a frown he stepped over, taking up the coin before hiding it away in his backpack. He paused, then slipped off the amulet too. It always seemed heavy.

Slumber came quickly after that.

A heartbeat, deep within his chest, echoing in the air around him, a stone passagway lit only by the torch in his hand, the damp glistening on the walls, no sound other than the thumping sound, that heartbeat, his footsteps silent as he walks onwards towards...

...darkness gives way to a flooding, rushing sound in his ears...

...he's not alone, but he can't see whose here...

...there's heat, a fire, burning before him, rumbling and spitting, a log cracking with a loud boom in the heart of the furnace. Sweat rolls down his face as he stares at it, while someone laughs, vision yellow, vision white...

...a child of five or six years sits in a pool of white light surrounded by utter darkness. His hair reddish, his skin pale. Heavy, loaded tears roll from his honey brown eyes and down quivering cheeks. He holds his grazed knee, shoulders slumped for want of comfort.

He steps forward, a deep ache. He knows the boy, he knows him. He reaches out with an arm, but when his hand passes into the light, he sees its insubstantial, a shadowy wisp. The child is out of reach.

Another figure steps into the light, leaning down to wrap his arms around the child in fatherly affection, picking him up and shushing him with gentle sympathy. The child's tears stilled, and he clung to the man; a sense of peace in the scene, a sense of calming love.

The man turned, his face visible now, guilt written on it. And more, a tale that also spoke of resolve, of atonement, of hope.

He knows the man. He knows him.

"Evan." he hisses.

"Evan." a voice purrs behind him in sibillant anger. The shadow's voice, he can hear its jubillance.

"Evan." he snarls. He feels heat come over him as the shadow behind steps into him. And it hurts so much.

The light turns red, the colour of blood. The boy begins to cry. Evan is unmoving. Prey.

He surges forward with a snarl, only to be held fast, a black gloved hand like a vice on his shoulder. He's spun round, head whirling, anger hot.

The masked man stands there, holding him by the shoulders. The mask hides his face, hides his eyes, but he senses it there, a power like the roiling clouds of a storm.

"Is this right?" The mask asks, his words pregnant with meaning.

The blaze in his eyes is the only answer.

"What is justice?" The mask asks, a fork of lightning stabbing into his doubt.

He tries to wriggle free. The masked man's hands grip tighter, painful.

"Who is it for?" The mask asks, thunder in his voice.

He stills. Staring at the mask. Into the dark pits of those eyes.

His captor is merciless. "You must answer."

He feels it, the bitter pain twisting and curling into something equally hot, equally sharp, but silver, like the blade of a sword, like the coin. "Everyone."

The light behind fades, there's nothing, there's no one, there's only the masked man's voice. "Then answer, is this right?"

Talas sprang out of bed, throwing the covers back, breaths heavy. His hand grasped for the scabbarded blade by the bed, Yerenta's blade. It was always reassuring to feel the worn grip. It was the same grip her calloused hand had held during years of adventure on the high seas; and the same during the last, painful moments of her life. But it wasn't reassurance he needed now.

He drew the blade in a swift motion, the years of training since her death speaking clear. It gleamed in the moonlight. His own dark eyes reflected in the shining steel, looking back at him with a steady intensity.

[Pommel]

24 Eleint 1352

The ground moved under Talas' feet, betraying him with every step. He squinted, eyes on the tree ahead, the little patch of reeds was just by it. He stumbled in the stream as he crossed it, shins splashing with water, as he splashed the stream back with Damaran curses.

But finally he got to a place, a safe place, peaceful. Here Sunniva had seen his dreams. Here he could think.

His head swam even when sitting. he was drunker than he thought, it all hitting him at once. He'd drunk to forget, and then he had forgotten, and he'd just drunk in good company while the Darius brothers and company toured the taverns and inns of Baldur's Gate.

But then he began to remember. First with the bitter tange of anger, an anger born of pain, rising again.

But with it, guilt, and with that, he remembered.

"Then answer, is this right?"

Was it?

"Is this right?"

He remembered Sunniva's words. They brought comfort, but releasing the progeny of his pain, anger and fear, that was easier for her to write than for him to say.

What would be left without them. What was he? What was it that had driven him in the years before Evan's betrayal? That was an old life; what drove him now?

Again he heard the question, demanding he resolve it all.

"Then answer, is this right?"

Sinking down, he curled up on the riverbank, sullying his dark clothing wtih mud. Sleep coming for him. The dead sleep of the drunk.

The stormclouds boil over a dark plain, the gibbering creatures below chittering in pleasure as the devoured their prey, the weak, the defenceless.

Then a rumble, and then a booming peal of thunder, and something drops out of the clouds. It drops fast, in freefall, hurled from on high; a gleaming blade in its hand as bright as the bolt of the lightning lighting its path.

The hope it brought to the weak was the safe knowledge that the wounds dealt to them would not go unanswered.

But it was a stranger to him. It was foreign. It was outside.

"Is this right?"

Talas awoke stiff, with the dawn and the birdsong, a heavy indecision, a growing guilt and a prodigous hangover.

[Pommel]

25 Eleint 1352

He heard his own voice, reflected back at him.

"I've always been hungry."

There was nothing else but darkness, neither warm nor cold. A timeless moment.

"I've always been chasing something."

His own voice came closer.

"Drink, song, coin, titles, they didn't silence it, did they?"

Melancholy filled it as it spoke on.

"She did, and our shared dreams."

A longing bloomed in his heart, as he listened to himself.

"The boy would."

The silence fell heavy. Brooding. He felt a bitter acid in his stomach, a sickly nausea over him. His own lips moved as he spoke, voice quavering.

"What would I be to him, but a killer?"

Leather clad hands grasp him forcefully. The metal masked man appears before his face, his voice a snarl. His own voice, in this moment. "Kill what needs killed."

He is hurled aside.

Wind.

---

The stormclouds boil over a murky swamp, the gibbering creatures moving through the treacherous bogs and winding roots chittering in pleasure as they hunt tasty morsels, the weak, the defenseless.

Then a rumble, and then a booming peal of thunder, and something drops out of the clouds. It drops fast, in freefall, hurled from on high; a gleaming blade in its hand as bright as the bolt of the lightning lighting its path. Its eyes hard with resolve.

The hope it brought was the certainty that the wounds dealt to the weak and blameless would not go unanswered.

It crashes through the branches and lands with a thud into the mud.

Pain.

---

He stood, breaths heavy behind his helmet, the waterlogged forest all about him, the dimness further obscured by a foetid fog.

Other shapes moved through the claw-like trees growing in the swamp, but each one he saw fell into some trap. They were of silver and gold; and silver and gold were the vines trapping them in place. They struggled, punching and kicking feebly with free arms and legs at the stirges that came near to feed, their spirits unbroken even a their limbs were bound.

He saw others blundering into the pools and bogs, missteps causing them to stumble and fall until they were coated in the vile scum and muck of the pools and bogs, sinking up to their knees, up to their wastes, falling and submerging under, roaring and cursing in rage.

The fog cleared and he saw it. At one point, it was the pit fiend from the depths of the Nashkel Mines; another it was the many-limbed Yuan-Ti queen he and Ashan had struck down; yet another it was the devil from the Haunted Mansion that had left him to die. All forms spread their arms, inviting him and his fury.

He leapt from clump of grass to clump of grass, springing forward with agility, unhindered like the other figures. His blade was hungry in his hand, and the foe ahead would taste...

...he saw something in the water.

Evan's face. The guilt written on it still. A living face.

He roared, hands reaching out like claws, falling into the water with a crash, a red fury on him.

He felt the wrongness as a darkness fell.

A voice again, dispassionate.

"It is a choice."[/i][/color]

Talas awoke late, aching, rested after a lengthy, blackout sleep. The training session in earnest yesterday had taught him a lot about Ashan, and a lot about himself. It had left him feeling good, but it had been hard fighting against the yuan-ti, to add on to hard travel the few days before, patrolling roads in the north.

There was much to do, and he'd never been one to leave tasks unsettled. He looks towards the folded papers he'd been reading last night. Much to do.

A thought came to him them. He frowned, bitter. His hand went to the amulet he was wearing; he'd fallen asleep without taking it off. With an angry grunt, he stood. He couldn't avoid it.

[Pommel]

26 Eleint 1352

Talas was stoic in the face of the cool night air, his Damaran blood strong. He'd gone for rest but there was none to find, only a leering, mocking moon reminding him of how far from sleep he was.

He'd hoped a walk through the farmlands north of the city would incite slumber, but his mind would not still, only growing more furtive as he passed each disused field and abandoned farm, scars from conflict that was spent before he'd even arrived in Baldur's Gate. Back when he'd heard about the city's difficulties, he had thought of the opportunity for coin that offered a fighting man, and of nothing else.

His thoughts had moved on.

Talas's face was marred with a frown as he headed back towards the city. This listless wakefulness was a disservice to the conversation he'd left but an hour before. The truths shared, the gifts given and the understandings reached should have left him in good spirits. The bittersweet nature of the comradeship leaving no marks of anger, now he knew the salt was all his.

Yet his gaze was hooded as he padded through the dark streets, brooding, armed and dark clad. His thumb rubbing the pommel of his blade. Yerenta's blade.

Arriving in the Blade and Stars, he made a hasty ascent to his room, at once making ready for sleep, a hopeless task. When it came to change into his nightclothes, he hesitated over the amulet after he took it off. Cradling it in his hands, his face twisted, tightening along with the beats of his heart.

Talas' eyes moved once more to Sunniva's letter, and the wisdom there. He placed the amulet down on the bedside table and lay on his back, folding his hands on his chest, closing his eyes. It was worth a try.

Again, the letter came to his mind. He'd try it then, pouring out the worries that filled him and seeing what his psyche replaced them with.

Talas frowned. He wriggled on the bed, uncomfortable. He tried again.

This was stupid.

For some reason then, he thought of the paladin. That made him smile in apology; she had just chosen what to stand for.

It was plenty possible to do stupid things for reasons other than not knowing better. For good reasons. He had forgotten that, somewhere.

Talas blinked a few times and settled again. Maybe this time.

The thud of his heartbeat filled his ears, slow and heavy, a washing pressure, as if the organ was a hundred foot high and pumped a river through it. A wave of pressure built up, his head labouring under a cloudy, bunged up feeling.

There he was before him, the masked man. Arms folded.

"Have you an answer?" The voice echoed coldly.

"Aye." He replied. "No, it isn't."

Certainty filled him.

"Not yet." he finished.

He felt a chill, one impossibly united with heat as the silence drew on for one beat, two, three, four.

"Good." The masked man said in his own voice.

And then, the heartbeat was no more, to be replaced by a deafening peel of thunder. And with it, a racing wind blew the pressure away, and he was struck blind by a white hot flash.

---

The stormclouds boil over a murky swamp dottied with copses of cruel, claw like trees, the gibbering creatures moving through the treacherous bogs and winding roots chittering in pleasure as they hunt tasty morsels, the weak, the defenseless. The wails of those caught carry their sorrow on the wind.

Then the sky rumbles in anger, a booming peal of thunder, and something drops out of the clouds. It drops fast, in freefall, hurled from on high; a gleaming blade in its hand as bright as the bolt of the lightning lighting its path. Its eyes hard with resolve and newfound purpose.

The hope it brought was the certainty that the wounds dealt to the weak and blameless would not go unanswered. That there was justice for all, high and low.

It crashes through the branches and lands with a thud into the mud.

Anticipation.

---

He stood, breaths heavy behind his helmet, the waterlogged forest all about him, the dimness further obscured by a foetid fog. His lips curled into an almost leering grin at the weight of the saber in his hand.

Other shapes moved through the claw-like trees growing in the swamp, but each one he saw fell into some trap. They were of silver and gold; and silver and gold were the vines trapping them in place. They struggled, punching and kicking feebly with free arms and legs at the stirges that came near to feed, their spirits unbroken even a their limbs were bound. A sadness filled his heart for them, but even as their hands were tied, his were not.

He saw others blundering into the pools and bogs, missteps causing them to stumble and fall until they were coated in the vile scum and muck of the pools and bogs, sinking up to their knees, up to their wastes, falling and submerging under, roaring and cursing in rage. He understood their failure, but it wouldn't change his course.

The fog cleared and he saw it. At one point, it was the pit fiend from the depths of the Nashkel Mines; another it was the many-limbed Yuan-Ti queen he and Ashan had struck down; yet another it was the devil from the Haunted Mansion that had left him to die; another still, a bare fanged vampire. At one point it wore the tusks of a great bull orc; then the hulking form of an all consuming troll. All forms spread their arms, inviting him and his fury. All forms stood over a pitiful pile of bones, picked clean, its last meal.

A soul to be avenged.

He leaped from clump of grass to clump of grass, springing forward with agility, unhindered like the other figures. His purpose pure, showing him the path through the swamp. His blade was hungry in his hand, and the foe ahead would taste its cold wrath.

...he saw something in the water.

Evan's face. The guilt written on it still. A living face.

"Not yet." He heard the masked man's voice say, and he continued on. The beast ahead roared in anger.

He saw another in the water, the flash of Yerenta's red hair unmistakable; her face dissolving like it did from the Cloak's acid arrow.

"She'd not want you to live like that." A woman's voice said, and he continued on, leaping over a log.

One of the figures struggling in the mud reached for him, eyes blazing in fury. Fallen onto its knees, yet lashing out.

He pitied it, but he could not be stopped. The blade lashed round, and the figure's head and body sank into the mud several feet apart.

The beast hissed in frustration as his pace barely slowed, jumping from rock to rock over the last pool separating him from his quarry.

He saw the boy then, and this did give him pause. But then he snarled, eyes burning defiance towards the evil on the shore.

"First, something he is proud of." he said himself.

He landed surely on the last stone. With a roar, he leaped onto the bank, and the monster squealed, diminishing somehow into a twisted, craven goblin, then a stoop backed hag, then a mad-eyed naga, trying to slither away.

But he would not have drawn the blade if it was not to be used. He swung it round, not just with his arm, not just with his. The beast keened and fell, dissolving, its essence sinking into the mud of the swamp.
[/i][/color]

The room was chill when Talas' eyes opened. The hour was unknown.

He took three heavy breaths.

He rolled out of the bed, and his eyes fell on the small ledger he'd kept, the empty ledger. Reaching for it, he took it to the desk and began to write.

[Pommel]

28 Eleint 1352

The ledger lay open on the desk in Talas' room. The words on the first page were neat and clear, as pristine as the accounts he used to write in another lifetime. Yet equally, they were unadorned, unembellished.

Nothing stood in the way of their meaning.

He closed the ledger. The words had been spoken before a witness this very night. The contract was made, the path chosen.

Talas blew out the last candle. The room fell into darkness, throwing into relief the pattering of the rain outside.

What now?

On an impulse, he walked over the window, throwing it open to the night's cold, and the damp. Drops of rain began to dust the windowsill, and his hands as he leaned on it, taking a deep breath of the evening air.

The symbol hung under his tunic. He was aware of its weight, for some reason. It seemed a burden and an ache in one.

He took a breath and reached for the pouch at his belt, and the coin within. He took it in his right fist - his sword hand - and then, beginning hesitantly, but gathering pace and fervour, he spoke.

"I know my purpose."

[Pommel]

(((Thank-you to those following this cryptic and short writing exercise, born as it was of IG developments. The arc is now done, barring me going back and adding some cheesy mood music videos to each post - Which I probably won't do.)))