And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear
You shout and no one seems to hear
And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.
Brain Damage—Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon
The sun was starting to set, and after riding all day, Faithless decided to give herself and her mount a break. She steered the mare off the road towards a thick copse of trees that would provide some shelter from the winds blowing in off the Evermoors and dismounted to set up a small, makeshift camp. She staked the horse to a nearby stump that was surrounded by enough green grass to keep it happy, and started on her own lean-to.
When the fire was roaring, she sat down next to it and opened up her food pack, taking the last of Jesperth's pastries out and setting them on her lap. As she ate them, she realized that this would probably be the last good bit of chow she would have for another tenday, if she had kept up her current pace. She had left Everlund four days ago, and while she still had her dry provisions to keep her going for a while, she realized she was going to miss the half-orc's cooking genius a lot more than she cared to admit.
As the last ray of the sun vanished and violet dusk crept in, Faithless pulled her cloak around her shoulders and leaned up against the pile of saddle bags under her shelter. The fire crackled and spit for a while until it finally settled as the last of the moisture in the wood she fueled it with evaporated into nothing. Her eyes glazed and went out of focus, and for a moment, phantom images of the friends she had traveled with for two years manifested at the far side of the fire. She blinked and sat up.
They were gone.
Just a hallucination, she told herself briskly as she slapped the right side of her face. You were falling asleep thinking about them, obviously. It's to be expected. Too much quiet time on your hands. Should have hired a bard in Everlund to keep you company.
She leaned back again and folded her hands over her stomach. Some time dragged on, and her mind started racing again. Images and sounds flashed before her mind's eye and ear with dizzying speed, and she sat up, trying to shake them out. The dwarf warrior smashing a chair over a Greycloak's head during a drunken brawl at the Flagon. A squeal of rage as the druid elf's badger companion was kicked out of the tiefling thief's bedroll. The deep, uninhibited laughter of the paladin in one of those rare moments that he did find something that funny. The elven mage and the gnome bard debating over whether or not Elminster wore underwear. The hellish glare in the warlock's eyes as he faced his arch nemesis. The alien healing chants of the githzerai cleric. The sorceress pulling at her hair over some minor slight. The blond farm girl holding her shortsword in a white knuckled grip at the sound of an owl's hoot. The images came faster and more furiously, and it took a sharp rap on her head from a flattened palm and annoyed growl to slow them. Eventually, they started fading until only one was left. But that was the worst one of the lot, and it lingered like the smoke of a funeral pyre in a thick fog despite her desperate attempts to quench it.
The ranger was scowling in the corner of the Flagon, his ever present tankard of ale not far from his calloused hand. The tavern was packed. The chair next to him sat empty as it always had. It was the only free one in the whole room. She walked over and asked him if he minded if she took it. He sneered that if he was in the mood for a wench, he'd be at the local brothel. She smiled back and told him to give her regards to his mother there, and then tried to take the chair from the table. He threw his legs over it to prevent her. She jerked harder. He pressed harder. She insulted and threatened him. He insulted and threatened her. She dumped his beer over his head and took the chair as he jumped up in annoyance. He grabbed her by her ponytail and slammed her against the wall. She twisted her knee up and rammed him close to his groin. He toppled over and his weight dragged her down too. Duncan had to come over and separate the two, before major blows were exchanged.
After three weeks at her uncle's place, it was their first direct interaction. She would never forget it, and for a brief moment, she was held in thrall to the memory's sheer power. It would not be thrust away, no matter how hard she tried, and she was forced to reckon with it. Alone.
"Ahhh, love at first sight," she remembered bitterly. "You were lucky, nature boy, that my aim was not so good. Otherwise your voice would have sounded like Neeshka when she's thrilled." The memory image did not respond, and after a few minutes, it faded away. Her neck and palms were damp with sweat.
I gotta do something. This is driving me nuts. Faithless searched her mind for something distracting, and found the place where she stored dirty jokes and offensive songs she picked up. That's it. I'll sing. I have a singing voice like a troll's death screech, true, but there's no one here except me and the horse. She remembered a song the gnome had written about her least favorite member of the Nine, and grinned. Taking a deep breath, she belted out the tune several keys off:
In Neverwinter lives a lad so fair,
Never a day has he out of place hair,
Lovlier than a maiden can bear,
Sir Nevalle, We Are Unworthy, Sir Nevalle
Hides in the castle swamped with the dead,
His unblemished hands shaking in dread,
That tomorrow he won't get to warm Nasher's bed,
Sir Nevalle, We Are Unworthy, Sir Nevalle!
She smiled as the phantom image in her mind faded, and for a moment, was drown out by ill-sung verse and mental imagery that the song always invoked. She breathed a sigh of relief and started to reach for a bottle of Rilada's wine, when her hand froze in horror as she stared across the fire. It was his face this time that stared back over the fire at her, and unlike the other hallucination, his image lingered on even after she blinked, for a few moments before it vanished. It was a few moments later before her hand responded to her will and brought the bottle of wine out of the pack. She was shaking violently as she uncorked it and took a deep swig from it.
I'm just seeing things, you know? She told herself. It provided little comfort. Maybe this bottle will kill it better than your awful singing will. Drink up, demon bitch! We got ourselves a few friends to drown. She took another deep drink off the bottle. Jesperth hadn't lied when he said Rilada's wine was like no other. It went down smoother than silk, and the taste could not be described accurately without doing it injustice. She put the cork back in the bottle and set it to her side as she reached for her bedroll and laid it out.
It wasn't long before the booziness of the wine started to fog her awareness, and as she laid back on the covers of her bedroll, she felt her mind start to drift away. The fire's warmth relaxed her, and its gently dancing flames were hypnotic. A breeze rustled through the treetops, and she heard an animal shriek in the night. Predator? Prey? She didn't know, and found she cared less. Faithless was feeling...just fine.
A large, rough hand ran through her hair. Hot damp breath caressed her neck, a prelude to the roughened patch of facial stubble that would inevitably begin to tickle. Another roughened hand reached around and grasped a breast. She heard and felt his low, deep growl against the base of her skull as she felt his pelvis grind and harden against her thigh. She breathed deeply. His scent filled her nostrils with its melange of tanned hides, ale, smoke, charcoal, and raw sweat. You're looking a little cold, there, swamp wench, he murmured in her ear as he started to pull the ties on her shirt lose. And it just so happens, I'm in a mood that might help warm you up. His hand slid down her opened shirt. When are you not in the mood, dogbreath? she playfully retorted as she started to turn over and reached out for......
She sat up with a start and looked at her bedroll. Empty and cold. What in the Nine Hells? She shook her head violently. A dream. I was dreaming. Had to be.
But it felt so godsdamned real! I heard him. I felt him. I even smelled him. Nothing smells quite like he does.
You dreamed you felt him. You dreamed you heard him. The smell you dreamed too. Or have you forgotten he is as dead and gone as it's possible to get in the Realms? He's now less than a ghost. You were getting ready to dream fuck a memory. And what a memory! Or have you forgotten that he abandoned you like a stale beer and wanted to kill you on top of it?
The fire was still blazing. Less time than she had suspected had passed. Dreaming. That had to be it. She felt a shiver run down her spine, and she grabbed a large chunk of dead wood and threw it on the fire. It flared up in thanksgiving, and she retreated under the blankets of her bedding as she watched the log be consumed. No more dreams, no more dreams, no more dreams, she chanted rhythmically in her mind, in the hopes that repeating it over and over would make it so.
***************************************
She started to drift off to sleep in the saddle, but the mare hit a rough patch of road, and the resulting jolt jerked her from her daze. She blinked and looked around. It did not appear that they had gone far. She concentrated, trying to remember how long it had been since she had left the copse of trees. Four days, maybe? She had lost track. She had not slept for the past couple of days, and fatigue had screwed up her body clock.
She had not set up camp the previous night, preferring to latch a darkvision charm to her horse's bridle and keep riding through the night. She had no choice. Her mind would not allow her rest, and she found it easier to keep on riding instead of staying still and resting for a night. That's when the memory demons came. Wine was not driving them back, and the harder she tried to banish them, the more aggressively they forced their way into her consciousness. The others had relented a bit, but his were the worst, and they came more frequently and with such a vengeance that her body ached from the recollection. Because you lost him twice. And thus, have double the acid to throw on that open, festering wound that won't close.
The mare's pace had slowed considerably, and Faithless knew the steed was getting tired. Horses lack the same will people did when it came to driving one's self to collapse for nothing. She decided she would stop at the next watering hole to allow the beast some time to cool off. She scratched the horse between its ears and gave it a comforting stroke along its neck. Just because I am coward running from my dreams, does not mean I should take it out of you, poor girl. The mare snorted in weary agreement.
It was a couple more hours before they came upon a stream, and Faithless dismounted and led the horse over to drink. The mare gulped at the water greedily, sometimes dunking her head in it and then shaking it off, soaking the tiefling in the process. "I deserve that," she said as she extended the lead and tied the horse to a tree. She patted the mare's rump and walked away.
Despite the mild warmth, the sky was grey and overcast. Studying the clouds, Faithless was wondering whether or not it would rain. That would slow down her progress considerably, as many parts of the road up ahead would become a quagmire. She wasn't sure if she wanted to risk resting for a few hours and end up stranded, or push herself and her mount further until they passed the worst areas likely to be hit. She pulled out her map and examined it. It seemed there were enough rough patches from here until a day's ride from Yartar that pushing ahead would make no difference. Folding the map back up and stuffing it back into her pack, she started looking for a decent place to set up camp.
After finding a spot that was elevated and far enough from the stream in case of a flash flood, she set up her lean-to and began doing some simple stretches to loosen her muscles and aches from constant riding. After she was finished, she drew her rapier and dagger and then summoned her shadow for some sparring. The exercise felt good, and it cleared her mind to the point where the entire world faded except for the dance of blades. Darksteel and cold iron whistled against the wispy, smoking swords of the shadow form. They tumbled, feinted, parried, dodged, and slashed for what seemed an eternity. Faithless felt beads of sweat dripping against her temples and wiped it away with her forearm. The shadow thought it had been given an opening and struck, only to have its attack swiftly blocked, and before long, Faithless was back on the offense. Eventually, the shadow made a serious error and dropped its guard to attack when it should have blocked. Smiling, Faithless drove her rapier and dagger into the black form and waited for it to dissipate.
She frowned. The shade should have been evaporating to return to the Plane of Shadow where it would regenerate, but the dark form held its shape and dropped its arms to its sides. Instead of growing less substantial and fading away, it grew darker and darker until it was near solid. Faithless backed away, confused. Well, this never happened before, she thought, growing a little worried. What in the Nine Hells is going on here?
The shadow started shifting, and at first, she thought that perhaps there was some delay in it returning to its home plane. But it was changing shape, its outlines shifting and morphing away from a shadow likeness of its creator to something completely different. The horns shrunk, the chest grew broader and flatter, the hair pulled back into the head. Limbs grew taller and longer, hips narrowed as the shade began to take on a decidedly masculine shape. She backed away two more steps, her sword and dagger held up in a guarding position. She was not liking this new development one bit.
The shadow stopped morphing, and suddenly, a wave of color banished its normal shades of black and grey. Like a wizard's prism spell, a cascading color storm enveloped and tinted various parts of the new form. Dark greens and browns and greys seeped into its clothing while wash of ruddy flesh tones painted the skin. Chestnut and amber swirls dyed hair and eyes their respective colors. Darker umbers placed a slight shadow along his jawline.
Her bowels felt as if a glacier had been forced through them. The new form before her was all too familiar. In many ways, more so than her own shadow was. But instead of looking like her own shade, it looked like someone else. Someone she knew very well. Too well. Her eyes widened. Her breath caught in her throat.
"Relentless little bog wench, aren't you?" The shade asked with barely restrained contempt. His voice. "Wasn't enough you killed me twice. Third time's the charm, so they say." He looked down at his abdomen, and as Faithless followed his gaze, a strangled gasp escaped her throat. There were two large, gaping wounds in his torso. One longer, made by her rapier, slashed diagonally across his breast; the other, from her dagger, oozed from his solar plexus. Suddenly, several clouds of dark green mold erupted from the wounds, and the cloud spread until it covered his entire form until he looked like a shambling mound. As quickly as it spread, the mold began to eat away at the form, reducing its contours and size, and abruptly, the entire form imploded and collapsed in a burst of green dust.
It was gone.
Faithless did not move for several minutes, as if struck by a paralysis spell. She blinked. Nothing. No shadowstuff residue. Not even a faint dusting of green mold dust to prove anything had been there. It wasn't my shadow. I killed him. I fucking killed him. And the Wall devoured him again. Her body shook uncontrollably, and her weapons fell from her hands to the ground. She followed them shortly after.
And screamed.
**********************
Later that night, Faithless sat before the fire, her arms wrapped around her knees in a desperate huddle as she rocked back and forth. Her saddle bags remained unpacked in a pile, as since her encounter with the shadow that afternoon, she was neither hungry nor tired. Her eyes were glazed, her pupils constricted in abject horror.
That wasn't him. It was a hallucination. Get a grip, you stupid girl! She chastised herself silently. A hallucination dredged up from that blob of jelly you call a brain. Just like that dream.
It was no hallucination, it was my shadow!
Since when does your shadow turn into your dead, estranged lover? Think! Get some damn sleep. You're cowering from your own imagination.
But I killed him. And saw the green mold of the Wall devour him again! It came from his wounds to eat him alive. Wounds I created. I killed him three fucking times!
Did you? Thats funny. I don't recall you doing anything but watching him leave the sanctum. Betrayed his new master just as he betrayed you. Three times? You didn't kill him the first or second time, let alone a third. That was your shadow, and you're seeing things, so go fetch your godsdamned bedroll and get some shut eye, OK?
Faithless felt tears roll from her eyes, but did not feel them welling up from her chest. She gnawed at her knuckles until she tasted the salty tang of her blood. I did kill him. Both times. And today.
Falling rocks killed him the first time, you silly bitch! He even told you that before his second death. And since that second death was pretty damned final, don't you think it's a little out of the realm of possibility to kill him a third time?
Her fists flew up to her temples as she boxed her head in a desperate attempt to drive away the memory image of his last moments of existence. His face contorted in an eternal scream as the wave of mold rushed over him, sucking him deep within the wall for good. Only an outstretched hand holding a piece of another of the Wall's victims remained. His expression would forever be frozen in that rictus of horror. Shut up! Shut up! No more! She slammed her forehead into her knee repeatedly until she could both feel and hear her skull ringing.
He's gone. He was gone before the slabs of Illefarn rock ended his life. Or are you forgetting that he couldn't hightail it out of that Keep, and out of your life fast enough? He didn't want to be tied down to you and your fucking three ring circus of an existence. Can't you accept that?
I accepted it long ago. It wasn't about that. It hurt. But sometimes that's what it takes. I knew he hated the idea of being tied down to anything as much as I always have. Fuck knows he had gotten himself into some serious entanglements. I would have been happy had he escaped. But he didn't. Thats the real bitch of the whole scenario. Because I killed him. I deprived him of his chance to be free again twice.
I thought we both agreed on the fact that a big chunk of rock did the job.
And how did that rock fall? It fell because of the colossal amount of energy released when I slew the old King. It was my hand that wielded the damned sword that struck the killing blow. And brought the whole fucking sanctum down on our heads. I killed him, and I killed everyone who stood with me that day. Gith's Sword. My hand. Killing blow. End of story.
Logic was never one of your strong points, girl.
Logic? The planes turn by neither logic or justice. Myrkul said it. Kelemvor made it perfectly clear. And I experienced this truth for myself. There is no rhythm, no reason, no rhyme. Just cold, fucked up reality that dooms everything chained to it.
Silence. The part of herself that she had come to think of as The Voice of Cold Reason retreated back into the recesses of her of her mind. It was happening more of late. Various aspects of her psyche were becoming more and more detached from the whole, and she found herself having to argue with each fragment as a separate entity far removed from their former place as chips in the mosaic that was her persona. Sometimes the Voices spoke in turn; sometimes they all shouted each other down, each trying to drown out the other in a chorus of pure chaos.
The Voice of Pointless Guilt, as she had come to know it, had won this argument, and after a few minutes, it too retreated back into the dark place that spawned it. Her mind was blessedly silent for a few moments. Then the Voice of Growing Concern chimed in. And which of us Voices, dear girl, is yours anymore? Or don't you know?
A better question would be, do you really even care? Asked the Voice of Stone Apathy.
Oh, you should care, all right! Talking to yourself and then answering yourself is a sure sign you're losing your grip on reality! The Voice of Sheer Panic piped in nervously.
"Shut the Hells Up!!!!" Faithless snarled as she clawed at her forehead in a futile attempt to rip her own skull open and tear the Voices out. "I am not fucking crazy! You all are!" She paused, the irony of her own words striking hard and deep, and the Shattered Host in her mind responded in a symphony of hysterical, discordant laughter.
*************************************
Rain lashed down and Faithless was as drenched as a swamp rat in high tide. Her skin was blanched from the cold and damp, and despite her hood being pulled over her horns, droplets of water still dripped from the tips of her nose and chin. The Evermoor Way was being visited by the seasonal mid-spring rains that often made the road a river of mud in some parts, and her mount, while enjoying the torrent of refreshing rainwater on her hide, was still moving at a cautious plod.
She saw few travelers; most were smart enough to have seen the storm coming and decided to spend a day or two somewhere else to avoid it. Traffic on Evermoor Way's was about a third of its normal volume, mostly limited to hardy merchants and bands of mercenaries undaunted by the weather. She studied them with casual interest, always careful to keep her hood over the top part of her head. She had learned that outside of Everlund, people in the southern part of the Marches, especially this close to the High Forest, were not very tolerant towards tieflings. A week earlier, she had been confronted by a small band of mercenaries who spotted her horns. They harassed and threatened her, and when they unsheathed their weapons and came at her, she had lost what little patience she had left and decided they needed to learn just what the fuck they were dealing with. Wrapping the shadows around her and stepping between them, she emerged from them a moment later and quite mercilessly dispatched a particularly irritating loudmouthed axe wielder without fanfare. The ease she slew him with told her that this was a band of amateurs; when she vanished before their eyes, they stood dumbfounded and looked around in confusion, instead of immediately backing into a defensive formation and activating any enchanted items they might have had. When they turned around to see her standing casually over the quickly dying corpse of their companion, they fled. She checked the corpse. Sweet fuck all. Not even a minor healing potion, and the weapons and armor were of laughable quality. Dismayed at being attacked by a group of half-wit yokels instead of professionals, Faithless wiped her blade's on the dead man's tunic and left the scene without a second glance back.
During their taunts and threats, however, she did learn one thing: It had been only fourteen years since the fall of Hellgate Keep, and memories of that citadel of abyssal depravity were still very fresh in the minds of several in the area. Tieflings around this area tended to be a product of some of the more twisted rites and commerce that went on there. Had she known earlier, she would have probably not laughed at the obscene gestures and curses some travelers directed her way, and made an effort to disguise her horns.
It wasn't her first fight, though. She had battled a couple trolls along the way who were migrating south from the Evermoors a lot more since the giants had moved in. They had provided some sport and a welcome distraction for a short period, but the rush had quickly worn off, and she was once again alone in a mind that was more and more dissociating from the world around it, trying to escape the world within.
Faithless glanced up at the dark steel grey sky. From the looks of it, the rain was here to stay for a while, and finding shelter would be the wisest decision. She pulled out her map and unfolded it, doing her best to shield the parchment from the steady rain. Judging by the location where she had broke camp that morning, the Evermoor Way's largest inn, The Calling Horns, should most likely be perhaps another couple hours ride. Rain mist shrouded many of the hills and woods, but she suspected, had it been a clear day, she probably would have spotted it in the distance. A mild rush of warmth coursed through her body at the thought. A real bed, hot fresh food, and most importantly, strong drink. Especially the drink.
The mare tossed her head and licked playfully at the falling rain. Faithless scratched her between the ears and patted her neck. The horse's skin felt delightfully warm and smooth, despite the cold dampness, and as she stroked its damp hide, it had occurred to her that she had been with the mare for three weeks and had not even given her a name. Three weeks? I should have been in Triboar a week ago. The thought was sobering. Had she lost that much time? She had several periods of blackouts since she left Everlund, and while troubling, the fact that they lasted longer than she could account for was downright frightening. She could remember a lazy summer day cutting a subtle hole in the bottom of Ward Mossfeld's new boat when she was fourteen, but was at a loss to remember two days last week. She couldn't even dismiss it as road boredom. It was not a case of endless hours of travel being compressed into one bland picture; when she tried to think back, glaring black holes in her memory stared back. It was not the fact that she couldn't remember anything;that in itself was a blessed relief. It was the sheer unexplainable dread about what lurked in those black holes of dreams, and the knowledge that sooner or later, whatever lurked there would come crawling out.
She turned her attention back to her mount and its namelessness. As she combed her fingers through its coarse, damp mane, she asked it "So, girl, what would you like to be called, since I like to be on a first name basis with anyone who can put up with my shit longer than a day?" How fascinating. You refuse to even let the names of those dear friends who loved you so, out of that dusty crypt in the back of your skull, yet you are worried about naming your fucking horse?? The Voice of Scathing Condemnation sneered.
A razor sharp laugh echoed from the Voice of Self Mockery. Naming your horse but forgetting your own? Oh, if anything shows you're away dancing with the fairies, it's that. You're going as batshit as Safiya. At she he had an excuse. What's yours?
"They are dead," she whispered to herself. "She is not. Names are for the living."
Of course they are. That's why you no longer have yours. You're not even a name anymore. You're a vague concept now, Self Mockery retorted.
Yeah. Faithless? Try Pointless instead. Yawned the Voice of Stone Apathy.
She glared ahead, not bothering to try and silence them. The Shattered Host, as she had come to know the disembodied internal racket of her fragmented psyche, had become harder and harder to quiet lately. Eventually, she grudgingly relented. When the Shattered Host babbled and bubbled, it kept those thoughts, musings, and memories she wanted to bury at bay. It was a trade off of sorts. At least the Voices were her own.
She chewed on her lip thoughtfully when the turn off for the Calling Horns came into view, and smiled. Perhaps she wouldn't even have to put up with the Host for much longer. If the innkeeper kept a large supply of hard liquor, she would drown them in their own bile and maybe have a night's peace for a change.
********************
She sat in the corner of the bar and quaffed down her second tankard of dark ale, releasing a juicy belch as she tapped the bar counter to signal the bartender for another. He paused and gave her an incredulous look, but nodded and refilled her cup without comment. She tossed a few coppers on the counter and started on her third beer. At the rate she was going, she would probably be a completely legless blob of jelly pissing her pants before too long, but she didn't care. The ale was filling her head with a pleasant vibrating chord that was quite soothing.
She had given the innkeeper enough gold to rent a room for a week. Faithless decided she had enough of the Evermoors Way for a while, and felt a week of getting inebriated while letting the mare have a well deserved rest was in order. Maybe she might even figure out where exactly it was she wanted to go in the first place.
Leaning back against the wall, she did a quick survey of the tavern room. A mixture of weary merchants, eager travelers, and hardened sell-swords filled the tables and benches. She noted that no one took any notice of her, and relaxed a bit. Before she came to the Inn's front gates, she dug an old green flannel that had once been a sling and tied it onto her head like a pirate's scarf, disguising both horns and ears. The casual observer would have thought her little more than some dirty local stable hand with delusions of swashbuckling.
Satisfied that she was attracting no undue attention, she let her gaze drift absently over the room before turning back to her ale. She was halfway finished when her awareness started to drift randomly across the room, catching snatches of conversations before their speakers voices drifted back into the communal drone. One reedy voice in particular caught her attention; an elf speaking to his human and dwarven companions in exasperation as he tried to describe the humorous consequences of a prank played in his youth on one of his elders. The conversation itself wasn't interesting, but she found herself suddenly drawn back to a memory of a very different elf trying to explain away a very different sort of prank.
The elven wizard rolled his eyes at Nevalle. "Yes, I have read the letter she sent to Nasher, and while I wasn't aware what was in it before it was sent out, I assure you, the entire thing was simply meant in jest." The squeaky clean liaison of the Nine did not smile. "A 'jest'? Lord Nasher did not think it very amusing when he spilled his wine all down the front of his new Calishite silk in horror after reading this letter." Nevalle flapped the parchment angrily in the air. "So shall I tell Lord Nasher to expect more 'jests' from his newly Knighted Captain, then?" The wizard's hands waved placatingly. "Of course not. I think she now realizes that the Neverwinter nobility does not share her...sense of humor in these things. But for the last time, I assure you, she is not planning on converting the ruined temple into an alchemist's laboratory for agents of the Zhentarium to use as a base for testing their newest mind altering drugs on the local population..."
Her lips parted into a wicked grin as she downed another healthy swig from her tankard. She had been hiding nearby in the shadows while observing the argument. She had never seen Nevalle so pissed off, and her body tingled with pleasure at the sight. Fuck him if he can't take a joke, she told herself. Nasher had forced her into this by knighting her and thus, chaining her to the Keep and Neverwinter's service despite her objections. She made a promise to herself that she would make him regret that decision. If old baldy thinks I am going to quietly slip on his yoke and fall in line with the rest of his ass licking toadies, he's in for a very rude awakening.
Faithless frowned deeply. This random reminiscing was they very thing she had hoped strong drink would kill. She swirled the dark nutty ale in her tankard and decided that she was in need of something a lot more powerful. Signaling the bartender, she ordered a double whiskey.
The amber spirits burned her throat like alchemist's fire, but they also cut through her mind like a freshly whetted sword and left only that pleasant humming in their wake. After a while, her head felt heavy and limp on her neck, and she leaned back against the wall to keep from sinking off the bar stool. The doors from the inn's guest quarters open, and three figures emerged, wearing simple but immaculate robes. Clerics, from the looks of them. As quietly strode over to an empty table, Faithless tried to discern any trappings of a specific religion, but her vision was too blurred to notice anything but the colors. Their robes were of different hues and styles, so she assumed they were probably of different temples. A serving girl came over with three earthenware cups and a jug of water. Water. In a tavern that served spirits strong enough to knock an ogre on its ass. The thought brought forth another distant memory, and even the whiskey haze could not restrain it.
The dwarf snorted. "Can you believe that, lass?" he asked incredulously, shaking his head and draining his full tankard in one quick motion. "Waters. I hope to the Hells that ain't the secret to fighting like that." She arched her eyebrow. "And if it is? Does that mean you'll be giving up your drinking, then?" The dwarf was taken aback, as if she had just said something rude about his mother and a fire giant. "Nine Hells, lass! What the hell do you take me for, some tree-hugging leaf munching copper elf wannabe? What's the point of learning new ways to smash someone's head in if you can't enjoy a fine jug of mead with them after the fact?" "That's the spirit," she laughed and toasted him. "Speaking of which, I'm not likin' the look of those dock rats that just walked in. They stink like Luskans. I say we finish these tankards and go see if they fight as bad as they smell." "Ha! Thats what I like to hear!" the dwarf roared. "Let's see if this time you can land on your feet when you get tossed into a stack of kegs!" She shook her head. "Land on my feet? I was so fucking wasted that last time, I could barely stand on my feet..."
She was finding it harder to shake off her memory visions now that she was getting drunker. It felt like she was trying to wade through a violent tempest at sea after foolishly jumping ship and then trying to swim back. She tried to turn her attention away from the three priests, but another wave of memory crashed against her face and pulled her in its undertow.
She looked at him incredulously. "You really heard that one when you were still a boy in training at the temple?" she asked the paladin. "Did you have to have your ears washed out with holy water for hearing it?" He blinked. "Ears washed out with holy water? Whatever for? Because I overheard the high priest and his assistant sharing a moment of off color humor in private?" He shook his head and smiled. "Tyr certainly would not punish His faithful for having a healthy sense of humor." She studied him for a moment. "If that's the case, then have you heard the one about the two Luskans and the magic hole on their ship?" His cheeks flushed a bit and he chuckled. "Yes, it was very popular during the war amongst the ranks of the soldiers." He shifted his gaze away, still flushed, but smiling a little. She was intrigued. "Ok. Since you seem to know all my jokes, why don't you enlighten me with one of your own?" He was quiet for several moments, and she briefly wondered if she had finally offended him. She almost fell over when she heard him quietly respond with: "A Helmite, Banite, and Tyrran walk into a festhall, each with fifty gold pieces in their coin purses..."
The paladin continued to tell the joke, but much of his voice was lost as she sank deeper into the waters of her inner storm. His face became blurred, and eventually disappeared as the fathomless depths of despair dragged her down.
Booze scented tears stung her cheeks. Abruptly, she jumped up off her barstool. Ive had enough of this shit, she cursed silently. She asked the barkeep for three bottles of the most potent spirits available, and he returned with three clear flasks filled with a bright green liquid. She recognized it immediately. Absinthe. Well, what the fuck. Can't make you any crazier than you already are. She paid him and took the bottles with her as she staggered back to her room.
************************
The first bottle of absinthe lay empty at her feet. She was slumped in the corner, her head lolling from side to side. Ribbons of drool slid from her slack mouth onto the front of her shirt. Her thighs slapped wetly together, and with the detached amusement of one who is dangerously intoxicated, she realized she had urinated all over her herself. If she had the motor skills left that were needed for it, she would have laughed.
Are you fucking daft? Screamed the Voice of Sheer Panic. Ooooh, look what you've done now! You've become terminally drunk! You've poisoned yourself!
Now wasn't this a bright idea! Sneered the voice of Self Mockery. Well, which one of us is going to drag her sorry ass over to the pack so she can get an antidote and a purgative before she passes out for good?
The Voice of Self Preservation groaned. Looks like its up to me, yet again. Come on, you stupid bitch. Move. She felt her arms and legs move of their own accord as her body leaned forward into a graceless crawl over towards the pile of bags. Hands and fingers rummaged through one container that was filled with small vials. That's, it, that's a good girl, Self Preservation patiently encouraged. Now the real trick is to figure which one of these little concoctions is going to save your sorry life. Seeing how you cant see anything beyond one inch in front of you.
She grabbed a few bottles and held them close to her face before vaguely recognizing one as a general purpose poison purgative. Uncorking it, she started to lift it in the general direction of her lips, but her fingers were uncoordinated, and it slipped from her grasp and shattered onto the cold stone floor in a spreading puddle.
Oh no, you aren't getting out of this so easy, sweetheart, Self Preservation snarled. On your hands and knees! Faithless felt her head force itself down on the puddle, and she lapped at the antidote like a reluctant dog. She felt tiny slivers of broken glass slice past her tongue and down her throat as she slurped. The pungent flavor of the potion mixed with the coppery taste of blood.
Just your fucking luck, laughed the Voice of Self Mockery. You suck down a concoction that it meant to save your worthless life, and end up swallowing half the bottle in the process. Good thing you are wearing your regenerative ring today, eh, or you'd be well up shit creek without a paddle. At least it will mend any damage those little slivers will do on their way to your ass.
Her tongue and throat tingled as she felt the ring's regenerating enchantment force the foreign shards out and close the tiny slashes they had caused. A large glob of saliva bubbled in her mouth and she started choking and spitting the glass pieces out onto the floor in a bright pink foamy stream.
That was a very close call, Self preservation sighed, retreating back into deep pocket of her mind where her base instincts slept until needed.
Why did you even bother? Stone Apathy drawled flatly. It's not like you really give a fuck anyway if you live or die.
Cold Reason snorted, still sulking in her corner. I'm surprised she even listened to any of you. Count your blessings.
A few minutes later, her stomach lurched violently and a heavy, slimy deluge of bright green, bitter tasting vomit surged out of her gullet and splattered all over the floor and her shirt. She puked up until all that came out were dry, empty retches, and her body, having finally rid itself of the toxins, switched to hiccups of relief.
Still wobbly, she sat up on her haunches, and then collapsed backwards with a flat thud and closed her eyes. The sharp taste of bile clung to her mouth. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and a faint groan creaked from her throat. I will regret this tomorrow, she thought with distant certainty.
Oh, of that, you can be certain, the Shattered Host hissed in eerie unison. We will all make you pay dearly for that little stunt. Did you really think you could silence us by pickling what's left of that brain of yours? They suddenly burst into laughter. Inviting the Little Green Fairy to the party just shows you've lost any sense you might have still had.
"Fuck you," she tried to snarl, but the words were mutilated into a guttural growl by the time they had reached her lips. She tried again. "Just leave me the fuck alone."
Leave you? The Host shrieked through her head, and her temples started pounding savagely. You clueless bitch, we were you, at one time, before you decided to kill what was left. Did you think that you could casually murder the person you were and try to bury the evidence, and not suffer the consequences?
Her eyes flashed open, and with a sudden chill that cut through her drunken confusion, she realized she was no longer in her room, but staring up at a dream version of the dome that was the roof of the Illefarn sanctuary. Right as it started collapsing down into the chamber. Right as it prepared to end the lives of just everyone who ever meant something to her. She tried to struggle and scream against the vision, but her body no longer obeyed her.
As the ancient, moldy stones began their silent descent down towards her head and sent her into the pit of poisoned dreams, she heard the shrill, maniacal laughter of the Host became a harsh, painful whisper. You knew what was coming when you laid down and accepted the reality of the planes as they shoved it in your face without a fight. We are the price of your terminal stupidity, girl.
***********************
A balmy early dawn breeze stirred the curtains and tickled her nose. Sitting up in bed, she rubbed her eyes and yawned. Duncan had thrown a wild party in the Flagon last night to celebrate her victory against Lorne and subsequent acquittal of mass murder, and she was feeling the effects of her no doubt excessive revelry. Her mouth felt like a wrestler's armpit. She turned to reach for the glass of water she usually kept on her nightstand, and with a start, realized she was neither in her own room, nor was she alone.
He was already sitting up, and had been studying her with a strange expression for some time, it seemed. The weak morning light obscured some of his face, but she could still see the suggestion of a smirk forming on his lips. "Well, now, this certainly is a novel experience," he mused. "I've woken up in bed with wenches I didn't remember, and some so ugly that I almost begged the furball to come chew my arm off so I could retreat before the beast awoke. But this will be the first time I've ever woke up next to a wench where both of us were still dressed."
She looked down and realized she was not only still clothed from head to toe, her weapon's harness still remained securely fastened and her dagger was still in its chest strap sheath. A quick glance around told her that she had somehow woken up in the ranger's room. She turned and gave him a mocking smile. "Got too drunk to handle me, eh, nature boy?" She asked snidely. He snorted. "Don't flatter yourself, swamp girl. You're as revolting as your uncle when you drink." The lack of acid in his tone and quick glance away told her he thought otherwise. "Besides, if I'm gonna stuff one to a wench, I'd rather she be fully awake so I can feel her claws in my back as she screams about what a great fuck I am." He laid back against his headboard languidly and folded his hands behind his head. "Of course, if you ask me nicely, then I might just be willing to show you exactly what I'm talking about. But if that happens, try not to scream too loud, or else you'll wake the poor paladin." He twisted his face into an expression of mock pity. "Now that would break his poor old heart, wouldn't it?"
"Get over yourself," she muttered. "You couldn't handle the ride." She had to look away from him, though, because the combination of his husky voice, strong male scent, and outstretched body was making her seriously think about taking him up on his offer. She licked her lips in frustration. If it wasn't for the fact he was such an irritating prick at times, she might have taken him up on the offer long ago.
"Oh yeah, that's it," he drawled from behind her. "You go ahead and keep telling yourself that, and maybe eventually, you'll even start to believe it. But when you actually want to get honest with yourself and admit you want me like a dog wants a bone, you know where to come." He paused. "That is, if I'm still around....."
Faithless woke abruptly. Her hair obscured her view, and she brusquely pushed it out of her face so she could see where she was. The room was sideways and the stone floor filled half of her vision. She pushed herself up into a sitting position and looked around. She was no longer in his room at the Flagon, but sitting on the floor in her room at the Calling Horns, the reek of stale urine and drying vomit replacing his earthy smell. Her bed remained pristine and empty.
His voice was fading from her mind, but the words still lingered. That is, if I'm still around. She slammed her head into the bedpost and let out a strangled cry of grief. "You fucker!" she sobbed. "You fucking traitor! It wasn't enough that you fucked me and turned on me to get back at my uncle, was it? Nor was it enough that you got to gloat over my broken heart before Garius and everyone, either. No. You had to go that extra step by dying in that moldy shithole right after I finally let you go, and make sure I showed up to watch what remained eaten away." She wiped her face with her sleeve. "You claimed it was because of Duncan, but you must have borne me one hell of a burning hatred too."
Oh, now there's a capital idea, The Voice of Self Mockery cooed. Blame the ghost of the ghost of your late and lamented lover because he's gone and you're cracking up like the roof that squashed him. By the way, good morning, sunshine. You look like shit.
You should listen to our snide jester, here, The Voice of Cold Reason suggested. You really should stop pining over the fact that your bastard of a former flame is as gone as they get, and move on. And you really do look like shit, and stink to high heaven on top of it. Go take a bath, for fuck sake.
"Shut the fuck up, all of you!" She screamed, and slapped herself so hard her ears began to ring. The Voices chuckled in response, and Faithless started slamming her head into the bedpost in frustration. The inner chuckling erupted into mad laughter.
A sudden knock on the door startled her. "Hello? Is everything alright in there?" An older male voice, concern in it. She stared blankly at the door for several moments, not quite comprehending. Another sharp rap. "Hello? Are you alright in there?"
After another moment, Faithless croaked "Yeah, I'm fine. Go away." The Host snickered within.
"It's not sounding fine from out here, miss. Are you in trouble? I can call the staff up if you need them."
"I said I'm fine! Now will you kindly fuck off and go pester someone else?" she snarled.
There was a sharp gasp, then a pause. "Hmph. Well, I never...." the man's voice trailed off and she heard his footsteps grow further away. Faithless dug her fingers into her palms and looked around the room. She hoped sincerely that he was not going to go fetch the staff. The streaks of green vomit were drying on the stone, her packs were in disarray, and one of the bottles of absinthe had spilled onto the expensive Calishite rug that lay by the bed. Not to mention the room reeked of piss.
The Shattered Host chided her. Oh, now look what you've done. Your raving seems to be attracting attention. Next thing you know the whole inn will be up here breaking down your door, and then they will see you in all your loony glory! The guards will knock you out and you'll be dragged off to the asylum where you can slap and piss yourself to your heart's content.
Or worse! The Voice of Sheer Panic shouted above the others. What if those creepy Cyricists followed you here? Or others of their church are staying here? They might sneak in and steal you away to some dark, demented temple and perform some twisted ritual on you!
Maybe you should just admit defeat and join the church of Cyric, the Voice of Scathing Condemnation suggested. Gods know you would certainly fit in with the whole "madness as a blessing" dogma. They might even make you a saint or something.
Ahh, now there's an idea, Cold Reason mused. Join the lunatics of the Dark Sun, and as an added benefit, you can avoid the Wall, since officially, that would make you one of the Faithful. You'd certainly have to change your new "name", though.
"I'd sooner join the damned in the Wall then bend my knee to any god," she hissed in irritation. She remembered her last encounter with the ranger. Forget about the gods, and they forget about you, he had told her. Oblivion makes a better bedfellow than most. Had that been his motivation for everything: a deep rooted nihilistic urge to self destruct borne of self-hatred and regret? He did not resist his fate, he had thrown himself in it. He welcomed it. So that was your game, eh, nature boy? To charge headlong into the void, and take everyone foolish enough to care about you with? Well, you got your oblivion and probably took a lot of people along for the ride.
All that time you traveled with him, and you didn't see that coming a mile away? Sneered Scathing Condemnation. Maybe if you would have pressed him more on the nature of his "debt" you could have caught him before he fell. He slipped you more than enough hints when he went on and on about Luskan, and you didn't get a clue then that something was not right in ranger land?
"I couldn't have known," she whispered, but deep down inside, she wondered. Were the signs visible to everyone but me? Could I have been that blind?
Of course you were blind! Hells, the paladin wanted you, and you didn't figure it out until it was too late. Scathing Condemnation snorted in disgust. Not that you ever really deserved it, mind you. What he ever saw in you is a mystery that he took with him to his cold, lonely grave under tons and tons of Illefarn stone. Poor, poor, paladin.
She shook her head violently. "No," she whimpered, chewing her lip as bitter tears coursed down her cheeks. "I didn't know. Honestly, I didn't know." The Shattered Host responded with cruel laughter, and Faithless cringed.
After a while, the Voices fell silent. Eventually, she pulled herself up and looked gingerly around, as if afraid of waking a sleeping beast. Her fear was well founded, though the beast was not sleeping in her room.
The beast was lurking inside of her.
****************************
That night, she lay naked and awake in bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling. A single candle flickered. Her breath was shallow and shaky, her body rigid. The Shattered Host was in an uproar, and she could no longer make out any individual Voices; just head splitting pandemonium. She had drunk half of the remaining absinthe, disregarding her previous night's ordeal. It took the physical edge off of her epic hangover, and that was enough.
She could hear sounds coming through her open window, but she didn't pay any attention. The chambermaid had come in when she was in the communal baths and cleaned up last night's mess, and cracked the window to air the room out. A clean, dry herbal smell had replaced the stench of vomit and urine. Faithless briefly wondered how horrified, if at all, the maid had been when she entered the room. She decided she really didn't care.
Smells from the kitchen stirred her stomach, but she ignored it. Other than her time in the bath, she had not left the room, and really did not feel hunger was a good enough excuse to do so now. In fact, at this point, she had decided, the entire inn could be on fire, and she wouldn't budge. She felt faint surprise that she had even left to bathe.
Should have given into the spirit eater curse, she thought bitterly. The Host paused for a minute, as if surprised to hear the words even muttered inside the confines of her skull. Yes, that's exactly what I said. I shouldn't have bothered trying to fight it. I should have devoured Akachi. I would have become something worse than an abomination. But by the hells, I would have had something to show for it. Revenge. Revenge against the gods. The planes. The realms. Myself.
She got out of bed and walked over to her packs. Her mind was now filled with nightmare images of the Wall. This vision had constantly haunted her during the course of the day, and nothing she could do would make it go away. Mold covered faces and horridly twisted body opened their mouths to scream, no sound came out. She looked up, and tried to open her mouth to shriek, but her face was frozen in horror. There in the wall, mouthing their silent agony, were the faces of everyone she had ever cared about. Duncan. The farm girl. The tiefling. The gnome. The mage. The dwarf. Daeghun. The druidess. Bevil. Aimee. Retta Starling. Jesperth. Rilada. The gith. The paladin. The ranger. Her head shook in disbelief. The paladin? This couldn't be real. Above them, she saw the twisted, broken form of her own soul and choked.
No! This is all wrong! Most of them aren't even faithless! By the hells, they all had gods that they had faith in! Especially the paladin! She was certain she was shouting at the top of her lungs, but only cold silence greeted her. She crawled up the Wall's face to where her loved ones were squirming. Hands were reaching out and grabbing her, pulling her down, and she had to kick at them violently to reach her comrades. Suddenly, the silence was rent in two by the cold, emotionless voice of Kelemvor. No. You will not. The only soul you may take from this wall is yours. She growled in response and continued her ascent. The wall convulsed violently, and she was thrown off of it's face in a shower of bone flakes, mold spores, and dust. Another voice tore through the silence: the dry, reedy rattle of Myrkul. The planes don't turn on justice, girl, he hissed mockingly. Besides, little mortal, you have no room for indignation, seeing as you put them there yourself.
The vision faded, and Faithless hurriedly dumped the contents of her back pack on the floor. Swatting the majority of the junk aside, she picked up a bag of holding that she had marked with a purple slash. Opening it, she reached in and grabbed the only thing she knew was in there. Fingers wrapped themselves around the silken hilt that seemed to be eerily forged to fit every line and curve of her hand, and she drew it from its demi-dimensional resting prison to examine it.
The dim candlelight became a near blinding flare along the fluid, silver surface of the blade, and Faithless squinted. The sword was flawless and serene, showing no signs of its former trauma. The blue white tendrils of will that once held it together when it was reforged from a pile of shards were gone, as were the ghost outlines of the missing pieces. A edge was wickedly twisted into an alien form that once bit into the flesh of a near demi-goddess' enemies, and split a great planar race in two. She ran the tip of her finger along the edge, barely touching it, and held her bleeding pinky up in wonder.
She knelt and placed the Sword of Gith on the floor before her to study it. She had no idea how many hands had wielded it before part of it came to rest in her breast. Three she knew for certain: Akachi, Ammon Jerro, and of course, Gith herself. The others, if any, had been lost to the winds of time. The githzerai and githyanki saw it as the holiest of relics. Akachi saw it as a reward from his god to sow fear and terror amongst infidels. Jerro saw it as a powerful artifact necessary to achieve certain ends.
Faithless saw it as her nemesis.
Myrkul tried to take credit for it, but she knew the god was boasting when he claimed to have planned everything until that point where she met him on the Astral Plane. Including her life. It seemed even dead gods were not immune from such hubris, she mused. She knew better. Her entire life was shaped by the sword itself. The manipulation was so subtle and insidious she had never noticed it until it was too late. Even if she had noticed it earlier, she doubted she ever had any real choice. The planes themselves seemed to answer its cold, siren call.
First it had taken her mother when she could barely walk. From there on, she was bound to the Blade Road of her dreams and nightmares. The more she tried to resist, the more the sword pushed her back onto the path it desired. And along the way, it took more and more until she had nothing left to take, yet it still demanded more. The sword still wanted blood.
Faithless caressed the blade as she picked it up, tilting the end to her chest. She rested the very tip on the ragged scar that dissected her breasts, and felt a tingle run up her spine. Her face slackened, and an empty smile formed on her lips. "You want blood?" she cooed bitterly as she she shifted slightly to align the blade for a straight strike through her heart and lungs. "You got it.." She chuckled at the irony. I'm gonna put you right back where I found you.
Suddenly the Shattered Host cried out in surprise as they realized what she was about to do. No! Stop her! She's trying to end the whole game! If she ceases, so do we! Frantic Voices screeched and wailed in terror. Faithless felt a dull satisfaction at the panic. I will beat you. I will beat all of you. And when Kelemvor plasters me in his lovely wall, it is you lot that will be the first to be devoured. I will win. With that pleasant thought lingering in her head, she tightened her grip on the hilt and drove the sword towards her chest, expecting to feel cold, painful liberation as she eviscerated herself.
She jerked as a dull ache radiated from her sternum, and she glanced down. The sword tip rested between her breasts, but it had not penetrated the skin. Not even a scratch. Frowning, she readjusted the angle and slammed the point into her chest again. She gasped. It felt more like she had been struck with a blunt instrument than pierced, and when she looked down, she was dismayed to see the sword hadn't so much as pricked her. She held it up and examined it to see if somehow, the great Sword of Gith had finally been dulled. The edge glittered as deadly as ever in the soft candlelight, and for a moment, she wondered if she was dreaming. It has to be a dream.
Does it? A quiet voice asked coolly. Faithless paused, trying to identify which one of the Shattered Host had spoken, and realized with a start, that she could not identify it. The Host grew silent, as if shirking away from the newcomer.
Don't look to them for answers. As usual, they don't have any. The voice was deathly calm. Despite its soft timbre, it possessed a sharp, crystalline quality that reverberated down to the marrow in her bones. Though she knew the voice was within her head, she glanced around the room in spite of herself.
The sword lay quiescently in her hands, and she felt a burning rage consume her. "So, is that it?" she hissed madly. "You never once paused as you took everything from me, but now you have qualms about taking my life?" One hand grabbed the dull edge of the blade, and she tried with all her might to bend and break the sword, but it didn't give. "Damn You!" she screeched maniacally as she flung the sword across the room. It slammed against the stone floor with an ear splitting clang that made her wince before it skittered into a corner and lay still, unmarred.
Is that really necessary? The crystalline voice asked, slightly annoyed. You could try until your flesh decays and bones turn to dust, and you wouldn't so much as scratch the blade's perfection.
Faithless gritted her teeth. Who in the Hells are you? She demanded of the interloper. Are you the sword?
Light tinkling laughter responded. Me? The sword? Oh, heavens no. The sword has no voice. It never did. It didn't need one. The sword has resolve. You of all people should be aware of that.
Too well. But you still haven't answered my question. Who are you? Faithless asked.
You don't recognize me? I'm hurt. I've been around all your life, from the moment you emerged from your mother until now. And yet you treat me as an intruder? Tsk, Tsk.
Focusing on the voice, she tried to make it out. Her eyes widened as she realized the voice was hers, yet it sounded as if she was hearing it for the very first time. The strange crystalline quality it possessed made something that should have been familiar something that was totally alien.
Good. You at least think you recognize me. Everything else is of no consequence. The Voice grew louder. Well, most everything else, at least. You tried to end your life, but the blade would not allow it. Why do you think that is?
Faithless shook her head absently, too terrified to respond to this intruder that spoke with her own voice.
I'll tell you why. It's because I still exist within you, and the sword knows it. It can sense these things. What am I? I am all thats left of you when the machinations of gods, petty plots of mortals, and the capricious hand of fate have raped you and laid you bare. Yet I also drove you there as well. But that doesn't really matter, does it, when I am the only thing left that can grant you the one desire left in your heart. Revenge.
Her eyes narrowed. Revenge? I doubt it. Unfortunately, all my enemies lay dead or beyond my reach. I rejected the only chance I had at vengeance when I restored Akachi and ended the curse.
Did you? You have a very narrow view of what counts as an enemy. Are the only people worthy of your blade those who have directly threatened, manipulated, or used you? The voice lowered, and became colder and more pointed. What about those who have harmed or ruined those you loved?
What about them? Faithless shot back. Their enemies lay as dead as most of them do. I made sure of it. Thats the only thing I could really give them in the end. An extra sword arm to help slay their demons and give them resolution.
Oh? I think you should reconsider that very carefully. Because you don't need to look too deeply to see that not all of them passed on with a light heart and a clean conscience.
She sat back and stared dully at the floor. Had she missed something? They had all followed her willingly to the end, eager to put an end to the Shadow King once and for all. Did any of them bury a silent regret, an unfulfilled dream, or an unanswered vendetta that had not already been dealt with? No, even the paladin had made peace with himself and shared that last burden in his heart with her. And then it suddenly dawned on her with ice cold clarity.
Not everyone had followed her to the end. No, in fact, the one she cared for the most had done just the opposite, hadn't he? Her mind drifted back to the sanctum, and she could still see him standing off to Garius' left. His voice cracked as he recounted the twisted path that had led him to that moment. The forced initiation into the Luskan assassination squad. The torching of his village and his desperate attempts to drive everyone out and lure his handlers in. The slaughter of Luskans and villagers alike. His looking forward to finally dying and being done with the mess that was his life.
The memory shifted to an earlier one. A fiery sunset was sinking into the Sea of Swords as they sat on a dock in Neverwinter, passing a bottle of Moonshae whiskey between themselves. He was telling her why he hated Luskans, from the time spent in their army to life within the city itself. Copper eyes blazed violently as he abruptly told her to shut up about Luskans and drink the godsdamned bottle.
She was back in Port Llast, sitting in front of the fire with Malin, the half-elf who had once been his bedmate. He hates Luskans. Its the only genuine emotion I've ever seen in him. The things he used to do to them when he catch one of their patrols... Malin shuddered from a memory.
Luskans. They had been the bane of his existence. They had taken him from his village as a young teenager and put him through a mill that ground the soul and killed any spirit he might have ever possessed. He could never mention them without looking as if he was ready to foam at the mouth. The things she could get him to share made her guts churn.
Gods, he hated them, she thought as she closed her eyes, focusing on the image in her mind. I knew he hated them, but I never realized the extent that had damaged him.
They did more than damage him, the voice replied. They sent him on the path to his destruction. From the fires of Red Fallows Watch to waiting at the Flagon on retainer for Duncan, to your little traveling freak circus, to his nasty betrayal and untimely end under a heap of magical rubble in the Mere. All roads lead to Luskan.
Faithless turned her head and stared at the Sword of Gith, which was still laying in the corner. Revenge. The thought rolled sensuously through her mind like driftwood on a lazy sea. She whispered the word, and it felt like silken chocolate on her tongue. I set him free, but he stumbled into his own damnation. I tried to free him again, and he resisted. Vengeance is really the only thing
left I can get. For him. For me.
You see? The crystalline voice purred triumphantly. You can't die yet. I will not allow it, and neither will the sword. You're not done yet, girl. His enemies might have outlived him, but they should not be allowed to outlive you.
Too right, Faithless thought as she crawled across the floor and picked up the blade. She held it before her eyes and nodded slowly. "Yes," she said, almost as an afterthought. "For the first time in my life, you are going to do something for me. A lot of somethings, in fact." She scrambled up over to her packs and began to dress.
She would leave that night, as soon as she finished packing her things. The mare should be rested by now. It wasn't that far to Yartar, and Triboar was half a day's ride from there. If need be, she could trade the mare in for another horse there. That didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was she planned on wasting no more time letting the Shattered Host and ghosts of the past drive her to insanity. She was already there. They could push her no further.
And Luskan would end up paying dearly.
The thought gave her a shadow of pleasure, which was more than she had experienced in months. As she stuffed things randomly in her packs, she smiled inwardly. She had discovered her new voice, and it had birthed a new crusade within; this time, a crusade of her own making. And she with that, she discovered the very nature of the new voice that goaded her along this new path.
It was The Voice of Terrible Purpose.