Note: My apologies for the delay since my last chapter. between real life and the release of Dragon Age: origins and it's expansion, I ended up putting Fade to Black on the back burner and damned near forgetting it. My thanks to Anesor for her continued, gentle prodding as well asbeta reading assistance, else I'd still be merrily slaying darkspawn and forgetting my other RPG love, NWN2.
2nd of Kythorn, 1384
The first of the corpse flies had begun to arrive at the new feast prepared for them as Faithless staggered away from from the aftermath of her latest attack. Their frenzied buzzing grew louder and filled the still, overcast morning with a dire droning that sang a dirge of more lives ended in a savage orgy of destruction. She paused briefly to listen, savoring the sound like a well written victory ballad sung in a tavern. The gnome could do no better, she thought as she collapsed into some low lying heath with a heavy gasp.
She felt weak and exhausted, and her body still ached from numerous wounds and blows that had not yet been healed by the Sword's regenerative powers. Still clutching the pommel tightly, she pulled herself into a tight huddle and waited patiently for the restoration cycle to complete. She considered pulling out a healing potion to quicken the process, but decided against it. Her supplies were running low, and as far as she could tell, there were no more threats in the area that required a quicker recovery. The Sword would heal her injuries given time. The pain and fatigue, however, required food and sleep to remedy. Two things I need that the Sword cannot give me, shed added to herself.
Since the day at Thenig's Stand, she only stopped to eat and sleep when her body was on the verge of collapse from being mercilessly driven from one kill to the next without the benefit of either in between. Her pack lay dozens of yards away with what remained of her dwindling supplies. Shortly after Therig's Stand, she prowled the Crags in search of any other prey that might be lurking, but a sudden thunderstorm and subsequent flash flood had swept away a third of her stores. Little remained that was salvageable, and Faithless had turned to foraging for whatever she could find to stretch the use of what remained. More often than not, the few meals she did stop to take consisted of live grubs, worms, crickets, and anything else too slow or stupid to get away from her quickly. She had even conditioned herself to eat her finds without the urge to cringe at the feel of still living creatures wriggling on her tongue. Glancing down at the thick heather surrounding her, she wondered what sort of feast lurked beneath the clusters of dark green foliage and grey flowers. When the Sword released it's last regenerative pulse, she lurched forward and began tearing away at plant and soil in search of her next meal.
How I wish someone could see this! The Voice of Self Mockery laughed caustically. The great "Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep and slayer of Myrkul", now reduced to crawling about on all fours like some stinking beast, filling her mouth with whatever is unlucky enough to crawl into it.
It keeps you alive, you ungrateful cow, Faithless snapped back. It keeps all of you alive sadly, but most importantly, it keeps my Terrible Purpose alive, and that's what really burns you, isn't it? The Voice became silent, and Faithless laughed as she stuffed a particularly fat beetle in her mouth and crunched contentedly.
Having sated her hunger for the time being, Faithless stood up and returned to the carnage strewn trail where her newest kills lay. Flies danced about eagerly to get their fill, and a few landed on her face to taste the blood that had started to dry there. She casually swatted them away as she kicked the corpse of a female to its side so she could study it further. Cold blue eyes filled with the void of death stared back at her from a face forever frozen in a mortal grimace. The woman's head barely remained attached to her neck, and Faithless frowned, wishing she could remember landing the blow that had done that. It was a common annoyance she experienced after every kill, with the actual battles being little more than empty, disconnected images that seemed to shift and blur until they sped through her mind with little coherence.
This was no different. It started as all others did. Careful surveys of the terrain, traps set, approaching enemies studied, plans set in motion to fight from the shadows, tricks and plans within plans calculated. It was a style that was far more suited to her talents and tastes, and it was always how she preferred her fights. Speed, trickery, and a blade in a back had always been her forte. Yet despite this, it always came down to the Sword of Gith, and sensing the lifeblood of foes still breathing, the Sword refused to stay out of a fight. Once the blade was in her hand, things changed. Drastically.
Faithless moved amongst the dead, examining the damage done to each corpse, and her irritation grew. There were no blissful blackouts in the battles. She was aware enough to know what was happening, and conscious enough to guide her own actions. Yet once her will reached out and grasped the Sword, she became something else entirely. There were no great physical transformations. She was certain that her own body remained as it was. Nor did she feel as if she were possessed by entity, becoming a mere puppet dancing on strings. Her mind was entirely her own.
Yet still she changed. Body, mind, and soul faded, and a new awareness took their place. Her entire person was abandoned, and only the essence of her core self remained, united in conceptual intercourse with the essence and purpose of the blade. Reality around her detached itself, and everything, from pain, fear, and emotion to her primal senses vanished along with it. She was not simply a raving juggernaut of death, but the very idea of complete annihilation directed by unyielding resolve.
It was that very transformation that began to drive her mercilessly to the point of exhaustion, more so than the hunger for more patrols to kill. The memory of it haunted her well before the first bodies started to cool, and that longing was her constant companion in between kills. It was a hunger forever at the back of her thoughts at night, silencing even the most petulant murmurings of the Shattered Host. Even her dreams, when she had them, were not immune, and often, she would wake up, shaking and sweating like a lotus-addict with severe withdrawals, suddenly cut off from the meaning of her existence. Like an addict, she often neglected her own basic survival needs, such as eating, sleeping, and bathing, to seek out that state of being once again, and when it was over, she was left drained, bruised, and with a vague, disturbing feeling that something, somewhere within, was missing.
Faithless started rummaging through the corpses in search of anything useful that might be added to her own dwindling supplies. She noted with dismay that several flasks containing various liquids that were likely potions had been violently shattered, and wished that she had been more careful in striking down the patrol. None of the dead were mages or clerics, and other than a few coins and a small quantity of enchanted arrows, there was little of interest. With a sigh, she stood up and the last corpse a solid kick of frustration.
The blow rolled the body so that its face was visible, and Faithless was momentarily startled. Judging by the downy beginnings of facial hair covering his jaw, she guessed his age at perhaps 16 or 17 winters. However, it was not his apparent youth that caught her attention, but his appearance. Even dead and covered in dried blood, his pale brown eyes, hard-set jaw, and uncombed auburn hair bore a strange resemblance to the ranger whose memory had inspired this lad's death. Though the similarities between the newly dead boy and long dead man ended on a more detailed examination, she was still transfixed by the corpse's face.
Could have been him, long ago, she mused. He'd been "conscripted" into the Luskan forces when he was fifteen. Was this where it went? Was this a fate that could have very easily been his, had he been in the right place at the wrong time? One wrong step, one bad call, and you would have never haunted that dank corner in Duncan's tavern, or my life, for that matter.
The thought carried a profound sense of both liberation and loss with it, and despite a sudden flurry of incoherent whispers from the Shattered Host, she refused to shake the idea from her mind. Something so seemingly insignificant could have changed everything. How many ambushes from disgruntled citizens and bitter enemies had he escaped before Red Fallows Watch? Just a stray arrow, a dagger, a spell...and none of this would be happening right now.
No, you're right, it wouldn't. She blinked with surprise. It was the Voice of the child, who had once tried to convince her once to turn down the trail leading back home. It caught her off guard, as this particular Voice only spoke once, and then had vanished since. She wondered just where this Voice came from. It certainly held no association with the Shattered Host.
Not important, the childish Voice replied. You don't want me around anyway, and at the rate you're going, you'll get your wish soon enough. What's important is that you look at that dead guy and the things he makes you think about, and then look at where this will ultimately take you.
What? What do you mean? Faithless demanded. She looked back at the corpse.
You! Why are you still around, child? Terrible Purpose growled, stepping out from her relative silence to confront the interloper within.
This has nothing to do with you! So leave me alone! The childish voice answered defiantly.
Everything has to do with me, and you had better well learn that, girl, Terrible Purpose growled threateningly.
Faithless grimaced, and screamed so loudly it startled a flock of ravens that had come to feast on corpses. "Both of you! Shut up! It has fuck all to do with either of you! I don't need this shit. Just shut up! Can't I have a fucking thought of my own without any of you opening your mouths?"
Your thoughts ALWAYS are of interest and concern to me, Terrible Purpose shot back dangerously. I exist because you need me more than I need you. Remember that. Without me...
Faithless stood up slowly, and with a helpless groan, she replied: You win. She felt a hint of cold satisfaction from Terrible Purpose as the Voice receded. She abruptly stood up and marched over to where her pack lay, slinging it over her shoulder roughly. Without a further glance back towards the carnage she left, she left the scene in search of a suitable place to catch up on the required sleep she had missed, so she could begin her crusade anew.
"That should have been you back there, ranger," she murmured bitterly. "Better for us all if you had died in some shitty, dank Luskan hole. It would have saved us both a lot of grief. Especially me."
The Child within wailed, and eventually, faded back into nowhere.
10th of Kythorn, 1384
The crisp night air cut through her lungs like broken glass as Faithless woke from her nightmare, gasping and shivering. Her eyes roved about the camp site, trying desperately to find some focus to help shake off the last remaining strands of the dream web that still lingered like a corpse shroud. She jerked herself up into a sitting position, provoking a sharp protest from her back and neck, which were stiff and aching from the uncomfortable position they had been thrown into during her sleep. She allowed herself a short grunt and began gingerly rubbing the base of her neck while carefully swaying her back to help release the tension.
The pain began to recede, and Faithless was left feeling cold and clammy from the thin layer of sweat that covered her. The fire had completely died out, not leaving even the faintest glowing ember, and with a sigh, she pulled her cloak tightly around her and conjured up the desired heat through controlled shivering. Since her arrival in Luskan lands, she had still not gotten used to the climate that existed north of the Nerverwinter woods. It was almost Midsummer, yet the weather never seemed to move beyond a state that would, further south, be considered mid-spring. She remembered the sage in Longsaddle mentioning this. "The coldest winter I've ever spent was a summer in Luskan," he had told her. She wished now that she had paid more attention to that part and invested in warmer clothing. Next patrol, she promised. She would try to avoid mutilating her victims too badly, in the hopes some of their garments could be salvaged. If I can even remember to do so.
I'll try and remind you, then, if it makes you feel better, Terrible Purpose whispered dryly. Though it would be a shame to distract you. You are getting better and better.
Faithless snorted. Really? Does it even matter? The end result is the same, no matter what. That's all I care about.
Maybe in the world surrounding you, but what about the one within? The one that you unmade so that I could exist? The end result is not the same. Your dreams do not lie.
Rubbing her temples to ease the aching that always seemed to result from communing with Terrible Purpose, her mind began to drift back to the nightmare she woke from. The dream itself was hardly unusual or noteworthy; it had haunted her in slightly varied forms for the past few months. The Betrayer's Crusade, the assault on the City of Judgment. The frenzied, mad charge into the heart of Kelemvor's power. A diverse army of contradictory factions driven by a multitude of agendas that all dovetailed into one common goal: Destruction of the Wall of the Faithless. Since she had been cast back down into Faerun, she was certain she would be cursed to relive the fatally doomed scenario in her dreams for the rest of her life.
It's the same dream I've been having. Or have you not been paying attention, Faithless projected, annoyed.
I have been paying very close attention, Terrible Purpose shot back coolly. The question is, have you?
"Stop answering my questions with more fucking questions," Faithless snapped out loud. "Either say what you have to say, or just shut up like the others!"
I have said it. It's up to you to realize it. I am not here to do your thinking for you.
One of the Voices from the Shattered Host began giggling. Ooohhhh, I know the answer! But I think I'll just sit here with my lips sealed, and amuse myself watching you stumble your way to it, if you ever get that far. A few more giggles erupted within the Host until her mind was filled with their combined laughter.
Faithless was now irritated. To the Hells with you all, then! You're just toying with me now! Well, I'm not falling for it. I know your game. Shut up and crawl back into your holes where you belong!
Tsk tsk, Terrible Purpose scolded. Perhaps you should try listening to them once in a while. They seem to possess insight that you are now sorely lacking, since you banished it along with them.
What? You're actually agreeing with them, now? You're supposed to be working for ME, not THEM!
I work for myself. And I will agree with whoever furthers my reason for existence, which is to keep you on the Crusader's road.
Then don't you ever agree with them again, Faithless warned the Voice. I will not tolerate divided loyalties here, and THEY cannot be trusted! I don't care if they offer the meaning of life on a silver fucking platter! Tell them to shut up, or I swear by oblivion, I WILL take my dagger and remove my brains through my ears to silence you all for good!
You will do no such thing! Terrible Purpose hissed. I will not allow it! You would not end the Crusade before its time!
Try me, Faithless shot back, her thoughts cool and deadly. She grabbed the hilt of her dagger and drew it, pressing the tip just outside her ear canal. Choose your next words carefully. My hand is not particularly steady at this point.
There was a long silence within her mind. Finally, Terrible Purpose spoke. Very well. Have it your way. If that's what it takes to keep you from coring your own brains out in a hissy fit, then I will concede. I shall never accept or agree with anything the others have to say, no matter how sound, useful, or insightful it may be. Happy now?
No. Faithless turned her attention back to the Shattered Host. And YOU will never again speak unless spoken to! Don't think I don't know what goes on amongst you when you hide from me. You think I don't know what lies behind your whispers and laughter? I know you are all plotting amongst yourselves against me. Don't think for a minute that I'm not on to you. Your plans will fail, and you will suffer dearly if you keep it up!
The Host backed away from her conscious mind, and Faithless felt smug satisfaction that they had been permanently humbled, and a mutiny in her mind averted. Her thoughts focused once again on Terrible Purpose. Now, you were discussing the dream?
Not important, Terrible Purpose murmured irritably. Just...go back to sleep. Or don't. It matters not.
You better not be keeping anything important from me, Faithless growled, sheathing her dagger.
I am not. It was merely an observation. Forget anything was mentioned. Terrible Purpose quietly receded.
Sighing deeply, Faithless shut her eyes and waited patiently for the pain in her skull to fade away. Images from her dream began to slowly unravel and dissipate against the velvet blackness of her thoughts, and she tried in vain to grasp one before it vanished, to discern if there was indeed some sort of message she had missed, or if it was simply a case of the Voices taunting her with gibberish once again. Deciding on the latter, she slumped back once again, in the hopes of recapturing the sleep that had rudely escaped her grasp. Like many nights, however, it did not return.
Raindrops smelling of the spruce they dripped from splattered onto the unfurled map, smudging the ink slightly and provoking an irritated curse from Faithless as she pulled her cloak around tighter in an attempt to shield herself and the map of the Luskan sewer system from the steady drizzle that was falling. Carefully, she blotted the excess ink in an attempt to keep the map legible. The gods are pissing on me, attempting to slow my crusade, she thought with amusement. Like growing up in a bog didn't teach me about living in perpetual dampness.
She peered up at the corpse grey sky through the branches of the trees that provided meager shelter from the weather. It had not stopped raining for days. Far from the balmy, refreshing showers that had often visited West Harbor in the summer, the Luskan rain felt only a fraction warmer than sleet. Much to her surprise, however, the number of patrols she had encountered had increased, which led her to conclude that someone in Luskan was starting to notice the abnormally high mortality rate of their patrols. While the tanari within relished the prospect of the steady increase of violence, she knew from her last encounter that the patrols were getting larger and better equipped. She had spent a day huddled under a bramble hiding while the Sword of Gith slowly healed the larger than normal amount of damage she had taken. She realized then that it was time to move on to the next step: the heart of the beast itself: Luskan proper.
And then what? She wondered. I can't continue as I have been. Harder to kill en masse within the city walls without someone noticing quicker. And there is also the Hosttower, which careful scrutinizes everything in the city.
Akachi's crusade did not remain the same battle, and neither will yours, Terrible Purpose whispered. You will know what to do next, because you are the crusade.
Turning her attention back to the map, she made a mark on a point of potential interest, marking the place where the sewers ran under the deserted ruins of Illusk. That was a place to avoid: the notes and lore she had picked up spoke of a dead quarter haunted by twisted magic and all manner of abominations. Though undead occasionally wandered out from the ruins and the portion of sewer that ran beneath them, they generally remained in what some scholars nicknamed "the district of the damned". She had no intention of finding out just how "damned" the area was. Of all the monsters and creatures in the realms, none terrified her like the undead did. Even worse, she noted it ironic that the best defense and weapon against undead was the faith and power of a deity. The idea made her want to vomit, and she pushed it from her thoughts, switching to another map that showed the outer perimeter of Luskan and the outer entrances to the sewer system.
After settling on an entrance route, she rolled each map up in a ragged cloth and carefully returned them to their scroll cases. At her current pace, she would end up outside of Luskan city by tomorrow evening. Though weary and eager to move on, she hoped she would get one last kill in to sate her ever increasing appetite for carnage. It was similar to the craving she once held for spirits; a void that desired to be filled, but never could.
I'm tired, she thought. I want sleep. I need sleep.
Ignore the weaknesses of your body, crusader, Terrible Purpose chided. There will be plenty of sleep waiting for you in the grave. But the crusade waits for no one.
Faithless nodded weakly in agreement. Sleep must be fought off like the unwanted embrace of a lecherous old man. She would only give into it when her body forced the issue. And then only for a couple of hours. Between the guidance of Terrible Purpose and the relentless drive sustained by The Sword, she found that she could run on sheer will and hatred for most of the time.
With a quiet grunt she stood up, forcing the exhaustion away once again. The drizzle had increased slightly, threatening to become a full rain, but she didn't care. She would not allow the gods to piss on her Crusade. It would continue, come the Hells or high water. Pulling her cloak tighter and her hood lower, she set off towards the Northwest, where the city of Luskan waited for her.
It was an unlikely place and time for the Great Epiphany, but it was in the Sodden Oak inn, after a meal of crusty bread and sour ale, that the true purpose behind her Crusade was realized. The Sodden Oak itself was unremarkable; it was a small country inn where local farmers would stop for a night and a meal on their way to larger market towns. Faithless would have barely noticed it, had the smells of hot food drifting from the inn not reeled her in like a fish. She had not eaten a hot meal since Longsaddle, and found herself unable to ignore the sudden demands her stomach placed on her.
She ate undisturbed, the hood of her cloak pulled over to conceal her features while she listened to the chatter of other patrons. Most of it was the uninteresting and idle gossip of farmers discussing neighbors and hopes for the harvest, but she did catch a brief discussion regarding the Luskan patrols. They had indeed increased for some strange reason, according to one old man chewing on a scrimshaw pipe. His companions speculated on everything from monsters to an impending invasion from one of Luskan's many enemies. It wasn't long before the conversation shifted to plans for the first cider apple harvest, and Faithless lost interest. She finished her meal, and having already paid the innkeeper, she turned towards the door to leave.
The outside door opened, and a small, unremarkable figure in a coarse brown robe entered, bring with him some of the dampness and chill from outside. He neatly wiped his feet on the straw mat in front of the door before entering the room. His damp hair was cropped very short, and he had a plain, unremarkable face. Yet it was what hung around his neck that had caught her eye. A wooden amulet, hung from a plain bronze chain, was painted with an image of a pair of pale white hands bound by a red cord. Though she had never met the man, she knew what he was. She had seen a similar symbol carved from some sort of celestial wood around the neck of Kaelyn, the angelic priestess who had been the most fanatic supporter of the Betrayer's Crusade. Her eyes followed him intently from beneath her hood. One of Ilmater's faithful, she thought cooly.
The robed man approached the innkeeper, who greeted him warmly. "It is good to see you, Brother Kerron!" the innkeeper exclaimed, grasping a man in what appeared to be relief. "Ilmater be praised! I apologize for calling you hear on such short notice. I hope I was not interrupting any of your duties."
"Of course not," Brother Kerron replied warmly. "My first and foremost duty as a servant of Ilmater is to alleviate the suffering and sorrows of others, no matter how small. How fare the boy and his mother?"
"The boy, as you know, suffers from a cold," the innkeeper explained. "A rather unseasonable one. It's his mother who I'm worried about. She's got herself wound up tight, pulling out her hair in worry. I tried to tell her it was a simple cold, that Filis just needs a bit of rest and warm soup, but she's convinced herself it's something horrible, like the Plague. She hasn't been eating or sleeping well, and I worry for her health."
Brother Kerron nodded sagely. "I see," he said after a moment. "Celise worries over her only child's well being, even though his ailment is minor and common. She suffers because she cannot bear to see her son suffering. I am pleased you have called upon the Crying God to intercede, even if you consider this a small matter. In Ilmater's eyes, all suffering, whether it be physical, emotional, or spiritual. Show to the room where your wife and son are, and I shall tend to them at once."
"A thousand blessing," the innkeeper said with great relief. "They are upstairs. If you would follow me." The innkeeper turned and went up the small staircase, followed by the priest.
Faithless took a few steps back and sat on an empty stool near the cloak rack. Not just a follower, but a priest of Ilmater. Her breathing sped up, and her hands were clenching into fists. A priest. A devotee of a god, the ultimate parasite of the planes. A deep, caustic rage rose in her gullet, a feeling she had not experienced since that day in the temple district of Everlund. Ever since the end of the Betrayer's Crusade, she could not help but feel a visceral loathing of anyone who gave worship or belief to a deity. They, after all, above anything, were the fuel that fed the very fires of the gods' existences. The same gods who tolerated the existence of the Wall, who played games with fate and flogged mortals with delusions of paradise and damnation to ensure their devotion. She felt that same corrosive hatred as she watched the priest disappear from the room. But this time, there was something else far deeper and more profound mixed in. Something both familiar, yet alien at the same time. She was not certain whether to be frightened or intrigued. Slowing her breaths, she stared intently at the staircase, waiting for the priest to return.
An hour had passed before she heard the voices of the priest, innkeeper, and a thick, female voice which she assumed to belong to the innkeeper's wife as they descended down the stairs. The woman could not stop singing Ilmater's praises as she descended first. She was a tall, thick woman with ashy blond hair and pigishly pink skin. The priest followed her, the innkeeper right behind him.
The three went over to the hearth with the woman still ecstatically thanking Brother Kerron for his timely intervention. She was certain he had saved her son's life, though the polite expressions of both innkeeper and priest said otherwise. Faithless felt that had the room not held several patrons plus the innkeeper and priest, she would have merrily beat the silly, sobbing cow into a gelatinous mess. Yet another piece of livestock to feed the egos of the divine, she thought darkly. A brief vision of both innkeeper and wife hanging on meat hooks in an abattoir came to mind, and the image felt fitting.
It was the priest, however, that kept the majority of her ire focused. Did he realize just what it was he was feeding with his prayer and devotion? She doubted it. What felt like distant memories came forth of the paladin on his knees, either singing, chanting, or praying in earnest to Tyr, his face the very image of undying devotion as he meditated upon his god. The god that he believed, with every fiber of his being, to be the very embodiment of all that was good, just, and right in the Realms, because he had not been shown any different. She guessed the same might true for this priest. He worshiped Ilmater because he believed that his god was good and cared about the suffering of others. Like the paladin, he was most likely blind to the awful truth of the planes. Unlike the paladin, it was not too late to rescue him from a life of devotional lies.
I need to have a chat with the priest, Faithless decided. He needs to be dissuaded from his religion, like I did with the young initiate of Kelemvor in Mulsantir. He has been lied to. Once he sees the truth about the gods, he will turn away in anger and perhaps spread the truth of the gods: that they are little more than powerful parasites sucking the people of the world dry with faith.
The inn was not the place for such a confrontation, so she waited patiently as the priest and the couple exchanged pleasantries. The innkeeper had offered the priest free meals and a room for as long as he decided, but Kerron declined, suggesting instead that the innkeeper show his gratitude by offering food and shelter to any poor or sick people who he might encounter. With a final heartfelt farewell, Kerron t left the inn. After a few more moments, Faithless slipped quietly out the door and followed the priest.
The inn was located in a small cluster of houses which were too few to even be considered a village. Brother Kerron had not gone far up the road, having only passed the last house before the road wove through farmland and forest. Faithless walked briskly and silently, and the priest jumped in surprise when she called out to him.
"Brother Kerron, right?" she asked as the startled priest turned to face her. She noticed he carried no visible weapons. Fool. Probably thinks his faith will protect him.
The priest eyed her warily, and she realized she still had her hood pulled low over her face. With a casual gesture she flipped it back, and repeated her greeting. The priest relaxed slightly, his face shifting from suspicion to confused concern. "Ilmater's blessing, child," he said softly, giving her a polite nod. "Might I know your name?"
"No, you may not," Faithless replied briskly. "Nor am I interested in Ilmater's blessing, either, so save your breath."
The priest studied her cautiously, but remained calm and collected. "I see," he said after a moment. "Then perhaps there is some other way I can be of service?"
"No, but there is a matter of great importance I think you should be aware of," she told him, a tone of urgency creeping into her chilly tone. "A...very important theological matter, in fact. You need to know that you are being deceived in the worst possible way."
"Oh?" Kerron's dark brows knitted in concern. He took a couple steps toward her and asked, "Deceived in what way, and by whom?"
"By the very power you worship," Faithless explained, stepping closer. "By Ilmater himself. It seems that your own god has not told you the entire story, and I'm here to set things straight.
Kerron sighed deeply. "Please, child, I have no time for pranks, blasphemous or otherwise," he chided her. "Unless you are truly interested in discussing the faith, I'm afraid I must take my leave."
"This is no prank, and I'm not fucking around!" she snapped. "The god you worship is a fraud, just like all the other gods! He claims to be the great champion of the suffering, yet he sits upon his holy throne in Celestia while the greatest suffering of innocents takes place right under his nose! And the most he does is allow a priest or two to fight it!"
"What in the name of all that is holy are you talking about?" Kerron asked, his voice showing a growing irritation that seemed at odds with his humble bearing.
Faithless leaned in closer. "The Wall of the Faithless!" she told him. "That great construct of never ending torment and hunger that devours the very souls of every victim imprisoned within it. Even those of children and idiots! And Ilmater approves!"
Brother Kerron shook his head sadly. "Child, I know not what purpose you think to serve by such claims, but I do not think you understand..."
"Don't tell me I don't understand!" She growled. "I understand better than you do, idiot! I was there! I was in the Wall, and the Wall was within me! I watched it devour, felt it devour, and became the devouring instinct of the damned thing! You lie to yourself if you think you're immune because of the delusion of faith! I had faith once, and it still nearly consumed me! It will consume you too, if you don't wake up and open your eyes!"
Kerron's face stilled, and he gave her a compassionate, knowing look. "I think I understand," he said after a moment, and a shot of hopeful elation coursed through Faithless' heart. He understands! She thought gleefully. Her excitement at the prospect of turning this priest away from his god was short lived, however, when he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"It is clear to me that you suffer from some ailment of the mind," Kerron said patiently, favoring her with the look of a father who knows the fairies his child sees are caused by a high fever. "You are in the grips of some terrible delirium, caused by Ilmater knows what. Whatever the cause, child, matters not. You need healing and someone to share your troubles with. Ilmater can help with both. Our shrine is not far, and my brothers and sisters..."
Something old woke within Faithless, an almost adolescent hatred of what she perceived as being patronized. She smacked the priest's hand away and shoved him hard, causing him to lose balance and fall to the ground. All earlier notions of trying to turn the priest from his empty path had vanished, replaced by a consuming rage and hatred of the man who had just offered her succor.
"Fuck you and your fucking lackeys and their shrine!" she shrieked, kicking a clod of dirt at the man laying in front of her. "I'm trying to save you, you religion addled fool! Your worship feeds the lies! As long as you believe, the real suffering will continue!"
So absorbed in her rage was Faithless that she didn't notice the priest clutching his holy symbol and murmuring a prayer. When she realized it, it was too late as a blast of divine force dazed her and knocked her back, causing her to stumble and fall just as Kerron had done. Her skin tingled like a rash with the residual power of the priest's spell, and she rolled in the mud off the road, both in an effort to calm the itching and distance herself from another possible attack.
She heard the rustling of Kerron's robes as he pulled himself up, and she looked back, expecting another blast of Ilmater's power. Instead, Kerron was looking at her sadly, his right hand clutching his amulet. He walked over to her and knelt, offering his hand to help her up.
"Forgive me, child," he apologized gently. "I honestly had no wish to harm you. But I fear in your condition, you pose a danger to yourself and others. I felt compelled to prevent you from doing anymore harm. I don't know what torments you have suffered to make you this way, but I beg you, let Ilmater soothe your troubled mind and heal your spirit. The shrine is not far."
Faithless glared at him incredulously. Was this idiot trying to say she was crazy? That she was merely a simpleton in the grip of some madness? She stifled a giggle. She was the only one in the Realms who knew the truth of anything! Was this priest that stupid?
Of course not, Terrible Purpose sneered. Can you not see this ploy for what it is? He's another lackey of the gods. He wants to drag you off to his temple and fill your mind with the lies of his faith. Don't you see, the gods fear you, they fear your Crusade, and have sent their slaves to stop you. Don't let his pretense of compassion fool you: he seeks to end you and your Crusade!
Faithless stared warily at the priest's outstretched hand. How would he know? She wondered.
How else do god-worshipers know anything? Their gods tell them! Don't you see? They see in your Crusade, as they did in Akachi's, the death of all faith, and thus, their own demise. They will do anything to stop you. Stop looking at the priest's hand as a gesture of aid, and see it for the poisoned chalice it truly is.
Faithless looked up at Kerron's unremarkable face, and nodded slowly. I see.
Then you know what you must do.
She felt the raw power of Terrible Purpose fill every part of her being with a cool, detached certainty. Faithless gave Kerron a knowing smile, and the priest smiled back gently, believing she had finally accepted his offer of help. When he took her hand to help her up, he did so unaware that her grin held his death behind it.
Faithless' body relaxed into a pre-attack fluidity, allowing her the maximum possibilities with which to strike. As Kerron pulled her up by her right hand, her left hand slipped to the hilt of her dagger, and as her momentum pulled her towards the priest, with lightening speed her dagger flashed out from it's sheath and buried itself in the priest's abdomen with a brutal twist. Kerron's eyes widened and he gasped in a mixture of shock and pain, his grip on Faithless' hand releasing as he clutched the pommel protruding from his belly. Not wasting the advantage, Faithless lifted her knee and struck him in the groin, sending the priest crumpling to his knees.
Faithless stepped back casually, glaring coolly down at the priest as he watched his lifeblood gush from his belly. His right hand, still gripping the pommel, was deep red. He didn't even try to staunch the bleeding, and she guessed he was probably still trying to understand what exactly happened.
"I know your game," Faithless whispered without emotion. "When you arrive on the Fugue plane to meet your god, tell him, tell them all, that they will not stop me. I understand the Crusade now. And they have every right to be worried."
The dying priest lifted his head to look at her, and Faithless waited for him to spit some curse or dark portent at her. But Kerron's face, despite the grimace of pain, held no malice and anger. Disturbingly, his eyes still held their compassionate, sad gaze. Blood started to dribble from his lips, but he gazed at her serenely. He removed his bloody hand from the dagger and reached up, gently cupping her jaw and chin in a crimson carress.
"May Ilmater's peace find you, child," he half whispered, half gurgled. "With my dying breath I pray you will find the serenity that has been stolen from you." His bloodied lips parted into a gentle smile, and his eyes glazed over as he collapsed in a lifeless heap. His hand fell away from her jaw, leaving a warm, bloody streak in it's place.
Faithless stepped back from the dead priest. A sickening confusion replaced the cold certainty she felt earlier. She stared at the lifeless corpse of Kerron, biting her lip as she touched the spot where his hand had been. He spent his dying breath giving me a benediction, she thought uneasily. No curses. What's going on?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a horrified shriek behind her, and instinctively drew the Sword of Gith and spun around, expecting to see a local militia with swords drawn and arrows nocked. Instead, she saw a terrified woman clutching a young boy, her eyes wide with fright. The boy looked at the priest's corpse in horror, tears running down his dirty face.
"Ilmater preserve us," the woman whimpered. She grabbed her terrified child and ran screaming towards the cluster of houses. Faithless almost chased her down, but was too shocked herself to follow. She turned back to Kerron's body with a growing sense of unease.
It was Terrible Purpose who snapped her out of bewilderment. It is time to leave, you idiot, Terrible Purpose hissed. Forget the wench and her brat. Leave the priest for the worms. It's time to move on, Crusader.
Pure instinct took over, and Faithless absently retrieved her dagger from Kerron's belly. His innards gushed out from the now gaping wound, but she shoved the image out of her head. She had done worse to the Luskans. It made no sense why this priest's death should be any different. Shoving her dagger back in it's sheath and returning the Sword to its mounting, she wrapped herself in nearby shadow once again and left the house cluster behind without a glance back.
It was hours before she finally allowed herself to collapse. Was still covered in Kerron's blood, but the earlier unease was starting to fade. What was left in it's wake was akin to having her head dunked in a tub of ice cold water. Her mind was quiet and focused with a certainty she had not felt before. After weeks of wandering through the Luskan wilds, ambushing patrols and losing herself in rapturous violence, she now understood the deeper, and absolute meaning of her Crusade. The ranger was not at the heart of it. She understood that now. Whatever vengeance he had inspired was but a mote of electricity in the greater flow of things. He had been the catalyst, but not the purpose.
The purpose of the Crusade was indeed terrible. It was also liberating.
For the first time since the night at the Calling Horns inn, the presence of Terrible Purpose radiated a sense of complete approval and pleasure. You see now? The Voice purred almost lovingly.
Yes, Faithless replied into the perfect emptiness. It was right before my eyes and I didn't see it. But I am no longer blind.
Her Terrible Purpose was nothing short of the death of all faith. The very thread that stitched reality together and was the currency of the planes. When the last spark of faith died, all of existence, including the gods, the laws, the Wall, would forever die with it.
That is the Great Truth, Terrible Purpose confirmed. The priest back there, he died with faith. His death unhinged you because of this. Faith is your true enemy. It must be completely eradicated in order for the Crusade to triumph. Akachi only brushed the surface of this truth, which is why his Crusade failed three times. But you understand. And in understanding, you will succeed where the others before failed.
Faithless focused completely upon this revelation. It did not occur to her that wiping faith and belief from the minds of every sentient being in the realms was, to say the least, a goal formed from the dregs of madness and incredible delusion. The magnitude of such a feat was not important. Only knowing the key to unlocking the end of everything mattered. Everything else was a matter of details and planning.
The moonless night had fallen without much notice as Faithless made her way towards Luskan. The city itself was not her ultimate goal, but what lay within. The City of Sails held many dark secrets within its walls, with the Arcane Brotherhood holding the largest share. Within the Hosttower lay a treasure trove of forbidden knowledge gathered from all corners of Faerun. And if she failed in gaining access, there was always the city itself and its denizens. Though not renown for being a city of piety, there were several temples to the darker gods, each ministering to their flocks of depraved faithful. The seeds of faithlessness would be planted and spread like a virus. Kelmvoris wall would collapse from the surge in souls filling it.
Her steps quickened, now having a purpose of their own. Luskan, as she once erroneously thought, was not the end destination of her Crusade, but the very beginning.