The calm between the storms
Mar 19, 2022 12:41:14 GMT
Jaezred Vandree, Velania Kalugina, and 2 more like this
Post by Varga on Mar 19, 2022 12:41:14 GMT
Continued from A Catastrophic Day and The Adventure of the Robbed Tomb
Co-written by me, most of the writing done by the wonderful Lykksie
Varga was hungover (awful but also nice because Varga is cool like that, drinking is it's own battle), walking home after a maritime caper with Ivan, Celina and others.
"Wonder if Iorveth found something on those fiends…" Varga thought as she was walking down the dusty road to Daring Heights. "They're all very sexy. Must be a patter there. I should tell him about how we flew from one ship to another. Maybe he'll write a song about it!"
The road was nice and peaceful, which did give her a bit of a headache. Spring was slooowly creeping back into the Dawnlands. It was that calm that happens when a fight is over and you're the last one standing. Then slowly, an hour or two in, the calm disappeared, little by little. There was tension in the air, like when birds and animals in the forest go quiet and you know something is creeping up on you. Or maybe it was just Varga sobering up.
Out of the corner of Varga's eye she thought she saw a flash of red but every time she turned her head to look, there was nothing there. She dug deep within, until she found that pulsing sense of religious self-righteousness that often drew her in one place or another to follow loot and mayhem. It was quiet though.
"Doesn’t seem like a divine intervention… Must be just a roadside ambush. Great, left one fight and into another!" She thought cheerfully. She pulled out her weapons and continued on her way, sometimes kicking up a small cloud of dust with her flail. Running around looking for a fight seemed like too much of an effort, so she reasoned that whoever tried to ambush her would go all the way and would try to killing themselves by attacking her.
Nothing else happened for another hour, maybe. The feeling of tension and the occasional flash of red were all there was to it. But then suddenly, a bolt of lightning from clear skies slammed into the ground the east, on the path behind her. It was almost close enough that her ears rang and the ground shook. When she turned to look, a small flame was springing up from the dirt, growing steadily higher. As Varga stared at the flame, she could feel her body stiffen, ever muscle seizing up until she stood like a statue on the path. The fire shot forward in a straight line towards her and solidified into the form of a woman with grey skin and large amber eyes.
She stepped in close, stroking a gentle fingertip down Varga's cheek and whispered both with her voice and in Varga's mind.
"You. You are a strong one. Wild. Fierce. Brutal."
Varga couldn't move, but concentrated on thinking, trying not to blush at the complements.
"You’re still very polite."
Rahmiel smiled back.
"I am. But only to those who deserve it. And while some might take offence to being slain in combat, I am merely impressed. You fought well, Varga."
She leaned in even closer, whispering in Varga's ear.
It struck Varga that while she herself couldn't move, Rahmiel wasn't really there - her form is incorporeal, like the incubus in Kul'Goran, whom Zola's senses didn't pick up as a fiend.
"Thanks, you took it very well. Very uhm… appropriate for a warrior." She couldn't help herself thinking, her blush deepening.
Rahmiel's expression changed, and she spoke again with the same prophetic tone of voice she used in the tomb, like she was quoting scripture.
"They have persevered and have endured hardships for her name, and have not grown weary, and they will conquer by the blades and by the ash of their testimony."
She pulled back and her eyes were glowing with fire.
"I could use someone like you, Varga. To fight for me. To join me at my side. I could show you glory in battle such as you have never seen before. And you would be rewarded with riches beyond reckoning. What say you?"
"Sounds like fun! But you seem to fight for a god. You keep quoting her. I need to commune with mine to make sure we’re not supposed to fight. Cause I just got a blessing, would be very rude of me to throw it away."
Rahmiel smiled at Varga benevolently, reassuringly, compassion and understanding in her eyes.
"I admire your dedication. While I am assured that your Lord and my Lady bear no ill will towards one another, I welcome you to seek that same reassurance on your own."
Varga was immediately very suspicious of being looked at with compassion, but the suspicion was but a fleeting moment of doubt.
"Perhaps I’ve interpreted excitement as compassion. Easy mistake," she thought to herself, then looked back at Rahmiel. "Well, that might take a while cause it’s not like there are shamans around. This place is a bit prejudiced…"
"The assurance of those truly faithful is never far, Varga. When you find it, I will find you." She leaned in and pressed the lightest of kisses on Varga's cheek.
It burned like searing fire on her cheek and shot down her neck, onto her back, across her shoulder blades and round to rest on the left side of her rib cage, burning painfully for a second, before melting away.
"I'll see you soon," Rahmiel winked.
A wind picked up and in a woosh, her form flickered and faded, carried away on the wind like smoke.
Suddenly, Varga was free to move again. She looked around, puzzled.
"I am going on a raid with Ivan prior to my EVERY birthday from now on! Cool shit just keeps happening!” She said out loud, still turning around, as if expecting Rahmiel to return.
There was no evidence that she was ever there, except for a persistent burning in Varga's left side. The half-orc lifted her cloak and shirt and checked. Branded into her side, there was a familiar sign, maybe 4 inches long, still hot to the touch.
"Oh, cool, I now have a living reminder of how it looks! Can show it to Iorveth if he forgot. Oh wait, she’s with the guy who hates Dawnlands… daaaamn, what if our raiding views differ? She’s so cool tho! Ah, something to think when I’m more sober. Or more drunk."
She walked on, and the closer she was getting to Daring Heights, the louder she could hear the words Baine once told her over a bout of fighting. They seemed to come from a person who actually experienced things. Bad things. Worked for the wrong people. And Varga couldn't help but wonder – did she just accidentally forfeit her soul? That would make for quite a story!
Co-written by me, most of the writing done by the wonderful Lykksie
Varga was hungover (awful but also nice because Varga is cool like that, drinking is it's own battle), walking home after a maritime caper with Ivan, Celina and others.
"Wonder if Iorveth found something on those fiends…" Varga thought as she was walking down the dusty road to Daring Heights. "They're all very sexy. Must be a patter there. I should tell him about how we flew from one ship to another. Maybe he'll write a song about it!"
The road was nice and peaceful, which did give her a bit of a headache. Spring was slooowly creeping back into the Dawnlands. It was that calm that happens when a fight is over and you're the last one standing. Then slowly, an hour or two in, the calm disappeared, little by little. There was tension in the air, like when birds and animals in the forest go quiet and you know something is creeping up on you. Or maybe it was just Varga sobering up.
Out of the corner of Varga's eye she thought she saw a flash of red but every time she turned her head to look, there was nothing there. She dug deep within, until she found that pulsing sense of religious self-righteousness that often drew her in one place or another to follow loot and mayhem. It was quiet though.
"Doesn’t seem like a divine intervention… Must be just a roadside ambush. Great, left one fight and into another!" She thought cheerfully. She pulled out her weapons and continued on her way, sometimes kicking up a small cloud of dust with her flail. Running around looking for a fight seemed like too much of an effort, so she reasoned that whoever tried to ambush her would go all the way and would try to killing themselves by attacking her.
Nothing else happened for another hour, maybe. The feeling of tension and the occasional flash of red were all there was to it. But then suddenly, a bolt of lightning from clear skies slammed into the ground the east, on the path behind her. It was almost close enough that her ears rang and the ground shook. When she turned to look, a small flame was springing up from the dirt, growing steadily higher. As Varga stared at the flame, she could feel her body stiffen, ever muscle seizing up until she stood like a statue on the path. The fire shot forward in a straight line towards her and solidified into the form of a woman with grey skin and large amber eyes.
She stepped in close, stroking a gentle fingertip down Varga's cheek and whispered both with her voice and in Varga's mind.
"You. You are a strong one. Wild. Fierce. Brutal."
Varga couldn't move, but concentrated on thinking, trying not to blush at the complements.
"You’re still very polite."
Rahmiel smiled back.
"I am. But only to those who deserve it. And while some might take offence to being slain in combat, I am merely impressed. You fought well, Varga."
She leaned in even closer, whispering in Varga's ear.
It struck Varga that while she herself couldn't move, Rahmiel wasn't really there - her form is incorporeal, like the incubus in Kul'Goran, whom Zola's senses didn't pick up as a fiend.
"Thanks, you took it very well. Very uhm… appropriate for a warrior." She couldn't help herself thinking, her blush deepening.
Rahmiel's expression changed, and she spoke again with the same prophetic tone of voice she used in the tomb, like she was quoting scripture.
"They have persevered and have endured hardships for her name, and have not grown weary, and they will conquer by the blades and by the ash of their testimony."
She pulled back and her eyes were glowing with fire.
"I could use someone like you, Varga. To fight for me. To join me at my side. I could show you glory in battle such as you have never seen before. And you would be rewarded with riches beyond reckoning. What say you?"
"Sounds like fun! But you seem to fight for a god. You keep quoting her. I need to commune with mine to make sure we’re not supposed to fight. Cause I just got a blessing, would be very rude of me to throw it away."
Rahmiel smiled at Varga benevolently, reassuringly, compassion and understanding in her eyes.
"I admire your dedication. While I am assured that your Lord and my Lady bear no ill will towards one another, I welcome you to seek that same reassurance on your own."
Varga was immediately very suspicious of being looked at with compassion, but the suspicion was but a fleeting moment of doubt.
"Perhaps I’ve interpreted excitement as compassion. Easy mistake," she thought to herself, then looked back at Rahmiel. "Well, that might take a while cause it’s not like there are shamans around. This place is a bit prejudiced…"
"The assurance of those truly faithful is never far, Varga. When you find it, I will find you." She leaned in and pressed the lightest of kisses on Varga's cheek.
It burned like searing fire on her cheek and shot down her neck, onto her back, across her shoulder blades and round to rest on the left side of her rib cage, burning painfully for a second, before melting away.
"I'll see you soon," Rahmiel winked.
A wind picked up and in a woosh, her form flickered and faded, carried away on the wind like smoke.
Suddenly, Varga was free to move again. She looked around, puzzled.
"I am going on a raid with Ivan prior to my EVERY birthday from now on! Cool shit just keeps happening!” She said out loud, still turning around, as if expecting Rahmiel to return.
There was no evidence that she was ever there, except for a persistent burning in Varga's left side. The half-orc lifted her cloak and shirt and checked. Branded into her side, there was a familiar sign, maybe 4 inches long, still hot to the touch.
"Oh, cool, I now have a living reminder of how it looks! Can show it to Iorveth if he forgot. Oh wait, she’s with the guy who hates Dawnlands… daaaamn, what if our raiding views differ? She’s so cool tho! Ah, something to think when I’m more sober. Or more drunk."
She walked on, and the closer she was getting to Daring Heights, the louder she could hear the words Baine once told her over a bout of fighting. They seemed to come from a person who actually experienced things. Bad things. Worked for the wrong people. And Varga couldn't help but wonder – did she just accidentally forfeit her soul? That would make for quite a story!