An old dream, an old message....
The stormclouds boil over a murky swamp dotted 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.
This time it finally ceased changing form, coalescing into a pale skinned woman, hair as dark as night, eyes the same. A mother, a murderess, a monster. Hate surged in his heart, fuelled by righteousness, fuelled by rage. His own vengeance merging with vengeance for all.
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, and his own, white hot.
...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...
...this time he stopped, turning. She was there, the alimarifa, a spirit of light, the same light she saw in all others. Around her the marshwater cleared, becoming a crystal clear, fresh pool. He walked towards her, reaching for her cheek with a black-gloved hand, dark eyes meeting the brightness of her own.
Then he saw it. They weren't love and hate, meeting in the middle. His own god's coin had two sides. It wasn't just hate for evil that sharpened his blade, but love for those wronged. They weren't in opposition, they were part of the same truth.
Maybe everyone was!
He looked past her, looking at two figures struggling in the bogs. One, fallen to its knees, screaming in rage, struggled with black hands rising out of the mire to pull her down. Her silver hair was plastered to her fine cheekbones as she flailed around with cruel daggers. He bounded over, cutting those black limbs away from her, hauling her up with a hand. They were brother and sister, and should not be parted without reason.
The other was all in gold, in pursuit of the same quarry he had been himself. Shadow and darkness surrounded her, trying to pull her down. All of Mother Night's rage and anger turned towards her to impede her, trying to subdue her light. Her blade still shone, but who can prosper alone?
Overhead, a peal of thunder, rumbling through the clouds.
He looked at his sister. She looked at him. They both knew the truth; they wouldn't leave her alone.[/i][/color]
The stormclouds boil over a murky swamp dotted 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.
This time it finally ceased changing form, coalescing into a pale skinned woman, hair as dark as night, eyes the same. A mother, a murderess, a monster. Hate surged in his heart, fuelled by righteousness, fuelled by rage. His own vengeance merging with vengeance for all.
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, and his own, white hot.
...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...
...this time he stopped, turning. She was there, the alimarifa, a spirit of light, the same light she saw in all others. Around her the marshwater cleared, becoming a crystal clear, fresh pool. He walked towards her, reaching for her cheek with a black-gloved hand, dark eyes meeting the brightness of her own.
Then he saw it. They weren't love and hate, meeting in the middle. His own god's coin had two sides. It wasn't just hate for evil that sharpened his blade, but love for those wronged. They weren't in opposition, they were part of the same truth.
Maybe everyone was!
He looked past her, looking at two figures struggling in the bogs. One, fallen to its knees, screaming in rage, struggled with black hands rising out of the mire to pull her down. Her silver hair was plastered to her fine cheekbones as she flailed around with cruel daggers. He bounded over, cutting those black limbs away from her, hauling her up with a hand. They were brother and sister, and should not be parted without reason.
The other was all in gold, in pursuit of the same quarry he had been himself. Shadow and darkness surrounded her, trying to pull her down. All of Mother Night's rage and anger turned towards her to impede her, trying to subdue her light. Her blade still shone, but who can prosper alone?
Overhead, a peal of thunder, rumbling through the clouds.
He looked at his sister. She looked at him. They both knew the truth; they wouldn't leave her alone.[/i][/color]