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Kellehendros -> RE: When Heroes Fail (1/23/2016 23:43:04)
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“Whatcha gonna do?”
“Do?” The barman scowled at the man who asked the question, scooping up the Magister’s gold and pocketing it. He plunked a pair of silvers on the scarred wood of the bar and grabbed a pint, filling it slowly from a tap nearby. Depositing the foamy brew and the coins in front of the questioner, the tavern keeper shook his head. “Gonna do what he said. Think I’m fer defyin’ his Magister-ship? Now you drink that slow like, then you go find the Saints. And the rest of ye,” the barman’s voice rose over the eddies of whispered conversation, “can get yer sorry arses out of here, and I dun wanna hear yer bellyachin’. Out! If there’s ter be a brawl in here twixt his Magister-ship’s lot and the Saints, none a ye wanna be ‘round ter see it.”
The Magister smiled. It was a singularly unpleasant expression, visible as a baring of the teeth more than any expression that might be associated with mirth, or at the least, with any expression of mirth such as a normal person might show forth. On the Magister’s face the grin was eye-popping, manic, a sparkle of cerulean off ivory, highlighted by the glow of lambent eyes.
That blue and glowing gaze swiveled slowly to Marisa as the sickly girl gave voice to her questions. The Magister’s shoulders twitched, heaving in a way almost suggestive of suppressed amusement, though he had no time to make an answer to her queries, for Hendrik rose and made his way to the door. Upon the Magister’s face the grin soured, and he rasped a curt answer in tones of faint disgust. “Seats are for masters, not servants. Think thou I plan amiss?” In a moment the smile was back, spreading slowly across the strange man’s face like an oil slick across the surface of a pool of water. “But should thou wish to cry off, far be it from I to stop thee.” Moving aside the Magister motioned to the door with over-elaborate courtesy and then turned his attention to the room at large as the elf exited and shut the door behind himself.
A giggle slipped furtively from the depths of the man’s cowl as his eyes flickered away from Hendrik, landing on Sieserna and then leaping to Flannagon. The rictus expression stretched wider as the argument between the burned man and the shopkeeper flared up. Azure eyes skipped back and forth between the two, taking in the exchange with avid interest. He snickered, glancing at Seiserna again before approaching the table.
Cendra stared at Jana; her mind worked feverishly, struggling to process the woman’s presence here, to assemble a pattern, a chain of events that had resulted in her descent to this place. On the heels of that shock came anger, a hot and passionate tide as the dam within her threatened to burst.
Was it not enough that she was here, that she had been subjected to this, that her name was a byword for treachery and deception? But no, Jana had followed in her footsteps, only to hurl herself from the same precipice that Cendra herself had toppled over.
She drew breath to speak, to say something, perhaps in rebuke, perhaps in acceptance. Cendra herself was uncertain what it would be. She was unbalanced by Jana’s appearance, by the sheer fact of her presence in this place. But there was no time for the exile to speak, for she was interrupted by the sound of a woman clearing her throat a few steps away.
Cendra drew in a breath, holding it, and then exhaling long and slow, tearing her eyes away from Jana and looking at the woman who identified herself as a priestess of Greva. She had her doubts about the woman’s supposed ordination, but then again, Cendra was all the proof that was necessary that those held in the favor and regard of the commons could fall as easily as any other into disgrace and error.
The exile’s free hand uncurled, going down to the sheath at her waist and gripping it. Cendra drew in another breath and let it out slowly, returning the weapon to its scabbard. Whispering something inaudible to herself, she turned and clasped hands with the golden-robed priestess before looking back at Jana. “What comes next will be hard enough.”
If that comment was directed to Jana or Nilch’i was open to speculation, but Cendra said nothing further, walking to the fireplace and staring down into the flames.
In the silence after the exile’s words was another titter of amusement, and then upon the table before the Magister was a book. The tome was old, bound in a green and textured leather worn to smooth black shininess in places with age and handling. With one gloved hand the man opened the tome and, disregarding the room’s occupants, began to read...
“And they say that Agemon is the greatest hero that ever was or ever will be, for by his hand was ended the Eternal Blight.
But it is not so.
Agemon approached the wyrm and saw that it lay as one deeply asleep atop the piled treasures plundered from the temples and fine dwelling places of Palora. The acolyte crept forth, lifted his spear, and essayed to slay the vile beast with a single thrust.
But Vermonox was old and sly, and only feigned to sleep, having scented the acolyte’s approach. He opened one eye, and from it stared the malice and daunting darkness of the wyrm’s black heart. Agemon, grown bold and fearless by his close approach unespied, met the wyrm’s gaze. Long the two strove, one against the other, but deep within the acolyte’s heart a darkness lingered, as it does in all men. And for Vermonox, Eternal Blight, birthed from the Blackest Pit, it was enough. And lo, each time Agemon struck down the wyrm it rose again, feeding from the darkness within him.
Agemon’s spear was shivered by the battle, and he despaired, but crying out to Baan he thrust the haft of his weapon into a rent torn into Vermonox’s hide by the fight. Once more Baan heard the acolyte’s cry, and the thrust went deep, piercing even the wyrm’s heart. Black blood and ichor burst forth in a searing stream, coating Agemon’s left hand, even to the elbow. The acolyte swooned, for the blood of the wyrm was as a fire whose bite wracked him with pain, but it was enough, for the wyrm’s strength was exhausted and it rose no more.
But Vermonox was not slain, merely vanquished. Agemon awoke and the wyrm was gone, and the people of Palora, Deposed Queen of Cities, crept back into the ruins and hailed him Paladin, city-savior and protector, though there was no body to testify to his victory. Surely, the people said, the Eternal Blight had been consumed, rotted away by the foulness it carried within itself, but Agemon went ever after more reserved than had been his wont, and the pain of his left hand troubled him all the days of his life.
In his heart of hearts he knew that the wyrm would come again, and again, for Vermonox thrived upon the darkness that men hid within themselves, and to slay the beast would take a confluence of events beyond his sight.
The Magister sighed with soft and satisfied appreciation, closing the tome and resting his hand upon it. “Ah, the Book of the Wyrm. Truth always sets my heart at ease.”
Grinning, the cowled man raked his gaze over the room, sapphire eyes settling on Marisa as he at last deigned to answer her questions. “My dear Marisa, you already know all that is required for you to know, but since you have asked so politely, my generous nature is spurred to provide you further guidance.” The Magister shuddered, chuckling, and then throwing back his head and positively cackling. Swiping at his eyes in mirth, the man shook his head. “If you wish to find the wyrm, why you must simply go north. All know that the Desolation is a breeding ground of all that is foul and heinous.”
The Magister tapped his forefinger upon the cover of the tome slowly. “But should you earnestly wish to prepare for your meeting with the Eternal Blight, I would suggest you venture into the Spearforge first.”
The elven pirate emerged from the back room, drawing looks of surprise from the few patrons yet lingering within the tavern. At the counter the messenger inhaled sharply upon his brew in his shock, descending into a fit of hacking and coughing. For his part the bartender shot the messenger a worried glance before seeing to the privateer’s need and venturing with forced good cheer, “Anythin’ the matter in there?”
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