The River – Marto Copperkettle – 11 & 18.05.2022

When I needed support, to feel the burn, to lift me up to new heights

Quick light feet make their way up Lupus Road in Castleside. It is starting to get warmer with each passing day. Now that Greengrass has come and gone the sun seems to shine stronger, brighter, and no place in Daring Heights shines as bright as the Feylight Garden Theatre.

Marto stops in his tracks. The thought that he may never see this place again, that he won’t get a chance to tell Merla everything properly, that the last his brother, sisters and parents would hear from him would be a short, unfeeling letter…

The young knight forces himself to pick up his pace again and head over to the open entrance. He is about to cross the threshold when he hears Beets’ voice coming from within.

“Who’s that old guy?”

He quickly backs up and ducks around the corner, praying to Yondalla the fairy barbarian didn’t see him. Nothing changes, no voices seem to rise in recognition or calling out to him. Marto seems to be in the clear.

Two children around ten years of age, twins, walk by, their shock of bright red, ginger hair vibrant in the early morning sun. The boy casts a glance in Marto’s direction whilst the girl looks ahead, clutching a displacer beast plushie in one arm. They seem distracted and the halfling wonders if they’re refugees from Kundar. They go inside, and Marto hears Pipper’s voice as she speaks to them.

Marto pulls out the letter. It would be better if he spoke to Merla, face to face, he knew, but he didn’t have time to wait. None of them did. It was speak now or forever hold your peace, as the saying went.

Guilt rises up in him but he quickly forcefully pushes it away. He was finally telling his sister what was happening. He was warning her of the danger their family was in because of him. He was still going to try to protect her even if she would argue it was him who needed protecting.

Taking a deep breath and straightening his shoulders, Marto listens carefully to ensure Beets, Pipper, and the others had gone before entering. He crosses the lobby towards the box office where two male drow, dressed in pristine black and white attire with stylish dark purple spectacles to protect their eyes accept his letter, promising to deliver it to the Queen of Harmony later that day.


Marto thinks about the dream. Not the recent ones. The first one. The one that set him on the path to trying the adventuring life. He thought of the voices speaking high above him, their different timbers ⁠— one of concern, one of derision, another of indifference, and another with scepticism. All of them flowing together in flashes and snippets that made no sense at the time. But now, thinking about it as one tries to do on half remembered dreams from months ago, he wonders if the voices he heard were the gods themselves.

He lets out a humourless chuckle. No, if the gods were to speak to anyone it wouldn’t have been him. He’s nobody. He’s just a stand in, a replacement for what had been lost.

But then the memory of soft, golden-red hair and a motherly hand on his shoulder makes him pause in his pacing of Portal Plaza. What did She say to him? If only he could remember. It was something important, wasn’t it? But he was lost, in more ways than one. No matter how much he wants to protect them, Marto wonders if he ever truly had the ability to do so. His addictive and pernicious relationship with Adhyël was wearing away at him. He had briefly thought it was love but quickly came to see how wrong he was. It was lust, pure and simple, carnal and instinctual, and the darkest feelings he has ever felt. And it was twisting him, changing him.

How can he face the corruption of his ability to love as it twists and turns against him, darkening his heart? Is this what he’s meant to be?

We are the bearers of the kiln flames.

A voice rises up in his mind, the words distant, like it hasn’t spoken in a long time.

We are the singers of harmony and love. We are the providers of protection and light…

It fades away, leaving Marto standing in the middle of Portal Plaza, confused and restless once more, still without answers.

“It won’t be long.” The familiar voice of Kháos floats into his mind, a bit jarring after what he just heard – or was it remembered? “The others are coming.”

“Good.”

The young knight continues to pace, going over the somatic strokes for his spells, practising to the point of obsession, anything to keep his thoughts busy, distracted. At one point he sits down, thinking to rest his feet, but the anxiousness gets overwhelming and he has to stand up and continue his pacing. When he does, Marto feels Kháos wanting to say something, but always stopping like they would if they could speak aloud after taking a breath. This happens three more times before Marto finally cracks.

“What is it?”

A slight pause, then, “Was it worth it? Did you get what you were looking for?”

“I think you know the answer.”

Another slight pause from the changeling. “Are you going to be able to do what needs to be done?”

“Oh, yes,” Marto answers vehemently, not a trace of hesitation anywhere except in one small, dark corner of his heart.

Exquisite hurt as the truth takes root in the hollows of your eyes

Zola has been crying. Her eyes are dry now, but they’re red and her cheeks are flushed and blotchy. There’s nothing he could say to make her forget her feelings. He knows better than anyone what she is going through. When their eyes meet across the Plaza he doesn’t hesitate. Marto’s quick light feet bring him over to the drow bladedancer and in a clang of splint armour against smouldering plate, he embraces her. It sounds like bells ringing when they do.

“I saw Ophanim, again,” Zola tells him. Tears suddenly spring to her eyes. “And then we had sex. Really amazing sex. It’s the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.” She begins to cry anew.

It only serves to make Marto want to hold her closer, but he also wants to kill Ophanim even more.

“Yeah, they’re good at that,” he says, holding her again.

She continues to cry and even in her tears Zola is beautiful. They fall down her cheeks, shining like diamonds on her dark skin and Marto wishes there was something he could do to take away this pain from her. All he can do, all he does is offer her his handkerchief, which she gladly accepts.

“It was really hot. I mean the place, not the sex, though that was really hot too,” Zola sniffles, after using the handkerchief to blow her nose and wipe away her tears.

“I wonder if he took you to an approximation of Phlegethos, like where I was brought to,” Marto wonders.

Zola prestidigitates the handkerchief clean, goes to hand it back but Marto shakes his head, a small smile on his lips.

“Keep it,” he says, closing her hand over it. “Just in case.”

She seems grateful for the small kindness.

“That’s what I think it was,” she continues. “Did your… previous dreams take place there too? The one before this one was in my bedroom at home. When I reached out to him.”

“Yeah, they did, except the very first one.”

“So... Did you talk more with him?”

Marto takes a breath. “I did, after we, um…” He clears his throat. “Yeah. I learned more about him actually.” He stops unexpectedly, feeling very uncomfortable at the memory, at what it invokes in him. Adhyël on top of him, the moment his teeth pierced his skin. The pain and the release. The way the devil’s black pitiless eyes lit up with the darkest desire Marto has ever seen, at the prospect of the sacrifice that has been dancing on the edges of the halfling’s thoughts ever since he received that second mark…

The young knight doesn’t even realise he’s gone quiet until Zola softly says, “You don’t have to say anything you’re not comfortable with, it’s okay.”

He starts, then nods, pushing what he was thinking about far from his mind. “It’s more that… I know I should feel guilty but I just… don’t.” He looks at her. “Is that normal?”

She shrugs, shaking her head a little. “I don’t feel guilty for lo-...” Her voice trails off and she clears her throat. “I don’t feel guilty either.”

Marto wants to say something but catches himself before he puts his foot in it.

“Zola…” He struggles to find the words for a moment. “This is all forms of messed up, but… you can count on me. For anything.”

“I know… Thank you, Marto.”

He embraces her again, holding her very gently and she accepts, putting a hand over his. They stay that way for a long time, the rest of the people in Porta Plaza casting curious glances but no one interrupts the moment. Just before he lets her go Marto kisses Zola’s cheek tenderly. As he draws back to look up into her warm amber eyes an echoing wind batters against the hollow of his ribs, bringing with it the memory of smoke and skin, fire and lust, poetry and pain. Marto sets his jaw and finally lets go of Zola’s hand, despite how much he wishes to keep holding onto it.

Temptation, enduring, yet I taste regrets

Aurelia Archselon pulls out a rather large box and lays it down on the table in front of her. They have all gathered in her home — Marto beside Zola, with Kavel on his right, Sorrel and her girlfriend Silvia, and Velania on the ranger’s left. The Jackal and Kháos are there too, both with various flavours of grim etched into their faces.

“This city asks a lot of its citizens,” she starts, her tone cautious. “Some more than others. I know this better than most.” The councilwoman looks around at them, her eyes lingering on each of their faces as she speaks. Then, carefully, she opens the box in front of her and pulls out a device that looks like it could be an artificer’s prized artefact, were it not nearly sliced in two.

“The collateral damage from the other night was because of this device. We spoke to those who were affected and every single one of them said that though they were awake, they felt like they were dreaming. And, as is the way with dreams, they knew with absolute certainty that everyone else around them was their enemy.”

Marto feels her eyes land on him but he is focused entirely on the mangled device on the table.

“A simple application of force will help wake up anyone affected by such a strong charm effect,” the councilwoman instructs. She then adds, “Essentially, don’t trust your dreams. They will lie to you.”

They all nod understanding, some more anxious than others.

Aurelia continues, “The layer of the Hells you are going to, Phlegethos, is a horrible place. Our hope is that you won’t be there for very long.”

There is a hesitancy to the end of her sentence that draws all of their attention. Aurelia looks over to the Jackal, seemingly hoping the warrior will find a way to answer the question that is quickly wanting to rise from the table.

“We don’t have a way to get you out,” he states, plainly and simply. “The only way you’re gonna get out is Rholor. You have to get to him and wake him up. Otherwise this is a one-way trip.”

Marto feels like he’s been punched in the gut. It was way worse than he, or any of them, could have thought. He looks to Velania and sees how plaid her face looks as she glances between the Jackal and Aurelia. Sorrel appears to have shut herself off from feeling, but Marto thinks she sees her grip Silvia’s hand a fraction tighter. Beside him, Kavel doesn’t appear to be as bothered as he asks if killing the Heralds in the Fourth would mean they would be dead-dead. He is a marvel, Marto thinks, as sturdy as the mountain and as hardy as any stone. The young knight wishes he had Kavel’s certainty. Marto chances a glance at Zola but she has turned her face away from him. All he sees is the cascade of her white hair down her back.

“Azellah is a giant fiery river that snakes across the lands of Phlegethos,” the Jackal’s voice slowly filters into his thoughts as the rushing in Marto’s head recedes. “We’ll drop you off as close to the mouth of it as we can,” the warrior adds with a gesture to the councilwoman.

There wasn’t much left to say after that.

As they make their way to the teleportation circle, a half moon slowly rising higher in the sky, Marto wrestles with his thoughts and doubts, fears and worries. The two marks on his body leaking an aura of cold dread that feeds these feelings, causing him to shiver despite the warm evening. His mouth feels dry, his heart weak, and yet he still walks into the centre of the stone circle with the others.

Councilwoman Archselon prepares the plane shift spell, muttering something to the Jackal that sounds like, “We don’t need to use the teleportation circle, I can cast plane shift anywhere.”

The Jackal gives a rough grunt. “Needs a focal point.” His tone said it all: he will do things his way and that is final. He pulls his greatsword from his back. “On three,” he says.

Marto reaches for Zola’s hand.

“One-”

The Jackal swings.

The ground tears apart under their feet.

They fall.

What is the secret to a lie?

Excruciating heat. Unbearable humidity. Marto finally knows how shellfish feel as he trudges forward, methodically putting one foot in front of another. It feels like being cooked alive.

He is never having crab again.

What should have been a thirty minute walk turned into an hour and half trek. Velania was already struggling, though to be fair on the aasimar cleric, they were hiking up a mountain. Silvia was having a hard time too. If this was how they were already fairing, Marto didn’t want to dwell on how bad it could get before they even got to where they needed to go.

As they reach the top, a wave of vertigo hits him. Already soaked through with sweat, it begins to pool at the base of Marto’s back. His body was doing its best to cool him down but no matter how much he or any of them sweated, it wasn’t enough. It just had nowhere to go, thanks to the humidity. Marto has to rest his hands on his knees for a moment, staring at a point on the ground until the whirling feeling stops playing with his balance.

Kavel and Zola spot the Azellah River. Starting from a volcano to their right, its magma moves quicker than normal lava would as it cuts through the various mountains and scab-like landscape. As the two follow the rough line it makes, they see a bowl-like dip in the land, a valley, with a pool of reflective, silvery-white light glowing within it.

“Does that look like the place we should go to?” Kavel asks everyone.

“Didn’t the Jackal say to go to the mouth of the river and follow it up?” Velania asks. “Perhaps we should do that.”

Now that it’s been pointed out, Marto takes a discerning look. It took them nearly three times as long to get to this point from where they landed in Phlegethos. From here to the mouth of the river would be three hours, and from there to the bowl roughly another three. But if they cut straight to the valley it would only be four of walking.

“That would take too long,” he says, finally standing up straight. “We’re already struggling after this short hike. Velaina, you and Silvia don’t look like you could handle that kind of trek. I say it’d be better if we go straight to the bowl.”

“He’s right,” Kháos says, making them all jump. Somehow, on the walk up the mountain, they all had forgotten the changeling was with them. “Though the Jackal said to get to the mouth of the river, that,” they point in the direction of the glow, “is exactly the kind of place the Heralds will be.”

So they begin to march.

Somewhere in the space of two hours — though it was nigh impossible to tell exactly how much time had passed — Marto was feeling about as exhausted as Velania and Silvia had been, with the two women getting even worse. They decide to rest for a little bit, drink some water, have some rations, anything to help keep their bodies from collapsing from the intense heat.

Marto had been taking another generous swig from his water when he noticed out of his periphery, a murmuration of shadows was flying back and forth ahead of them, coming from the direction of the bowl. It got closer and closer, quicker than any real flock of birds would be able to do. By this time, everyone was getting to their feet and watching the flock of shadows — ravens — getting closer and closer, swirling into a funnel-like shape that gathers over their heads. Suddenly, the shadow birds freeze mid flight. Then they begin to plummet, dive bombing onto their group.

Adrenaline surges through his veins as Marto grabs his shield, sprints over to Velania, pulls her down and stands over her, thrusting his metal and wood buckler up over their heads.

“Protect us,” he says, invoking a magical shield that extends out over the young knight and the cleric.

It goes up not a moment too soon. As the green a gold aura of protective magic activates Marto has a moment to see the others finish preparing their own spells to attack or defend. Then he and Velania brace for the impact of hundreds upon hundreds of birds as they rain down on them all, her hand supporting him against his armoured back, blessing him with a gift from the Moonmaiden.

As they finally stop, the remains of the incorporeal ravens drip off the magical shield covering them. When the last of it falls off, the magic disappears, and a wave of poisonous smoke assails their senses, catching them off guard. Marto takes a stumbling step away, trying to cough the poison out of his lungs, eyes closed as he feels them burning.

Unexpectedly and out of nowhere, Zola comes up to him, her face twisted into a mask of hate. She goes to slap him, or tries to, but his shield, which he’d used just a moment before to protect Velania and himself from the smoke ravens, stops her hand with a ringing thud, like a hollow drum.

And as is the way with dreams, Marto instantly knows that none of the people he is with can be trusted.

The knight goes to reach for Guiding Light, feeling the threat of being surrounded by enemies, but finds it is not here. Whipping around he glares at Velania, the woman he just risked his life to protect. She stole it from him. She’s hiding it somewhere. Unfortunately for her it does not matter.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Marto growls.

With a twist of his wrist the battleaxe is summoned into his hand and then, raising it back behind his head, Marto swings hard and fast into Velania. The concussive boom hits her like a bull, wrapping around her body to encase her in more thunderous energy as she falls to her knees, severely wounded.

The mark on his back begins to burn and for the first time since coming to this hellscape, Marto feels the sweat dry from his body. It feels good and he smiles from the relief. Then it’s like his soul is set on fire and his grin becomes a grimace as he swiftly raises his shield to block two sword attacks from Zola.

“Marto, snap out of it!”

This woman. She knows about Adhyël and him. She’s been planning this attack since the first moment he told her. Why didn’t he see it? How could he not have seen past the beauty of her eyes and the fullness of her lips to the rotten core of her. Jealousy, envy, that’s what it must be. She doesn’t think Marto deserves any kind of happiness. She is fey after all. The fey stole from his family, when they took his sister and they stole from him when they gave her back. He will kill her and then the others, find Adhyël, and then together they will wreck unimaginable havoc on the Feywild for all they have done.

“Marto!”

He misjudges her third swing, Guiding Light coming in too low, allowing Zola’s long blade to hit his arm instead. It stings, but only mildly, almost like she is using the blunt side of her sword.

“Please!”

Marto feels the dark scales of the dream fall from his eyes as he wakes up.

“Zola?”

Sudden fiery and excruciating pain lances into his spine from the mark on his back. The word ‘BETRAYER’ flashes across his mind followed by ‘SELF-ANNIHILATION’ before he is freed, the pain gone as quickly as it came.

In the stunned quiet of the aftermath of his actions Marto looks with wide eyes from Zola to Velania, who is bleeding profusely from the wound he cut into her. The shock is too much. The shame, all consuming. Marto drops his axe and shield, stepping back from the two, hands held up to ward them off. Zola sees him retreating just like he had when Marto told her about the first time he slept with Adhyël, and just like then she tries to reach for him.

“Marto, it’s ok-”

“Don’t come near me!” he shouts at her, at all of them, stepping further and further away. In the echoing silence following his words Marto swears he feels dark laughter trickle into his mind, caressing his thoughts.

“I shouldn’t be here. I hurt you, Velania, I- I could have killed you-” He looks at Zola. “Yondalla, help me, I wanted to kill you. I’m not safe to be around, I shouldn’t be here-” he begins to repeat but a voice stronger and louder than his breaks across all of their minds.

“No, you are exactly where you’re meant to be. You are meant to be here.”

Kháos comes over. Marto, still on edge, still not trusting himself, begins to back up.

“Peace, Marto. The mark you had on your back. I wish to check to see if it is still there. Will you let me?”

Confused, barely daring to hope, Marto gives the tiniest of nods. The changeling comes over and with practised hands pulls at the back portion of his smouldering plate armour, allowing them to peer underneath.

“It is gone.”

“R-really?”

They nod.

Marto collapses down to his knees and stares at his gauntleted hands.

They agree to rest a little longer where they are to allow for Velania to heal herself, to allow Marto and Sorrel — who had also tried to attack their friends but between Silvia and Kavel, the two managed to manacle her into submission before freeing her from the dream — a chance to compartmentalise what happened, and for everyone to get their bearings again. Marto made sure to stay far away from Velania. Despite Kháos’ reassurance that he was free, the young knight didn’t trust himself. Not with the first mark still on his ribs.

Zola played a beautiful song of rest on her lute, casting gentle looks over to Marto whenever she thought he wasn’t looking. He noticed, but now that she was looking at him, he couldn’t bear it. This was all becoming too much. He wasn’t sure he was going to survive this.

A small glowing stone lands by Marto’s feet, its flowing, sparkling pale bluish silver light catching his attention. He looks up to see Velania’s moonstone eyes dewy from tears. Yet she is smiling at him, a similar radiance as the stone, like the moon, emanates from her in a captivating aura. Marto picks up the small stone, holding it gently in his hands like one might a tiny, baby animal. As he looks at it a feeling of quiet acceptance comes over him and silent tears fall from his eyes.

It hides salvation in plain sight

“They are waiting.”

They follow Kháos’ instructions of where to go, following the same path they must have walked down to scout ahead. Marto didn’t think it was possible for Phlegethos to get even hotter but, somehow, it did and that was entirely the fault of the Azellah River they were slowly approaching.

“Wait,” Kháos thought to them all and they did. Emerging from behind one of the thick, scab-like rocks that looked more like a horrible wound on the ground, they point to a raised platform where a body lays on top of it.

“Rholor is there.”

Marto wipes the sweat from his brow, the blue bandanna he has tied around his head to keep his golden hair off his face and the sweat out of his eyes not doing much at this point. The Wise Guy seems to be alive, though it is too hard to tell from this distance with any certainty, the only real clue they have that he may be is a tether that runs from somewhere on Rholor’s to a white orb floating a few feet away. He is still across the Azellah though, as is another structure, something like a gazebo that appears to have two figures lounging about inside it.

“If you have preparations you wish to make, do them now.”

This was it. The moment before the wave would come crashing down. The final stand. Carefully and methodically, Marto takes out a vial of holy water. As he begins to cast his spell of protection from evil and good, then drinks a potion of fire resistance, and then a potion of flying, the halfling knight utters his first real prayer to Yondalla in a long time.

“O Nurturing Matriarch of the hin,” he begins in halfling, “please, hear my prayer… May my weak heart overcome my doubts as you stand beside me, Blessed One. May your touch be felt upon my shoulder in this hell, O Great Protector Yondalla, giving my inner heart the courage to face the devil… and the sum of my choices…”

As they come down the slope, Sivlia in front with her summoned shadow spawn, Kavel beside him stretching his tattooed arms and clenching his fists, Sorrel scanning the figures across the river, calculating the best course of action, Zola riding on Cor’Vandor, the silver hart’s mighty form glowing like the stars as the bladedancer’s eyes fix upon Ophanim emerging from the gazebo, Velaina gracefully stepping forth, her eyes finding An’Ahkrim standing near the High Diviner, and with Kháos slowly moving forward with them, Marto feels the pull of dark eyes upon him. But he does not look at his devil lover, not yet.

“You’ve come! Oh, this is going to be glorious,” Ophanim practically sing-songs as he steps out onto the horrid ground, drawing Pollux, the twin to the sword by Zola’s side. He only has eyes for her as Ophanim makes a grand gesture with the shining blade. “A most beautiful and befitting end to it all.”

Zola unsheathes Castor and Marto sees the tears running down her face. Once again, they shine like diamonds, making her beautiful in the most tragic way any hero from a ballad could be, and once more he wishes there was something he could do to help take it all away, to keep her safe. But he has waited too long and she must face the devil who’d kill her or else be killed by him.

“Is this what you want?” Zola shouts to Ophanim, holding her blade, Castor, up over her head.

“It is all I ever wanted,” Ophanim croons in response.

He can resist it no longer. Marto feels a pull, something like a caress across his cheek and suddenly, he cannot look anywhere but at Adhyël.

“Come find me, lover.”

A slow, predatory smile spreads across his devil’s lips.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Marto summons Guiding Light into his hand.

I’ve found you.