Prologue
The Kodar Mountains: 1 Desnus, 4742
Amidst an unimaginably vast badland of crags and fissures and at the center of the violent blood-red storms that continually wracked the continent of Varisia rose a city of violet-black stone and towering spires, piercing the ominous crimson gloom with a thousand pinpricks of pale light. This was Mharton, the Burning City.
Born in the aftermath of Mhar's rise from the mountain that once held him captive for countless eons, the city was home not only to many of the lesser beings and creatures that followed the entity into Golarion but those native to this world as well. A great many were cultists, laboring under the belief that for their efforts they would be spared from Oblivion. The rest were more pragmatic seeking to gain as much as they could for themselves in this life before the inevitable came to pass.
A place born both of contention and anarchy, Mharton's haphazard layout reflected this all too well. Its buildings were alien in their design, replete with vast angles, unholy images, and disturbing hieroglyphs. It was loathsome in its immenseness and abnormality, a dark blot that flew in the face of all logic, sanity, and order.
Of these grim structures, the most intimidating was unquestionably the edifice of stone and adamantine known to Mharton's inhabitants as the Fortress of Flame. Many were those that had the misfortune to be taken there. Few returned and they were either reluctant to or incapable of relating all of what they saw there. But when anything could be gotten at all there was often mention of pounding drums, trilling pipes and darkened corridors that bore disturbing frescoes depicting scenes that curdled the blood. They spoke in whispers of a throne of gold atop a dais of stone and rows of dark stained altars that surrounded a wide pit. But when asked of that which sat upon the throne, none would deign to do so. Indeed, many fell to sobbing or screaming uncontrollably until they were left alone to find what solace they could.
From this place a man clad in tattered leather robes emerged. A turban of dirty silk and a swath of cloth served to obscure most of his head. The streetwise of Mharton averted their gazes as he walked amongst them, careful not to notice the odd bumps beneath his turban, the strange way the scarf seemed to wiggle and writhe, or the weird twitches of his robes that hinted of limbs not entirely human. Though none knew its true name, all knew it to be the Herald of Mhar and as such possessed almost unrivaled authority within the bounds of the city.
The Herald soon found itself at the doors of an establishment called The Scarlet Tear, a place with the shadiest of reputations. Here, a customer could commonly find services that would be viewed as less than reputable in other cities.
The owner, a portly woman called Kuran, said not a word as it entered, hoping that the Herald had not come for her. She watched with baited breath as it approached a table where a single figure sat. A thin discordant whine emanated from the Herald as it gestured with a gloved hand, indicating that the individual rise and follow. Kuran shook her head as she noted the stubborn refusal to acknowledge the Herald's request and nearly soiled herself when the whining became a shrill shrieking chirp.
Shadowy mirage-like silhouettes wavered into view on either side of the Herald. Insect-like in appearance, they were similar in form to a praying mantis but with a spiked carapace that was the same in tone and hue as the stonework that made up the city. Three pairs of burning orange eyes glittered maliciously as they brought their focus upon the hapless victim and reached out with grasping forelimbs. Once they had him, a darkness fell upon the room. When it cleared once again, only the Herald remained.
Marandici Caravan: 1 Desnus, 4742
The dream was always the same.
Figures dressed in robes gathered around an open grave. A man condemned. An arcane sword. Flesh-searing heat.
Yes, the dream was always the same. Save for one detail.
The screams. They were always louder.
Draxas stood up from his chair within the campaigner's tent, his brow drenched with sweat. Taking the time to catch his breath, the old man felt the full weight of his sixty years upon him as leaned forward and placed his hands upon the table. His face became framed by unbound shoulder length gray hair, lightly streaked with black. "Syeira!"
From outside, a dark haired Varisian woman stuck her head in. "I'm here, sir."
"Where is Kaisur?"
Syeira considered her words carefully before speaking. "I believe he's standing vigil, sir."
Draxas looked up and fixed the guard squarely in his sight, his golden eyes seeming to peer into her very soul. "And Madame Zellara?"
"Outside, sir. Along with the priestess of Desna."
He chuckled. Somehow those two always seemed to know... "Show them in. And Syeira?"
"Yes, sir?"
"When Lavitz is done, send him to me immediately."
Draxas, his joints and muscles protesting with each step, strode over from the table strewn with maps that he had fallen asleep at to the corner of the tent where his armor rested. He was a tall man, but not overly so. The high cheekbones of his face marked him as one of Chelish descent, but no true Chelaxian had ever been born with eyes like his. Slanted and amber in color, Draxas' eyes were the first feature remembered by most after any encounter with him. He looked at his reflection in the silver mirror that hung from a post and set himself to the task of pulling back his hair and binding it into what his brother Shoanti tribesmen from the Lyrune-Quah clan called a 'wolf knot.' When he was done, Draxas then reached over and removed his mithril plate armor from where it sat on the stand. Before donning it, the old man stared at it for a moment, his mind going back to the days of his youth. Those had been better and brighter times.
"Feeling nostalgic are we," came a familiar voice from behind him.
Draxas turned to regard the speaker, a tall dark-haired female half-elf, giving her a warm smile. "Only when you're around, Reise." Like many of her faith, the half-elf wore bright colored garb that had patterns like butterfly wings woven into it. That and the two starknives, weapons worn on either hip that consisted of a central metal ring and bar with four tapering metal blades that extended like points on a compass rose, identified her as a Desnan priestess.
Reise fought back a shudder, as she always did, when he smiled. No amount of time could pass that would ever prepare her for the sight of those pointed teeth of his. "Let me get that for you." She made her way over to where Draxas stood and helped him put on his armor.
He then turned his attention to the other woman that had accompanied Reise. "Greetings, Madame Zellara. This dance finds you well."
As always, Reise raised an eyebrow at his greeting. In Korvosa, the word 'dancer' was a negative term, meant to be derogatory toward Varisians due to their love of dance. Anyone who did this for a living came to be called 'performers' to avoid confusion. Though she knew Draxas meant no disrespect to Zellara, Reise couldn't help but feel a little uneasy when he spoke like that to the head of the caravan.
"And you, Lord Draxas." The silver-haired woman, wrapped in her shawl and dressed in a gown of violet, carried herself with an air of dignity that commanded respect. And well that she should, for this little old lady led the Marandici familiy of wagon folk. Like Syeira, Zellara's deep olive skin marked her as Varisian as surely as the tiny butterfly and star tattoos visible on her face. "It was the dream again."
Zellara did not ask if Draxas had had the dream, for she already knew the answer. She somehow always knew.
"Yes."
"If I may, I will perform a Harrowing for you."
Draxas nodded his assent, and Madame Zellara made her way over to the clutter that was the map table, where she produced from beneath her shawl a deck of cards. "What is it that you seek, Draxas Arkona, Lord of Fort Rannick?"
He shifted uncomfortably where he stood next to Reise. In spite of the numerous readings Madame Zellara had performed for Draxas, he could never get used to her use of his full name and title. "I wish to know the state of our war against the Crimson Flame."
"Then let us see what the cards have to say this night."
The fortuneteller produced from the Harrow deck nine cards, which she fanned out and held toward Draxas. He took one and handed it back to Madame Zellara, who examined it with great interest. "The Survivor," she said. "A powerful card. Traditionally, it means rebirth through ordeal."
She then replaced the cards and shuffled the deck, her hands flowing such as to make the cards seem to dance and float over the table. When she was done, Madame Zellara conducted a spread, drawing and placing nine cards face down in a three-by-three pattern on the table. The arrangement related to the nine classic moral and personal attitudes held by all living things and implied an aspect of the past, present, or future of the topic of the reading. She started from the left, turning over the first card.
"The Marriage. A union of persons or ideas. This was a positive event in your past, symbolizing perhaps the day you met your companions."
This brought a warm smile to Draxas' face as he thought back to the time he had returned to his hometown of Sandpoint, a day that had changed his life forever.
Madame Zellara reached for the next card, one just below the first. "The Locksmith," she said after flipping it over. "At some point in your past, you were given the keys to a new destiny."
Draxas nodded and the fortuneteller continued, moving on to the third card.
"The Fiend. In this placement, this card bears great signifigance to you, Lord Draxas, as it represents the loss of many in a great calamity." These words caused both Draxas and Reise to look to one another. Both knew what was being refered to in this instance.
The day that Mhar, the Crimson Flame, was unleashed upon Varisia.
"The past has been revealed." The tiny Varisian woman proceeded to the next column of cards. "Now we shall look to the present."
The next card she revealed turned out to be The Survivor, the one he had chosen from before. Madame Zellara smiled. "The adversity of your past has truly made you stronger. It is that strength which has been called upon and is sorely needed. Never forget this, Lord Draxas."
Draxas' face bore a look of thoughtful determination, then motioned for her to continue.
Madame Zellara's next card was The Bear. "Brute force reigns for the moment, but the consequences are not known. What this portent means is unclear."
Brute force is all that is keeping us from being overwhelmed by the forces aligned to the Crimson Flame, thought Lord Draxas. The cultists had not expected him to be the aggressor and that had been working to his favor, but for how much longer would that last? Perhaps a shift in tactics was in order.
"Desna preserve us!" Reise pointed to the card that the fortuneteller had just revealed. "The Juggler!"
"Yes, the goddess preserve us indeed. This placement of The Juggler is misaligned. Where once it meant that Fate was on your side, now it serves to symbolize that the goddess has turned her back on you."
Draxas looked grim as heard those ominous words.
"I can continue, if that is your wish, Lord Draxas." Her words were phrased as a statement, not as a question. But she already knew what his response would be.
He shook his head. "Thank you, but I don't think that will be necessary, Madame Zellara. I have heard all that I needed to this day. If you will excuse me, I have much to consider. May our next dance find us under better circumstances."
Madame Zellara smiled as she replaced the upturned cards into her deck. "I'm sure that it will, Lord Draxas. I'm sure that it will." And with those words, the Varisian fortuneteller left the tent.
"Syeira!"
The guard's head poked back into the tent. "Sir?"
"Find Lavitz? We still have much work to do."