The Curse of the Hunger Spirit - Sorrel succumbs
Dec 3, 2021 0:16:52 GMT
Ian, Toothy, and 3 more like this
Post by stephena on Dec 3, 2021 0:16:52 GMT
Sorrel walked blindly through the streets, eyes half closed, muttering prayers and curses and reciting from tactical handbooks and running through everything she had ever learned by rote to drown out the hissing voice in her head. “Strike the side of the sentry's neck to stun for seven seconds,” she muttered as she strode through rapidly parting crowds. “Use the off-hand to twist the head. Switch to blade and cut deep the throat. Cut across the front. Use the length of the blade. Force the head forward onto the blade. Let the sinking body provide the force. Preserve your upper-arm strength.”
“Your efficiency is impressive,” she briefly heard the spirit whisper and she almost gagged again, reciting the House Initiation like a holy ritual.
“You cannot know anything,” she chanted. “Expect to be wrong. You have overlooked the essential. You have already failed. If you cannot find where, you must relinquish your task. If you follow the truth, remember nothing is true. If you obey the law, remember everything is permitted. Work in the dark to serve the light. Never betray comrades, for then you must die. Never betray comrades, for then you must die. Never betray comrades, for then you must die…”
She stood at the doors to Selune’s temple, open to all on the day of the goddess, when the crowds would bring moonstones and silver, and sailors would bring their compass and tackle for the priests to bless before voyages.
And yet the temple was empty.
The marble floors stretched towards the altar, shining in the soft candlelight, with intricate patterns of star constellations cross crossing the warm stone, picked out in white emeralds and glinting like pearls. The pillars stretched high above her head until they were almost out of sight, with the arched roof showing the phases of the moon, each shape formed of glittering opal and set in dark obsidian.
The room was so vast and so empty that even Sorrel’s soft steps created tiny echoes, barely audible above the muted rumble of the street outside.
In front of the altar stood a priest, swathed in midnight black, with intricate silver work marking out the stars and the moon. Sorrel walked towards her softly, gliding across the floor like a ghost. Even an owl wouldn’t have picked up the night imperceptible hiss of Lucan’s lambskin soles.
And yet the priest turned as Sorrel approached and smiled.
“I am Nessa,” she bowed her head respectfully. She moved strangely, as if uncomfortable in her skin. “I am new to this…” she looked around. “To here….”
“To Kantas?”
“Kan-taz?” the cleric let the name roll across her tongue like a mouthful of red wine and dark chocolate. “Yes, this is where I am supposed to be.” She wrinkled her nose. “Although why has not yet been made clear to me.”
Sorrel’s look of confusion seemed to shake the cleric from her reverie. “But I am here,” Nessa smiled. “As are you, my sister. The burden you carry is heavy indeed.”
Sorrel noticed the hunger spirit’s voice was muffled in here and she bowed her head in gratitude.
Nessa reached out and took her hand, and Sorrel felt a warm glow pass into her soul, filling her with hope and joy, opening memories she had long forced away from her mind – of those who died and moments in gardens when the sun shone and she was laughing, unafraid.
Nessa held her hand for some time, whispering inaudibly, a strange light wreathing her arms and fingers. Then she raised her head and Sorrel could see tears in her eyes.
“Your burden is beyond me,” Nessa said, her voice breaking. “I do not have the power… I am not ready… I don’t understand…”
“I am possessed,” Sorrel almost whispered. “A spirit from the Shadowfell.” She prayed that the priest would not ask her for her story. She found it hard to speak of the spirit without letting it further into her mind.
“It is hungry,” Nessa’s face was grave. “I have never felt such hunger.”
Sorrel nodded, painfully. “I cannot let it loose,” she clenched her fists until the nails dug into her skin almost drawing blood. “I need help.”
“As I said, sister, I do not have the power…”
“No,” Sorrel shivered as she felt the spirit move inside her. “I need you to keep others safe from… from me. Will you take my sword? I can’t use it anymore. The darkness overcomes me. And can I stay here? In a room you can lock from the outside. They had such rooms in the Baldur’s Gate temple for those awaiting exorcism.”
Nessa flinched. “This can be done.”
Sorrel’s eyes darkened, filling with blood, and she snarled, leaping at the priest’s throat and trying to sink her teeth into the vein on the side of her neck. “Every day you hold me I come at you as a hundred mouths, open and stinking with decay and I tear at your flesh diseased and flawed as you are.”
“Stop,” Nessa barked, holding out Selune’s moon so that Sorrel froze in its gentle light until her eyes cleared and she staggered backwards, hands over her mouth.
“I will take your weapons, sister, and I will take you to the cells. But I will not abandon you there. You must go into the world to find your own salvation. Keep one silvered short sword and one dagger sharp enough to cut your own throat. We will feed you and restrain you, but you must heal yourself. For whatever reason, the goddess has abandoned you. I cannot win her favour for you. This is your battle alone. I will keep others safe. You… I wish you luck.”
Nessa lowered her head, beckoned a young monk to gather Sorrel’s collection of weaponry and lead her down through the crypt and into the darkest corner of the Final Infirmary where the sealed rooms lay. As Sorrel stepped inside, Nessa placed a candle in her hand then pushed the heavy door shut.
As she turned the key in the ancient lock, she glimpsed Sorrel’s face in the dim light. For a second, she saw Sorrel’s body coil and flex in the shadow as if the spirit was fighting for control, then the ranger settled, her jaw set, her eyes fixed on the wall in front of her.
Nessa turned away, unable to watch, and whispered a soft prayer before making her way up onto the temple roof. As she looked up at the stars, her wings unfolded behind her. Perhaps, she thought, this was her time.
“Your efficiency is impressive,” she briefly heard the spirit whisper and she almost gagged again, reciting the House Initiation like a holy ritual.
“You cannot know anything,” she chanted. “Expect to be wrong. You have overlooked the essential. You have already failed. If you cannot find where, you must relinquish your task. If you follow the truth, remember nothing is true. If you obey the law, remember everything is permitted. Work in the dark to serve the light. Never betray comrades, for then you must die. Never betray comrades, for then you must die. Never betray comrades, for then you must die…”
She stood at the doors to Selune’s temple, open to all on the day of the goddess, when the crowds would bring moonstones and silver, and sailors would bring their compass and tackle for the priests to bless before voyages.
And yet the temple was empty.
The marble floors stretched towards the altar, shining in the soft candlelight, with intricate patterns of star constellations cross crossing the warm stone, picked out in white emeralds and glinting like pearls. The pillars stretched high above her head until they were almost out of sight, with the arched roof showing the phases of the moon, each shape formed of glittering opal and set in dark obsidian.
The room was so vast and so empty that even Sorrel’s soft steps created tiny echoes, barely audible above the muted rumble of the street outside.
In front of the altar stood a priest, swathed in midnight black, with intricate silver work marking out the stars and the moon. Sorrel walked towards her softly, gliding across the floor like a ghost. Even an owl wouldn’t have picked up the night imperceptible hiss of Lucan’s lambskin soles.
And yet the priest turned as Sorrel approached and smiled.
“I am Nessa,” she bowed her head respectfully. She moved strangely, as if uncomfortable in her skin. “I am new to this…” she looked around. “To here….”
“To Kantas?”
“Kan-taz?” the cleric let the name roll across her tongue like a mouthful of red wine and dark chocolate. “Yes, this is where I am supposed to be.” She wrinkled her nose. “Although why has not yet been made clear to me.”
Sorrel’s look of confusion seemed to shake the cleric from her reverie. “But I am here,” Nessa smiled. “As are you, my sister. The burden you carry is heavy indeed.”
Sorrel noticed the hunger spirit’s voice was muffled in here and she bowed her head in gratitude.
Nessa reached out and took her hand, and Sorrel felt a warm glow pass into her soul, filling her with hope and joy, opening memories she had long forced away from her mind – of those who died and moments in gardens when the sun shone and she was laughing, unafraid.
Nessa held her hand for some time, whispering inaudibly, a strange light wreathing her arms and fingers. Then she raised her head and Sorrel could see tears in her eyes.
“Your burden is beyond me,” Nessa said, her voice breaking. “I do not have the power… I am not ready… I don’t understand…”
“I am possessed,” Sorrel almost whispered. “A spirit from the Shadowfell.” She prayed that the priest would not ask her for her story. She found it hard to speak of the spirit without letting it further into her mind.
“It is hungry,” Nessa’s face was grave. “I have never felt such hunger.”
Sorrel nodded, painfully. “I cannot let it loose,” she clenched her fists until the nails dug into her skin almost drawing blood. “I need help.”
“As I said, sister, I do not have the power…”
“No,” Sorrel shivered as she felt the spirit move inside her. “I need you to keep others safe from… from me. Will you take my sword? I can’t use it anymore. The darkness overcomes me. And can I stay here? In a room you can lock from the outside. They had such rooms in the Baldur’s Gate temple for those awaiting exorcism.”
Nessa flinched. “This can be done.”
Sorrel’s eyes darkened, filling with blood, and she snarled, leaping at the priest’s throat and trying to sink her teeth into the vein on the side of her neck. “Every day you hold me I come at you as a hundred mouths, open and stinking with decay and I tear at your flesh diseased and flawed as you are.”
“Stop,” Nessa barked, holding out Selune’s moon so that Sorrel froze in its gentle light until her eyes cleared and she staggered backwards, hands over her mouth.
“I will take your weapons, sister, and I will take you to the cells. But I will not abandon you there. You must go into the world to find your own salvation. Keep one silvered short sword and one dagger sharp enough to cut your own throat. We will feed you and restrain you, but you must heal yourself. For whatever reason, the goddess has abandoned you. I cannot win her favour for you. This is your battle alone. I will keep others safe. You… I wish you luck.”
Nessa lowered her head, beckoned a young monk to gather Sorrel’s collection of weaponry and lead her down through the crypt and into the darkest corner of the Final Infirmary where the sealed rooms lay. As Sorrel stepped inside, Nessa placed a candle in her hand then pushed the heavy door shut.
As she turned the key in the ancient lock, she glimpsed Sorrel’s face in the dim light. For a second, she saw Sorrel’s body coil and flex in the shadow as if the spirit was fighting for control, then the ranger settled, her jaw set, her eyes fixed on the wall in front of her.
Nessa turned away, unable to watch, and whispered a soft prayer before making her way up onto the temple roof. As she looked up at the stars, her wings unfolded behind her. Perhaps, she thought, this was her time.
