At the Crossroads of Identity

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After returning from Daring Heights, Marto decides to ask Coll if one of the private rooms is available for him to move into, preferably in the same wing where Beets’ room was. The kind bartender and proprietor of the Fort assured him there were a number of empty rooms, he just had to choose one. Picking one of the rooms closest to the north-east tower, which also happened to be closest to the stables, Marto was handed a key in exchange for 7 gold, and Coll made a note of the halfling’s change in accommodation in his ledger.

Moving his things from the dorm rooms on the first floor down to the modest private rooms of the ground floor was easy. It had only been three months since he moved here. Meeting and chatting to all the various and colourful people that lived in the dorm had been great for getting him familiar with how things were here in the Dawnlands. But if he wanted to continue to study and practice magic Marto needed somewhere quiet. He didn’t think the Research Students would appreciate his failed attempts, and any minor arcane explosions that might happen because of it, disturbing the tranquillity of the Library.

After moving what few belongings he had to his room, and after writing another letter to his family back in Earthart, his stomach was telling him he could not put it off any longer. By the time he had returned to his room from the Great Hall after having dinner and listening to Iorveth work the crowd as he spun a tale of yet another epic campaign – Marto still hadn’t quite figured out how to break the awkward silence that had been going on between him and the Summer Eladrin – it was very late. Marto had only managed to read the ‘Introduction’ of the book he had bought from the witch in the Mountain Palace before sleep was dragging at his eyes. Deciding it would be best to read a magical book when he was properly awake and aware, Marto went to bed, falling asleep very easily and quickly.

Long after the last night owl has gone to bed, in the hour when night is at its darkest, Marto is awoken by something suddenly, abruptly. He tries to look around in the dark, chest rising and falling for a feeling of fright he does not know the reason for. But all he can move is his eyes. His head is immobilised, the muscles of his neck, shoulders, arms, his entire body unresponsive to any command he tries to give them.

Something is definitely wrong.

Then, just out the corner of his eyes, low down as if creeping across the floor Marto sees two small pinpricks of purple light, almost like eyes, and a voice filters into his mind.

“I figured it out, you cheeky little halfling.”

His eyes widen in alarming recognition.

Smoke and shadow of the darkest purple creeps up on the bed, almost like a hand reaching for him. Marto tries to push the smoke away but he is still frozen. He tries to call out, wondering if anyone would hear him so late in the night, but his voice is locked in his throat.

A sharp nail draws a line down the side of his face and he shivers at the fire left in it’s trailing touch.

“Yondalla.”

There is a soft, condescending laugh.

“How dreadfully boring. You seemed so feisty – I was hoping for someone more… vicious.”

Marto finally feels the muscles in his neck and face relax as he regains control. Turning his head to the side he sees a ghostly image of Adhyël sitting on the floor next to his bed, an arm draped across his chest.

Despite how real the nail felt a moment before, Marto realises there is something rather dream-like about this encounter. It’s in the way his vision is blurred at the edges, like looking through a pair of spectacles that have a kaleidoscopic frame. Taking what little stock from that as he can, Marto gathers his wits, letting out a short, humourless laugh.

“You wouldn’t be the first one to underestimate a Hin. Haven’t you heard the saying, ‘though they be little they are fierce’?”

That same laughter ripples over him in almost tangible waves. It’s low and rich and seems to vibrate in his chest, resonating with something inside. One moment Marto is thinking how nice it would be to hear that sound again, before a sickening guilt makes him shove that thought out of his mind.

“Oh, I’d never underestimate you, little one. After all-” Something sharp and cold slides along his ribs on the left side of his chest, “You did end me.”

Marto tries to see what is touching him but the dark purple smoke is obscuring his view.

“No, it’s your false goddess I don’t have time for.”

“I think you’re mistaken, friend.” Marto says the word sardonically. “It wasn’t just me who ended your sorry existence in the forest that day.” Marto doesn’t like the feel of whatever cold sharp thing is grazing his skin. But he reminds himself that this is a dream – and he is not alone.

Looking up to the ceiling, Marto closes his eyes and begins to speak softly in halfling as if he is praying. “O Blessed One, Nurturing Matriarch, and Mother to all Hin, you are the shield around me, strong in love, wise in-”

A hand closes around his throat. Adhyël’s voice and face fills his mind, drowning out his prayer.

“They come to eat the flesh of champions and the flesh of all peoples, both free and bound, both small and great.”

Marto tries to continue the words of his prayer to Yondalla, “-wise in guidance, shaped in hope and gilded with truth-” but Adhyël’s voice is like heavy velvet wrapping around his mind, muffling his thoughts.

“And the people will cry out for help, but there will be no one to save them.”

“-Keep the Earth below my feet as I keep my eyes to serve and my hands to-”

Adhyël’s hand grips his throat tighter, finally cutting off both Marto’s words and his breathing.

“They will cry out to their Lady, but she will not answer them.”

Marto feels something try to take over his mind but he clings to the knowledge that this is a dream, even as his body starts screaming for air.

“This is your one chance, Marto, and it seems you’re intent on squandering it.” Adhyël sounds almost sorry. “But, no matter. We are coming, and when you inevitably wake up and see how the scales tip I’ll be merciful. I won’t make you suffer. Not for long, anyway.”

Then the cold pain in his side becomes something sharp and tearing, sinking deep into his skin and lancing up into his heart. He wants to scream but his lungs are ash and fire, breath a distant memory.

“Come find me, if you dare. Or wait and see what happens if I find you first.”

Then he wakes up.

Bolting upright in his bed, panting, sweat covering his entire body, Marto’s nightshirt sticks to him as he looks around wildly. Through the damp fabric of his nightshirt, he can see something dark outlined against his skin. In a slight panic he pulls off his shirt and leaps out of bed, going over to the mirror in his new room to take a look at what it is.

“Oh… fuck.”

Roughly three inches in length tattooed in dark purple and black ink against his honey brown skin, it is the same symbol Marto saw in the Angelbark woods, the very same symbol Ubric Ashkeeper had drawn repeatedly before walking off into the woods when he was charmed out of his mind by that devil – Adhyël. His fingers shake, disbelief making him doubt if it is even really there. But he has to pull his fingers back as the mark is freezing cold to the touch.

Spinning around, he goes over to the chest at the foot of his bed, digging around for the pouch on his belt that holds the pearl. Clasping it in his hand he swipes one of the spare owl feathers he has in a wooden cup on his desk, then stands in front of the mirror again. Stealing his breath, Marto starts rolling the pearl over the mark on his ribs casting identify on the thing, dreading what the spell will tell him.

…an infernal mark… magical but dormant… no active magical effect… nothing to dispel yet…

He lets out a frustrated sigh. Not the worst news but still not good.

Eyes lingering on the mark, Marto feels a chill crawl up his spine as his mind plays through the last thing Adhyël said to him. His right hand gripping the feather twitches unconsciously, a rising need to do something right now wanting to take over as a familiar, warm prickling sensation starts in his palm. His budding eldritch magic wants to rise up, to fight, to protect. But Marto takes a deep breath and wills himself to be still. To take a moment and think.

“Come find me, if you dare. Or wait and see what happens if I find you first.”

A challenge and a warning. This fiend was clever. But could Marto be clever enough to fight him, and survive?