Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on Oct 3, 2019 14:55:24 GMT
As they clatter to the stone of the Daring Heights teleportation circle, Varis lets go of his companion’s hands - Sunday to his right, Ghesh to his left - and falls to his knees, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the rune-carved surface. He closes his eyes, reaching out with his mind to find the comforting presence of his brother. Pulling the lobstered steel gauntlet from his right hand, he wipes the blood from his lips and pushes himself to his feet. Swaying slightly, he looks around the small band of warriors - battered, bruised and bloody, but still alive, and one step closer to victory. He catches Baine’s eye, grins and immediately wishes he hadn’t.
“You look like shit, soldier.”
The half-orc returns the grin, though he looks paler than usual and there’s blood on his teeth, too.
“Thank you, Sir.”
Varis surveys the rest of the group.
“Get some rest, my friends. We’ll deal with that-” he nods to the huge black maul clutched in Ghesh’s clawed fist “-in the morning. Any of you who wish it are welcome to stay at the compound tonight. Baine.”
He nods for the half orc to follow him, then stops.
“Sunday?”
Baine, patting himself down and gingerly poking at the huge, deep cut on the back of his head from the 60-foot drop he somehow walked away from, absentmindedly reaches out for Sunday with one of his hands as she re-joins the group.
“Yes, sir. Coming, sir. You alright there, love?”
For a moment, Sunday doesn’t respond, looking distantly at - almost through - Baine. Eventually, distractedly, she nods and raises her hand to lace her fingers with his. The half-orc senses a familiar power start to flow through their interlocked hands as a green warmth creeps up his arm and carefully, gently, sinks its roots into the wound on his scalp. Baine can feel his flesh and bone re-growing as healthy tissue pushes its way up through the dank and clotted mud of his injury - like strong, young spring shoots breaking through winter’s frosty, necrotised topsoil. He lets out a sigh of relief and squeezes her hand in thanks before looking back at Varis.
“After you, Sir.”
The half-elf turns and leads the way through the streets of Daring. The bustling crowd parts around them, though no-one takes much more notice than that - armed adventuring types, even battered and bloody, are not an uncommon sight in Daring. None of them speak until they are back at the compound, their companions dispatched to the gruff ministrations of Grits, the Order’s quartermaster and cook. Varis shuts the heavy door to the yard with a sigh, and crosses to the wooden stands beside his bed to divest himself of weapons and pack. He turns back to his friends, his face exhausted and sour.
“Well, that was a damned mess.”
Sunday doesn’t bother pulling out a chair. Instead, she slides down the wall to sit on the floor with her head on her knees. Baine gives her a considering look before opening the door again and whistling loudly. Seconds later a large ball of fur comes streaking in, tail wagging furiously. Frankie weaves his way around Baine’s legs a few times before going over to Sunday, whining softly and doing his best to pretend he’s still small enough to sit in her lap. Baine closes the door and leans against it, eyes tired and arms crossed.
“A shitshow and a half, yeah. But we got what we came for, right?”
“No, we haven’t. Not yet.”
Sunday says softly, gently pushing Frankie away and resting her head on the wall behind her, eyes closed.
“We came for information. All we’ve done so far is steal from another powerful potential enemy.”
Varis nods.
Baine frowns.
“With all due respect, Varis, I make my own choices, even if that choice is to follow you. I risk my own life. I don’t see anything that needs forgiving.”
He unties the string holding together his braid, running his fingers through his long hair. His hands come away streaked with blood and dirt. Leaning his weight against the door he lets himself slowly slide down to the floor, pulling Frankie to him.
“And I wouldn’t call it a complete failure. Not yet. Shitshow, yes; I got myself kicked to a different plane and back again, for fucks sake. But the big man with all those shiny toys might give us something. Hopefully.”
Sunday shakes her head at the half-orc’s words, her voice low and soft, her eyes still closed.
“No, he’s right to apologise, Baine. He wasn’t thinking clearly today - none of us were. And this is what scares me the most; this is what the Abyss and the Hells do to people. These places cloud judgement; they call to the base, violent aspects of our natures; they amplify our core vices. Could you not feel its influence while we battled those undead? Can you not feel its lingering touch still? Varis - you’ve been behind a desk for so long; you were too eager - desperate, almost - to find a fight, to test yourself again. Baine, after what you told us last night…The Abyss could sense how raw your emotions were; it fed on that, it stoked those flames.”
Behind the curtain of long, black hair, Baine’s eyes harden for a moment as he looks at her but they lower back down to the floor in defeat before long.
“Daisy’s indecision became a fear of not being able to help her friends with her powers. The other two, I don’t know them well enough to say. And me…” Sunday’s eyes open, and her voice gains a patina of bitterness as a twisted smile forces its way past her lips and curls her mouth into a snarl. “Well, let’s just say I felt at ease for the first time in years.”
Sunday stands up and looks down at Baine, gesturing across the room at Varis.
“He’s right to apologise. We should all plead forgiveness from one another. We lead each other into one of the most dangerous places in existence and most of us did so gleefully. And soon we go to another place - equally perilous and wicked. And we are not ready. None of us are.”
Baine buries his hands in Frankie’s fur and works his jaw a couple of times, eyes trained on the floor.
“I don’t feel like either of you owe me any kind of plea,” he says plainly, looking up at the other two earnestly. “But if I put either of you in more danger than we were already in, I’m sorry.”
His shoulders rise and fall in a helpless shrug.
“You’ve been telling me for weeks I wasn’t ready. We came out of it alive in the end. I suppose that’s enough for me.”
Varis looks at Sunday for a long time, then down at Baine, closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. When he opens them again, they are pools of green calm.
But we have done more than merely survive. We have in our possession the key to the knowledge we seek. Gorkur may be a fiend, but he is as bound by the Lady’s law as any other. We will give him his trophy and he will tell us where to find our quarry, and that knowledge is more precious than gold. Any fool can swing a sword - a warrior’s business is knowing where – and when - to strike. Before dusk tomorrow we will know. You did well, soldier. Damn well. I’m proud of you.”
Baine pulls Frankie closer and nods mutely.
Varis turns to Sunday, warmth and compassion radiating from his face.
“Old friend. You are right to be afraid. A man without fear is missing a good friend. But let me be clear - I do not apologise for leading you into the Stygian wastes. It was a necessary risk. The information that risk has bought us is the key to ending this threat. Without it, we could spend our whole lives killing those things and never be rid of them. A fool pulls the leaves; a brute hacks the trunk; a sage digs the roots. So no, to descend into the Abyss was necessary. Perhaps we could have withdrawn, sought another way, but devils are not our only foe. Time is an enemy here too. Wait too long and we will find these fiends prepared, in the fullness of their strength - and that is assuming they do not find us first, perhaps alone, unprepared or at our rest. We had to fulfil Gorkur’s request, and we had to do it quickly. But I led you to that place, gathered you to me and asked you to follow me into danger, and when danger came, I did not fight as I should have, I did not lead as I could have. A fool pulls the leaves; a brute hacks the trunk; a sage digs the roots.”
Sunday folds her arms where she stands and perches on the corner of Varis’ desk. The half elf’s eyes are dancing now, more energised than she has seen them in months, the fire in them infectious.
“I have been rash, foolish, headstrong and blind. But all is not lost, my friend, and our blessings are many. We are alive, and our friends too with us - there are we blessed. We have come away with the thing we sought, and tomorrow, we will know how to find our foes - there are we blessed. Our enemies are weakened, and do not know we seek them - there are we blessed. And above all, we have been given a chance to mend our faults, to see our weakness and make it our strength, to catch ourselves as we fall and find our feet again - there are we most resolutely blessed.
Some men are stone - hard and strong, but strike them too fiercely or too often and they shatter. But we are not stone, we are iron, shaped by each blow we take, formed and sharpened and hardened. We have been hammered, beaten, bloodied and bruised, but we are not broken, and all our hardships have given us an edge unmatched. We will rise from the fires of these trials stronger than ever before, and our enemies will rue the day they sought to harm those in our care.”
He smiles, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair.