Something In The Night 01/03/22 Sorrel Darkfire
Mar 16, 2022 20:33:47 GMT
Velania Kalugina, Andy D, and 2 more like this
Post by stephena on Mar 16, 2022 20:33:47 GMT
As the farmer’s huts burned, flames licking the night sky, and the shredded corpse of the priest fell to pieces in her comrade’s careful arms Sorrel gazed at the spot where the fiend had fallen and shivered slightly as she ran over his final words.
His bright, gleaming eyes bored into her, his impossibly wide smile stretched out into nightmares as his spindly claws reached out towards her and it spoke with a voice drawn from the depths of hell - “I will see you soon.”
This was only the beginning of the horror.
---
One year earlier. The night after Ascension. Daring Heights.
As Varga dived into her pit fighting, Kelne pursued the halfling Tricky Otto and Celina was handed mysterious notes by strange Tieflings, the heavy drinking, intense atmosphere started playing tricks with Sorrel’s vision. She stepped outside for some fresh air and - it’s a sign of how troubled she was that she considered this unremarkable – a giant dog with boots of purest gold appeared. The night couldn’t get any stranger, she shrugged. She was wrong.
The dog seemed to be urging her to jump on its back. She clambered on and was surprised to find how unsurprised she was when the dog flew down the street and stopped outside Lucan’s Leather, a shoe shop. She tried the door. It was locked. She fumbled in her pocket for her lock picks and raised an eyebrow at the hound, which growled more with irritation than anger. “Right, I get it…”
And then she choked her words back as the clouds above the square parted and, impossibly on this slow summer evening, the moon shone brightly down, so much brighter than the sun that it almost blinded her. She felt rather than saw the swish of dark robes, the low droning chant of a ritual, and then a vision of the temple to Selûne. She felt fear and confusion race through her nervous system, by she noted them as if from a distance, realising these were not her feelings but belonged to someone else.
The frustration that followed was also another’s impulse as was a rising sense of urgency. It was as if she was a jerking marionette, tugged this way and that by the terrors of others. The chanting grew louder, the voices darker and suddenly one voice – so much deeper than that others – boomed out so loudly she felt sure the windows of the square would all shatter as its rumbling bass shook the foundations of every building and made her very bones rattle. “Protect the high diviner,” echoed through her soul. Sorrel fumbled for the symbol of Selûne Seraphina had given her and it seemed to glow with its own light and power.
And then it was gone.
She turned to the hound which watched her impatiently. A quick glance left and right showed no damage, just a warm sunset and slow-moving townsfolk enjoying the cool of the evening.
She arrived back at the warehouse in a daze and sat in silence for a long time, her companions gradually gathering around, until she realised they were the only people left in this vast, echoing space. Celina seemed preoccupied, Kelne was strangely excited, and Varga was proudly flexing.
As they moved towards the exit, she asked Baine – “who is the High Diviner?”
Baine gave a strange smirk. “The highest cleric of Selune… Rholor Vuzehk,” he paused, thought for a second. “He’s a real arsehole.”
As the others moved into the Daring Heights dusk, Sorrel peeled off and made her way to the temple square. She stood in a shadowy corner and watched people walk by then her eyes turned to the glowing grey sunset stone columns and worn stone stairs.
What was she supposed to do now?
---
Kavel’s Corner. Fort Ettin. One year later.
Kavel was one of Sorrel’s rocks – a strong comrade, a noble fighter and a kind friend. As she wandered, slightly dazed, from Sylvia’s bed she found her feet making their own way to his training corner, where she was surprised and delighted to two of his Iron Strong bro’s, Tim and Sampson, picking heavy weights up and putting them down again.
“They are called deadlifts,” Kavel told her.
She watched for a moment. “So, who is dead in this scenario? Is it for rescuing fallen comrades or clearing enemies from your path? I can’t work out why you’d only reach waist height…”
“No comrade Sorrel,” Kavel laughed mightily. “They increase core strength and stability, build up back strength, challenge the posterior chain muscles and test grip strength. The bar is adamantine.”
Sorrel nodded carefully.
“And now my bros are werewolves, they are able to lift much bigger weights,” Kavel beamed.
Sorrel turned, startled. Werewolves held a special fascination for Sorrel – and a precious place in the goddess’s heart. Her House unit was called the Wolf Pack as it had been founded by one of the moon touched. Now they were all dead, she was a lone wolf. She often wondered how it felt to lose yourself in the pack when the goddess reached her fullest power.
Kavel was talking about Kruger – another moon-touched goliath, missing since some temple escapade. Sorrel didn’t pick up all the details, she was too fascinated by the repetitive clanking of the bars and weights and hadn’t realised how picking something up and putting it back down could be so engrossing.
Others arrived – old comrades Derthaad and Gerhard and a druid called Levuka. She joined them as they searched temple, mountain and forest for Kruger, racing bounty hunters until they discovered him, huddled and horrified, ill at ease with the kiss of the moon touched.
The Middle of Nowhere. Time uncertain.
Sorrel could see Kavel was distressed at his bro’s misery. She crouched next to them and talked a little of the goddess and the moon-touched, how lycanthropy… sorry, Kavel, I should have said, it means being a werewolf… how being a werewolf was known in some places as Selûne’s Kiss. She suggested Kruger join her at the Temple of Selûne where he could have the Change removed or learn to love it. The party headed for Daring Heights.
--
Selûne’s Temple. Daring Heights. The following day.
The High Diviner himself, Rholor, an older gentleman with quiet authority and a magisterial bearing, spoke quietly with Kruger, Tim and Sampson by the altar while Sorrel and Kavel waited near the door. He prayed for Kruger. Sorrel saw the goliath’s shoulders ease. Then he spoke in stern, hushed tones with Tim and Sampson, who looked awkward but nodded, shamefaced, and moved towards the door.
Sorrel watched Kavel, his face impassive. She hoped he was OK. As he turned to follow his bros, she tried to take his arm, although her hand couldn’t find purchase on his vast, smooth muscles.
“How are you feeling Kavel?”
He was uncertain, he explained, and worried for Kruger. “I think he feels he has let us down and is not our equal anymore,” Kavel’s voice rumbled. “But he is. He is very strong and belongs with his bros.”
Sorrel smiled at how Kavel saw his problems as so easily solved and how honestly he set about overcoming them. If she could choose anyone at her back when the final battle came, it would be him.
And then, to her surprise, he asked about her problems.
She talked a little about the sleeping and the dreams. She didn’t discuss the jungle or the Abyss in too much detail. They seemed so far away sitting in the brightly lit temple surround by the peace of the goddess. Kavel seemed to sense there was more. He nodded slowly, put his head on one side and smiled.
“You are welcome to stay with me and the bros, if you aren’t sleeping well.”
Sorrel beamed. “I’ll bear it in mind.”
“Hey, Sorrel, I forgot, I have something for you,” Kavel opened his bag, and pulled out two pairs of his heavy clubs. Two of them, he explained, were the same weight she used when he first showed her single hand drills. “Now you have a pair for double drills, and as well as that, I made two other pairs in the next weight up. When she got used to the next pair up, the lighter pair would be good for warm ups and rehabilitative work. All four of the clubs I made myself with my wood carving skills. I carved the weight into each of them, and look!” he showed her a neat little cartoon face of a hooded and masked Sorrel on each club. “All lacquered, too.”
Sorrel stared at the clubs and reached to touch them with the tips of her fingers, tracing the patterns he had so painstakingly carved into them. The lines were so carefully etched, she could almost see Kavel bent over the wood, awl in hand, concentrating on making each line perfect. It must have taken him hours just to carve one club.
She looked up at him as he smiled uncertainly down at her. Despite his broad shoulders and heavy weapons, he looked almost boyishly vulnerable, offering up this gift.
Sorrel’s whole life had been a series of transactions, her relationships a collection of roles and definitions from the moment she realised her parents had sold her. She had comrades, colleagues, lovers, clients, victims – sometimes all the same person - but she had never had someone who gave without expecting anything in return.
Her throat tightened and her eyes misted. She hadn’t wept when she left home, when Sana died, when the Hunger Spirit infected her – she could not actually remember if she had ever wept in her life. But she could feel tears rising.
She placed her hand on Kavel’s mighty shoulder and struggled to speak. “Thank you Kavel,” she searched for a way to show how much the gift meant to her and realised she had found something new in her life. There was a word for it, a word she had never said before. “You are my brother.”
Then she turned her face away so Kavel wouldn’t see her fighting back the tears.
She felt Kavel take her hand from his shoulder then felt his vast arms enfold her as he hugged her tightly, lifting her from the floor. The tears came but so did an insane, childish smile, and she was laughing not crying. He whispered in her ear “yeah, you are my human sister.”
They stayed that way for some time, then Kavel gently put her down. “Come training again?” She nodded, dumbly, and he gave a cheery wave as he wandered back out in search of his bros.
Then Sorrel heard a loud crash from deep in the temple. Doors slammed. Footsteps clattered up and down stairs.
She let the sounds wash over her, enjoying the peace and warmth of a friend and carefully examining her clubs, marvelling at Kavel’s portrait of her when a young woman carrying a light silver staff seemed to shimmer into existence in front of her.
“Sorrel Darkfire?”
Sorrel nodded.
“I’m Melissa, the High Diviner’s apprentice. We need your help. Urgently. Don’t ask questions. Just get a team together – time is of the essence.”
Sorrel hesitated.
“Why are you hesitating? Time is of the essence.”
“Yes, but…”
“Why are you asking questions? Do you need me to go through the whole thing again? We need your help. Urgently. Don’t ask questions. Just get a team together – time is of the essence.”
“Right,” Sorrel turned towards the door. “Back before you..,”
“Stay not upon the order of your going, just go!”
“Now you’re just making things more confusing.”
---
The Street Outside Selûne’s Temple. Daring Heights. One minute later.
Sorrel ran into the street crying – “adventurers? Any adventurers? Bueller? Anyone?”
Her eyes fell on a tall handsome Eladrin with golden hair, all clad in golden armour, with two mighty swords, a large book tied to shoulder and what appeared to be an enormous hangover.
“I am Iorveth!” he cried.
“I have the opportunity of a lifetime for you, my adventurer friend,” Sorrel grabbed him by the armour. “Have you ever heard of the moon?”
“I have indeed.”
“Then you qualify! Congratulations! That temple over there? See you inside.”
And then a friendly face. Well, a face she knew. Tayz wasn’t the dictionary definition of friendly. But that wasn’t important right now. Wearing unfeasibly large and complicated plate mail, the raven aarakocra was looking studious and yet overly weighed down.
“Tayz!” Sorrel called. “You’re always up for adventure and saving lives and stuff.”
“That I am!” Tayz replied, staggering under the weight of the plate. “My motto is – with Tayz on your team you shall not fall.”
Sorrel watched him battle gravity dubiously then shrugged. “Well, either way I have a job for you…”
After Tayz had clanked very slowly away, Sorrel pushed through the crowds of shoppers, searching everywhere, calling for the young soul rebels until she saw them. Zola! And someone else!
The drow’s curved longswords matched her thick wavy hair, and her crystal crown set off her muscles perfectly. Cor’Vandor, her steed, nuzzled her back. Beside her was some splint armour, a winter cloak, gloves, boots, a shield and around 10 different axes arranged on... Sorrel blinked. It certainly looked halfling height but if it hadn’t been walking she might have mistaken it for an axe cloakroom.
“Zola!” Sorrel yelled gleefully. “And…. Your friend would be?”
“I am Marto Copperkettle,” the axes said, and Sorrel bowed. “Sorrel Darkfire, at your service and your families. Long story short Zola, bad shit going down at the Temple of Selûne, putting a team together, you dig the moon goddess, you in?”
Marto seemed to flinch at the name Selûne, but both nodded grimly, drew weapons and hurried after her.
Selûne’s Temple. Daring Heights. Ten minutes later.
They gathered on the stairs outside the temple and watched Tayz clamber up one step at a time.
“I wonder if we should…” Iorveth began as Tayz hauled another leg up using both arms.
The others waited. Another foot crashed onto stone with a grunt of straining aarakocra as an eloquent echo.
“It’s not important,” Iorveth settled down and rested his chin in his hands as Tayz tried to build up the momentum for the next step.
Eventually they all entered the temple - white sandstone and silver pews surrounding a reflective pool where Melissa was waiting. She saw them, nodded to a cleric who disappeared, returning with Rholor just as Tayz made it across the temple floor.
“This is my parish and flock,” he voice boomed out as he briefed them with the rolling cadence of a voice more used to sermons than conversation. A priest of this flock had sent a note saying - something is lying in wait intending to strike.
Rholor admitted the priest was prone to alarmist exaggeration but asked if the party wouldn’t mind popping along.
Sorrel felt confused. She was certain this was the beginning of her vision in some way – she could feel ancient wisps of some music from the first notes of time sound deep within her, echoing the harmonies of her calling. And yet, was she to leave the High Diviner unprotected?
As she pondered, she became aware of brewing tension between Iorveth and Rholor, a seething testosterone fuelled territorial chest beating that surprised her coming from the elegant Eladrin and high-minded holy man. It would appear boys would be boys even if one was so close to the godhead he was a whisker away from being canonised and the other a beautiful child of the feywild used to boundless magic. They still had dicks to swing.
Rholor handed out silver chains touched with the magic of the moon – although Iorveth refused his – and they headed out in search of… something….
“Hang on,” Tayz called. “I think I might take this armour off first.”
---
The Road. Later that evening.
As they crested a hill, they saw flames and smoke billowing from a small village just a few fields away from the road and heard screams of pain echoing against the hillside. As they ran forward, drawing weapons, Tayz took to the air to scout what lay ahead.
The flames licked towards him as if they were living creatures and his feathers started to singe but he saw the lines of fire had carved out a pattern so precise it was clearly a rune or sigil of some kind. It was as if ancient summoning magic had erupted from an autumn field burning.
Tayz scribbled a rough drawing of the shape then dived to the ground as the party stepped over the edges of the flames
A corner of Hell. Evening.
In the centre of the circle lay a corpse, a man’s body completely eviscerated, his stomach, heart and lungs spilling out onto the mud, his arms holding them as if trying to force them back into his torn body.
A shape crouched on top of this human wreckage and as they approached it seemed to unravel in an impossible series of folds and jerks, pulling its form through strange dimensions, assembling strands of madness into animal form until it assumed a vaguely humanoid shape, its arms unfolding and unfolding with smooth, oily, whale-like surfaces as they stretched into fearsome, unnatural limbs with long slim curving claws at the end. And then the creature smiled. There was something so wrong, so perverted about that distended leer as it grew wider and wider, pushing the beat’s face out into unthinkable proportions.
And then the mouth open, yawning wide into a cavernous maw of foetid evil. “Oh goody,” the creature’s voice was blasphemous to its core. “More snacks.”
Sorrel heard another voice in her head, a rising, droning chanting voice reciting like a ritual:
“They come to eat the flesh of champions, and the flesh of holy men, and the flesh of humble clerics, and the flesh of silver light, and of them that serve it…”
“Eat this, chuckles,” Sorrel spat, unleashing an arrow laced with lightning that crackled with power and slammed into the fiend with immense force, followed by two more tightly targeted shafts that sank into its unholy flesh.
The creature shook itself and sniggered, gesturing into the night with arcane patterns and summoning a giant horse snatched from nightmares, wreathed in flames, with steel clad hooves that crashed down on Sorrel’s collar bone trying to disable her fighting arm. Flames and smoke coiled in towards the party like tentacles of hellfire, choking them as they fought.
Zola screamed in fury and attacked, her blades dancing in the moonlight as she rode down the devil on her ferocious steed.
The beasts unfeasibly long arms snaked out with terrifying speed, hauling Zola from the saddle as Iorveth and Marto flew into the fray.
Fey magic flowed through Sorrel’s veins as she called on her wyrd sister to lift her to safety then murmured a prayer to the goddess, took careful aim and sent two shafts flying through the night into the fiend’s heart, one following the other as holy radiance enveloped her bow and the beast screeched in pain and rage.
It waved its arms and another nightmare appeared, bearing down on the party with flames bursting from hoof and mouth.
Then, in the darkness just outside the ring of fire, Sorrel caught sight of figure shrouded in darkness, watching the battle unfold. Marto faltered, clutching her head, Iorveth hurtled forward then slipped and missed, Tayz felt his prayer of battle crushed by the power of evil and Sorrel staggered under a mysterious force, her arrows firing wild.
Just as it seemed the battle was turning against them, Zola impaled the fiend with a gleaming blade, sending lines of power down into its battered torso until it erupted into boiling flesh and charred bone, then collapsing into a mound of bubbling tissue.
Sorrel heard its voice in her head – “I will see you soon” – as she sprinted towards the strange figure outside the flames. But the figure dismissed the nightmares with a gesture and faded into the night.
---
Aftermath
Sorrel’s two years in the jungles of Chult fighting rearguard for Duke Alaric’s Folly, as the Tethyrian aristocrat’s misguided attempt to reform the Knights of the Shield became known, had taught her about fiends.
The half-made paladins and wannabe knights of his army tried to regain control of the Wyrms Throne but… she shuddered again… bearded devils, bone devils, chain devils…. She had never seen such carnage, so many young lives thrown away, so many imagined heroes turn to weeping schoolboys in the last few seconds of their short lives.
It took a particular kind of battle fury to face these fiends. The rearguard was made of the darkest warriors, those who matched hell itself with their disregard for mercy or quarter, killers who knew the art of battle and had no fear of death. This unit was feared as much by the Duke’s force as it was by the devils themselves – few in this world or the next had seen such a band of pitiless and relentless killers fight so efficiently together.
Sorrel had been deep reconnaissance for this force. In a four strong fireteam she had roamed the jungles at will, hunting down stragglers and doing her best to protect the weakest in the fleeing army. She lost count of the number of lockets she had promised a dying soldier she would deliver to his home. And though she had some rudimentary battlefield medicine skills, she had never seen such brutality inflicted on mortal bodies. She had rarely hated her enemy so violently and relished killing so much. And whilst, to be fair, she did tend towards the violent hating and love of killing in general, her top ten was very hard to get into. If there were devils in the Dawnlands the months ahead would be dark, killing months.
She helped her comrades gather the dead priest’s mortal remains and they headed back, the fires roaring and bellowing into the blackened sky behind them as they trudged towards a hill for a moment of respite.
Their steps were heavy with the weight of the horror: innocents murdered at the hands of fiends, their farmlands and bodies burned. They had failed to save the man they came to protect. The shrouded figure had withdrawn, unharmed. The defeated fiend had pledged to see Sorrel again.
This was a skirmish.
The battle had barely started.
War was coming. And to lose would be worse than death.
Plot revealing apres quest RP in Narrative Write ups - Heal Thyself by Zola Oussviir
His bright, gleaming eyes bored into her, his impossibly wide smile stretched out into nightmares as his spindly claws reached out towards her and it spoke with a voice drawn from the depths of hell - “I will see you soon.”
This was only the beginning of the horror.
---
One year earlier. The night after Ascension. Daring Heights.
As Varga dived into her pit fighting, Kelne pursued the halfling Tricky Otto and Celina was handed mysterious notes by strange Tieflings, the heavy drinking, intense atmosphere started playing tricks with Sorrel’s vision. She stepped outside for some fresh air and - it’s a sign of how troubled she was that she considered this unremarkable – a giant dog with boots of purest gold appeared. The night couldn’t get any stranger, she shrugged. She was wrong.
The dog seemed to be urging her to jump on its back. She clambered on and was surprised to find how unsurprised she was when the dog flew down the street and stopped outside Lucan’s Leather, a shoe shop. She tried the door. It was locked. She fumbled in her pocket for her lock picks and raised an eyebrow at the hound, which growled more with irritation than anger. “Right, I get it…”
And then she choked her words back as the clouds above the square parted and, impossibly on this slow summer evening, the moon shone brightly down, so much brighter than the sun that it almost blinded her. She felt rather than saw the swish of dark robes, the low droning chant of a ritual, and then a vision of the temple to Selûne. She felt fear and confusion race through her nervous system, by she noted them as if from a distance, realising these were not her feelings but belonged to someone else.
The frustration that followed was also another’s impulse as was a rising sense of urgency. It was as if she was a jerking marionette, tugged this way and that by the terrors of others. The chanting grew louder, the voices darker and suddenly one voice – so much deeper than that others – boomed out so loudly she felt sure the windows of the square would all shatter as its rumbling bass shook the foundations of every building and made her very bones rattle. “Protect the high diviner,” echoed through her soul. Sorrel fumbled for the symbol of Selûne Seraphina had given her and it seemed to glow with its own light and power.
And then it was gone.
She turned to the hound which watched her impatiently. A quick glance left and right showed no damage, just a warm sunset and slow-moving townsfolk enjoying the cool of the evening.
She arrived back at the warehouse in a daze and sat in silence for a long time, her companions gradually gathering around, until she realised they were the only people left in this vast, echoing space. Celina seemed preoccupied, Kelne was strangely excited, and Varga was proudly flexing.
As they moved towards the exit, she asked Baine – “who is the High Diviner?”
Baine gave a strange smirk. “The highest cleric of Selune… Rholor Vuzehk,” he paused, thought for a second. “He’s a real arsehole.”
As the others moved into the Daring Heights dusk, Sorrel peeled off and made her way to the temple square. She stood in a shadowy corner and watched people walk by then her eyes turned to the glowing grey sunset stone columns and worn stone stairs.
What was she supposed to do now?
---
Kavel’s Corner. Fort Ettin. One year later.
Kavel was one of Sorrel’s rocks – a strong comrade, a noble fighter and a kind friend. As she wandered, slightly dazed, from Sylvia’s bed she found her feet making their own way to his training corner, where she was surprised and delighted to two of his Iron Strong bro’s, Tim and Sampson, picking heavy weights up and putting them down again.
“They are called deadlifts,” Kavel told her.
She watched for a moment. “So, who is dead in this scenario? Is it for rescuing fallen comrades or clearing enemies from your path? I can’t work out why you’d only reach waist height…”
“No comrade Sorrel,” Kavel laughed mightily. “They increase core strength and stability, build up back strength, challenge the posterior chain muscles and test grip strength. The bar is adamantine.”
Sorrel nodded carefully.
“And now my bros are werewolves, they are able to lift much bigger weights,” Kavel beamed.
Sorrel turned, startled. Werewolves held a special fascination for Sorrel – and a precious place in the goddess’s heart. Her House unit was called the Wolf Pack as it had been founded by one of the moon touched. Now they were all dead, she was a lone wolf. She often wondered how it felt to lose yourself in the pack when the goddess reached her fullest power.
Kavel was talking about Kruger – another moon-touched goliath, missing since some temple escapade. Sorrel didn’t pick up all the details, she was too fascinated by the repetitive clanking of the bars and weights and hadn’t realised how picking something up and putting it back down could be so engrossing.
Others arrived – old comrades Derthaad and Gerhard and a druid called Levuka. She joined them as they searched temple, mountain and forest for Kruger, racing bounty hunters until they discovered him, huddled and horrified, ill at ease with the kiss of the moon touched.
The Middle of Nowhere. Time uncertain.
Sorrel could see Kavel was distressed at his bro’s misery. She crouched next to them and talked a little of the goddess and the moon-touched, how lycanthropy… sorry, Kavel, I should have said, it means being a werewolf… how being a werewolf was known in some places as Selûne’s Kiss. She suggested Kruger join her at the Temple of Selûne where he could have the Change removed or learn to love it. The party headed for Daring Heights.
--
Selûne’s Temple. Daring Heights. The following day.
The High Diviner himself, Rholor, an older gentleman with quiet authority and a magisterial bearing, spoke quietly with Kruger, Tim and Sampson by the altar while Sorrel and Kavel waited near the door. He prayed for Kruger. Sorrel saw the goliath’s shoulders ease. Then he spoke in stern, hushed tones with Tim and Sampson, who looked awkward but nodded, shamefaced, and moved towards the door.
Sorrel watched Kavel, his face impassive. She hoped he was OK. As he turned to follow his bros, she tried to take his arm, although her hand couldn’t find purchase on his vast, smooth muscles.
“How are you feeling Kavel?”
He was uncertain, he explained, and worried for Kruger. “I think he feels he has let us down and is not our equal anymore,” Kavel’s voice rumbled. “But he is. He is very strong and belongs with his bros.”
Sorrel smiled at how Kavel saw his problems as so easily solved and how honestly he set about overcoming them. If she could choose anyone at her back when the final battle came, it would be him.
And then, to her surprise, he asked about her problems.
She talked a little about the sleeping and the dreams. She didn’t discuss the jungle or the Abyss in too much detail. They seemed so far away sitting in the brightly lit temple surround by the peace of the goddess. Kavel seemed to sense there was more. He nodded slowly, put his head on one side and smiled.
“You are welcome to stay with me and the bros, if you aren’t sleeping well.”
Sorrel beamed. “I’ll bear it in mind.”
“Hey, Sorrel, I forgot, I have something for you,” Kavel opened his bag, and pulled out two pairs of his heavy clubs. Two of them, he explained, were the same weight she used when he first showed her single hand drills. “Now you have a pair for double drills, and as well as that, I made two other pairs in the next weight up. When she got used to the next pair up, the lighter pair would be good for warm ups and rehabilitative work. All four of the clubs I made myself with my wood carving skills. I carved the weight into each of them, and look!” he showed her a neat little cartoon face of a hooded and masked Sorrel on each club. “All lacquered, too.”
Sorrel stared at the clubs and reached to touch them with the tips of her fingers, tracing the patterns he had so painstakingly carved into them. The lines were so carefully etched, she could almost see Kavel bent over the wood, awl in hand, concentrating on making each line perfect. It must have taken him hours just to carve one club.
She looked up at him as he smiled uncertainly down at her. Despite his broad shoulders and heavy weapons, he looked almost boyishly vulnerable, offering up this gift.
Sorrel’s whole life had been a series of transactions, her relationships a collection of roles and definitions from the moment she realised her parents had sold her. She had comrades, colleagues, lovers, clients, victims – sometimes all the same person - but she had never had someone who gave without expecting anything in return.
Her throat tightened and her eyes misted. She hadn’t wept when she left home, when Sana died, when the Hunger Spirit infected her – she could not actually remember if she had ever wept in her life. But she could feel tears rising.
She placed her hand on Kavel’s mighty shoulder and struggled to speak. “Thank you Kavel,” she searched for a way to show how much the gift meant to her and realised she had found something new in her life. There was a word for it, a word she had never said before. “You are my brother.”
Then she turned her face away so Kavel wouldn’t see her fighting back the tears.
She felt Kavel take her hand from his shoulder then felt his vast arms enfold her as he hugged her tightly, lifting her from the floor. The tears came but so did an insane, childish smile, and she was laughing not crying. He whispered in her ear “yeah, you are my human sister.”
They stayed that way for some time, then Kavel gently put her down. “Come training again?” She nodded, dumbly, and he gave a cheery wave as he wandered back out in search of his bros.
Then Sorrel heard a loud crash from deep in the temple. Doors slammed. Footsteps clattered up and down stairs.
She let the sounds wash over her, enjoying the peace and warmth of a friend and carefully examining her clubs, marvelling at Kavel’s portrait of her when a young woman carrying a light silver staff seemed to shimmer into existence in front of her.
“Sorrel Darkfire?”
Sorrel nodded.
“I’m Melissa, the High Diviner’s apprentice. We need your help. Urgently. Don’t ask questions. Just get a team together – time is of the essence.”
Sorrel hesitated.
“Why are you hesitating? Time is of the essence.”
“Yes, but…”
“Why are you asking questions? Do you need me to go through the whole thing again? We need your help. Urgently. Don’t ask questions. Just get a team together – time is of the essence.”
“Right,” Sorrel turned towards the door. “Back before you..,”
“Stay not upon the order of your going, just go!”
“Now you’re just making things more confusing.”
---
The Street Outside Selûne’s Temple. Daring Heights. One minute later.
Sorrel ran into the street crying – “adventurers? Any adventurers? Bueller? Anyone?”
Her eyes fell on a tall handsome Eladrin with golden hair, all clad in golden armour, with two mighty swords, a large book tied to shoulder and what appeared to be an enormous hangover.
“I am Iorveth!” he cried.
“I have the opportunity of a lifetime for you, my adventurer friend,” Sorrel grabbed him by the armour. “Have you ever heard of the moon?”
“I have indeed.”
“Then you qualify! Congratulations! That temple over there? See you inside.”
And then a friendly face. Well, a face she knew. Tayz wasn’t the dictionary definition of friendly. But that wasn’t important right now. Wearing unfeasibly large and complicated plate mail, the raven aarakocra was looking studious and yet overly weighed down.
“Tayz!” Sorrel called. “You’re always up for adventure and saving lives and stuff.”
“That I am!” Tayz replied, staggering under the weight of the plate. “My motto is – with Tayz on your team you shall not fall.”
Sorrel watched him battle gravity dubiously then shrugged. “Well, either way I have a job for you…”
After Tayz had clanked very slowly away, Sorrel pushed through the crowds of shoppers, searching everywhere, calling for the young soul rebels until she saw them. Zola! And someone else!
The drow’s curved longswords matched her thick wavy hair, and her crystal crown set off her muscles perfectly. Cor’Vandor, her steed, nuzzled her back. Beside her was some splint armour, a winter cloak, gloves, boots, a shield and around 10 different axes arranged on... Sorrel blinked. It certainly looked halfling height but if it hadn’t been walking she might have mistaken it for an axe cloakroom.
“Zola!” Sorrel yelled gleefully. “And…. Your friend would be?”
“I am Marto Copperkettle,” the axes said, and Sorrel bowed. “Sorrel Darkfire, at your service and your families. Long story short Zola, bad shit going down at the Temple of Selûne, putting a team together, you dig the moon goddess, you in?”
Marto seemed to flinch at the name Selûne, but both nodded grimly, drew weapons and hurried after her.
Selûne’s Temple. Daring Heights. Ten minutes later.
They gathered on the stairs outside the temple and watched Tayz clamber up one step at a time.
“I wonder if we should…” Iorveth began as Tayz hauled another leg up using both arms.
The others waited. Another foot crashed onto stone with a grunt of straining aarakocra as an eloquent echo.
“It’s not important,” Iorveth settled down and rested his chin in his hands as Tayz tried to build up the momentum for the next step.
Eventually they all entered the temple - white sandstone and silver pews surrounding a reflective pool where Melissa was waiting. She saw them, nodded to a cleric who disappeared, returning with Rholor just as Tayz made it across the temple floor.
“This is my parish and flock,” he voice boomed out as he briefed them with the rolling cadence of a voice more used to sermons than conversation. A priest of this flock had sent a note saying - something is lying in wait intending to strike.
Rholor admitted the priest was prone to alarmist exaggeration but asked if the party wouldn’t mind popping along.
Sorrel felt confused. She was certain this was the beginning of her vision in some way – she could feel ancient wisps of some music from the first notes of time sound deep within her, echoing the harmonies of her calling. And yet, was she to leave the High Diviner unprotected?
As she pondered, she became aware of brewing tension between Iorveth and Rholor, a seething testosterone fuelled territorial chest beating that surprised her coming from the elegant Eladrin and high-minded holy man. It would appear boys would be boys even if one was so close to the godhead he was a whisker away from being canonised and the other a beautiful child of the feywild used to boundless magic. They still had dicks to swing.
Rholor handed out silver chains touched with the magic of the moon – although Iorveth refused his – and they headed out in search of… something….
“Hang on,” Tayz called. “I think I might take this armour off first.”
---
The Road. Later that evening.
As they crested a hill, they saw flames and smoke billowing from a small village just a few fields away from the road and heard screams of pain echoing against the hillside. As they ran forward, drawing weapons, Tayz took to the air to scout what lay ahead.
The flames licked towards him as if they were living creatures and his feathers started to singe but he saw the lines of fire had carved out a pattern so precise it was clearly a rune or sigil of some kind. It was as if ancient summoning magic had erupted from an autumn field burning.
Tayz scribbled a rough drawing of the shape then dived to the ground as the party stepped over the edges of the flames
A corner of Hell. Evening.
In the centre of the circle lay a corpse, a man’s body completely eviscerated, his stomach, heart and lungs spilling out onto the mud, his arms holding them as if trying to force them back into his torn body.
A shape crouched on top of this human wreckage and as they approached it seemed to unravel in an impossible series of folds and jerks, pulling its form through strange dimensions, assembling strands of madness into animal form until it assumed a vaguely humanoid shape, its arms unfolding and unfolding with smooth, oily, whale-like surfaces as they stretched into fearsome, unnatural limbs with long slim curving claws at the end. And then the creature smiled. There was something so wrong, so perverted about that distended leer as it grew wider and wider, pushing the beat’s face out into unthinkable proportions.
And then the mouth open, yawning wide into a cavernous maw of foetid evil. “Oh goody,” the creature’s voice was blasphemous to its core. “More snacks.”
Sorrel heard another voice in her head, a rising, droning chanting voice reciting like a ritual:
“They come to eat the flesh of champions, and the flesh of holy men, and the flesh of humble clerics, and the flesh of silver light, and of them that serve it…”
“Eat this, chuckles,” Sorrel spat, unleashing an arrow laced with lightning that crackled with power and slammed into the fiend with immense force, followed by two more tightly targeted shafts that sank into its unholy flesh.
The creature shook itself and sniggered, gesturing into the night with arcane patterns and summoning a giant horse snatched from nightmares, wreathed in flames, with steel clad hooves that crashed down on Sorrel’s collar bone trying to disable her fighting arm. Flames and smoke coiled in towards the party like tentacles of hellfire, choking them as they fought.
Zola screamed in fury and attacked, her blades dancing in the moonlight as she rode down the devil on her ferocious steed.
The beasts unfeasibly long arms snaked out with terrifying speed, hauling Zola from the saddle as Iorveth and Marto flew into the fray.
Fey magic flowed through Sorrel’s veins as she called on her wyrd sister to lift her to safety then murmured a prayer to the goddess, took careful aim and sent two shafts flying through the night into the fiend’s heart, one following the other as holy radiance enveloped her bow and the beast screeched in pain and rage.
It waved its arms and another nightmare appeared, bearing down on the party with flames bursting from hoof and mouth.
Then, in the darkness just outside the ring of fire, Sorrel caught sight of figure shrouded in darkness, watching the battle unfold. Marto faltered, clutching her head, Iorveth hurtled forward then slipped and missed, Tayz felt his prayer of battle crushed by the power of evil and Sorrel staggered under a mysterious force, her arrows firing wild.
Just as it seemed the battle was turning against them, Zola impaled the fiend with a gleaming blade, sending lines of power down into its battered torso until it erupted into boiling flesh and charred bone, then collapsing into a mound of bubbling tissue.
Sorrel heard its voice in her head – “I will see you soon” – as she sprinted towards the strange figure outside the flames. But the figure dismissed the nightmares with a gesture and faded into the night.
---
Aftermath
Sorrel’s two years in the jungles of Chult fighting rearguard for Duke Alaric’s Folly, as the Tethyrian aristocrat’s misguided attempt to reform the Knights of the Shield became known, had taught her about fiends.
The half-made paladins and wannabe knights of his army tried to regain control of the Wyrms Throne but… she shuddered again… bearded devils, bone devils, chain devils…. She had never seen such carnage, so many young lives thrown away, so many imagined heroes turn to weeping schoolboys in the last few seconds of their short lives.
It took a particular kind of battle fury to face these fiends. The rearguard was made of the darkest warriors, those who matched hell itself with their disregard for mercy or quarter, killers who knew the art of battle and had no fear of death. This unit was feared as much by the Duke’s force as it was by the devils themselves – few in this world or the next had seen such a band of pitiless and relentless killers fight so efficiently together.
Sorrel had been deep reconnaissance for this force. In a four strong fireteam she had roamed the jungles at will, hunting down stragglers and doing her best to protect the weakest in the fleeing army. She lost count of the number of lockets she had promised a dying soldier she would deliver to his home. And though she had some rudimentary battlefield medicine skills, she had never seen such brutality inflicted on mortal bodies. She had rarely hated her enemy so violently and relished killing so much. And whilst, to be fair, she did tend towards the violent hating and love of killing in general, her top ten was very hard to get into. If there were devils in the Dawnlands the months ahead would be dark, killing months.
She helped her comrades gather the dead priest’s mortal remains and they headed back, the fires roaring and bellowing into the blackened sky behind them as they trudged towards a hill for a moment of respite.
Their steps were heavy with the weight of the horror: innocents murdered at the hands of fiends, their farmlands and bodies burned. They had failed to save the man they came to protect. The shrouded figure had withdrawn, unharmed. The defeated fiend had pledged to see Sorrel again.
This was a skirmish.
The battle had barely started.
War was coming. And to lose would be worse than death.
Plot revealing apres quest RP in Narrative Write ups - Heal Thyself by Zola Oussviir
