These Roads We Walk - Chapter Five - A Quiet Little Madness

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TWEN

No matter what situation you find yourself in, there is always a way out, even if it might not be very obvious or easy at first.

Although Twen's father had been a baker, he had always been fond of imparting pearls of wisdom with great gravity to his daughter over the morning bread as though they were his own brilliant discoveries after a lifetime of hard trails and hidden wonders, rather than kneading dough each night. Perhaps if he had even found himself chained to a wall with the chill of the earth seeping into his bones and an unseen captor he might have had some more valuable advice to dispense with in her situation.

By now her eyesight had almost completely recovered, although there was little enough in the room to occupy herself with.

Apart from the corpses, of course.

If she hadn't seen the carnage wrought in the ruins beneath the Anauroch, stench ripe with the desert heat still dryly wafting down the entrance, Twen might have rebelled in a panic against her bonds, fingers curling until bones snapped into the rusted chains that bound her arms, shrieking and lashing in fear until unconsciousness claimed her. As it was, she only stared at the forms motionless on the floor with a grim sort of acceptance. Her travels had changed her slowly but surely over their course, and if she could look upon such acts now without a shed tear or a cry of fear, she wasn't sure she was changed for the better.

There were five in all, if you added up the parts strewn about haphazardly, and the one she had stumbled across where she had been captured. Twen thought most of them were human, and fairly recent; while the blood had stained the floor black and the flesh she had touched had been cool, the only odor in the air was the pungent scent of drying herbs covering up that of blood, and the cold scent of rocky earth. Nearly all of them seemed to have been killed by a massive blow to the head; the one face that was turned towards her was distorted and surely unrecogniseable even by it's own mother. The rest of it -- the arms ripped from torsos with almost casual strength, the legs broken with precision -- might have been done after death . . . at least, one could hope.

The room Twen found herself shackled in hardly seemed befitting of a madman. Although it was situated in what appeared to be a natural cave, it was -- and there was no other word for it -- absolutely homey. There was a roughly hewn wooden desk tucked against one side of the room and neatly stacked with well-cared for tomes from the mundane -- A Wanderer's Guide to Amn ­-- to the extraodrinary -- several so thick and spines so covered in obscure runes she could make no sense of them. A mat woven of graying but neatly trimmed water reeds and long grasses covered the center of the floor, upon which sat a small table, playing host to exactly one spoon, one foor, one knife, one goblet, and one bowl, all of which were clean and polished despite being rather battered. The small, thin bed on the opposite side of the room held clean sheets and a single pillow, and the herbs arranged around the room, woven about spikes of rock and tuckled neatly into any niche, were likely as much for their curative or cooking properties as for their decorative side. Even the bodies were almost neatly arranged, off to the side where fluids wouldn't stain the mat.

In fact, the only real sign that something was amiss in this small underground abode -- apart from the bodies -- were the dark, viscuous fluids and unidentifiable bits of matter in the large jars and bottles arranged by size on one large shelf.

And, of course, the massive, blood-stained mallet propped up against the dark opening in the corner.

Twen tried not to look at it too much. If she did, her mind began to show her the bits of white and gray stuck amidst the red.

It is always too much to ask for a time to take a break between one disaster and another. With a grunt of effort, Twen wrapped the lengths of chain about her hands and pulled herself to her feet unsteadily. Her captor had been thoughtful enough to leave her in chains long enough that she could sit on a small stool beneath her, but not long enough to hang herself with.

How considerate.

Not that it was an option. But if something wasn't done soon, her body might pursue other venues with or without her consent.

With the adrenaline of the battle coursing through her body in the aftermath, Twen had hardly realised just how badly wounded she was. What she lacked in finesse, she made up for in speed . . . but Heurodis had been able to match the agility of youth with the dangers of experience. Twen winced inwardly now, thinking both of the number of times the insane medusa had shrieked with glee as she'd sent her magics searing over Twen's body, and at the painful shocks that had coursed through her each time she'd attacked the source of Undrentide's power. She wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and sleep.

Her captor had thoughtfully patched up the more serious of her wounds with herbal salves.

It worried her.

Not, however, as much as her companions' absence did.

Twen had plunged through the Shadow Door first, urged on by Xanos' snarled commands and her own fear, and she had been certain, certain that both he, Deekin, and Skald had been right behind her. Even if they hadn't, Skald should have followed her, yanked after her by the strange magical connection they'd shared ever since Master Drogan had first taught her how to summon her familiar. But the room's quiet denied it; Skald was overly fond of both himself and his voice, and while he was frequently unmanageable and irksome, he would never truly leave her behind. And yet, the little creature was still alive; she would have felt his death.

Not so for Deekin and Xanos, however. While she had never really seen completely eye-to-eye with the half-orc, she doubted he would have left her, and in any case she didn't think she had been knocked unconscious. Deekin, as well, would scarcely have left her; despite Xanos' frequent proclaimations that the little kobold would flee at the first sign of danger, Deekin never had.

There had not yet been a night Twen hadn't found herself lulled to sleep around the campfire with the sounds of Xanos bickering loudly with Skald over the last scrap of meat and Deekin's hesitant attempts at restoring calm. Were they somewhere else now? Coming to find her, or at least trying to?

Or had something . . . happened?

A shuffling off to the left brought her out of her grim reverie, and Twen's head snapped in the direction of the sound. After overpowering and dragging her back here, her captor had left her alone once he'd tended to her wounds. At least, she'd assumed it was male from the voice and strength; her vision had been too damaged to see. It was impossible to keep track of time here, with nothing more than the flicker of a few small torches to keep her company, but she thought she had been here for hours at least. In that time she had strained, twisted, tested each link of her bonds, and tried in vain to summon up the reserve to manage even the smallest cantrip in an attempt to free herself, cursing -- unwisely, she knew -- several of the more unsavoury gods as she had done so.

Mere hours since Undrentide had fallen. It seemed inconceivable, as though she would be trapped forever on that doomed creation.

And then her captor shuffled into view, and all other thoughts were blasted from her brain with a force greater than a fireball.

She didn't even realise she was praying aloud to Lathander for the first time in years.

In her travels, and even before in the books and scrolls contained in that distant farmhouse on Hilltop, Twen had seen many things. While she had never crossed paths with one of these before, she knew it well enough from description to place it; flesh golem.

Why it revolted her so she couldn't say; travelling across the desert with the halfling caravan, they had come across a settlement of humans beset upon by the living dead. Some of those shambling creatures had been baked dry by desert heat, flesh stripped from bones by age, while still others had been fresher, turning empty eyes upon her in faces picked by vultures, moving forward drunkenly with bodies still bleeding or leaking any number of unidentifiable fluids, flesh parted from bone, but still able to move.

But even those had not evoked disgust from her, as much as a deep feeling of pity and sadness.

They had been tragedies in their way. This? This was deliberate.

The face was stitched with neat lines of thread, all the more out of place given the state of it's features, held in place by magics and some sort of preservative, whose pungent odor she could now smell as it approached. Skin and pieces from all races, all peoples, the jaws long and gaped in a snarl like a wolf's in a grotesquely human face. The body was too long, making it lurch forward with each ungainly step, and even as she watched it put out one overlarge hand against the wall to steady itself as it regarded her. It was powerful, definitely; the muscles were enormous on it's torso and in it's arms, but wrong somehow, as though some had been put together in the wrong place. Twen clamped her lips shut over the moan of disgust that threatened to escape as she noticed it's ears; the long, delicately pointed ears of her kin.

"And how are we feeling now?"

Twen's heart lurched into her throat as for an instant she thought the golem had spoken to her. Human words couldn't possibly find their way out of that deformed throat and mouth, could they? But then she noticed the tall, painfully thin human man standing behind it, smiling pleasantly at her from the doorway. He was still fairly young, dark hair only just beginning to pepper itself with strands of white, and lines etching themselves deeper about his eyes and mouth. He might have been handsome if not for how obviously malnourished he was, his belly visibly concaved through the thin material of his shirt. "I realise these aren't the most pleasant of accomodations," he said as he stepped unconcernedly around the golem, wiping his hands on a stained scrap of cloth, "but they are all I have to offer."

He bent his head to murmur something into the golem's left ear, and with a low grunt, it lurched forward past Twen, and she rolled her head to keep it in sight until it vanished around a curve in the stone walls. "I would like for you to look at me please when I am speaking to you." the man said in a stern tone, and, startled, Twen looked back. He smiled at once, and dropped the cloth in a small wooden bucket against the wall. "Thank you. What is your name, please?"

Twen didn't respond immediately. Her mind was trying too hard to dissect the situation; part of her still half believed she was laying unconscious and hallucinating atop Undrentide at Heurodis' feet. He leaned in close to her to speak; his breath was unpleasantly ripe and strangely fruity, as though he had a bowl of fruit in his belly that was just beginning to turn. "Your name, please." he said softly. "I can find out in other ways, but I advise you to talk."

Thinking of the creature out of her sight, Twen said aloud, "Twen Brangwin."

He smiled, pleased. "Thank you, Twen. Where are you from? I shall ask you to remember what I have said. Can we keep things pleasant, do you think?"

Swallowing dryly, Twen said, "Hilltop."

Incredibly, he nodded, as though he understood, although few people had ever heard of the place. "You are a very far way from home, Twen Brangwin. You could not have picked a better time to arrive, however."

"For you or for me?" she asked, amazed at how calmly she spoke.

He laughed. "You have a point. I suppose it is more fortuitous for me than you at that. But as I have just finished with my work for the moment, we do have some time to talk." At this, Twen's eyes rolled towards the bodies stacked on the floor, and he followed her gaze. "Oh, no. Alan did that. I asked him to, of course, but only so I could do my part." He held up his hands so she could see the drying red in the creases of his fingers and smiled. She thought his eyes, a startlingly beautiful clear green, were the maddest she had ever seen. "I'm not strong enough to do the rest. But I don't want to talk about my work, right now. I want to rest a little before I continue."

He turned and walked towards the rows of bottles on the shelves, and Twen called after him, "What work? What do you do?" when she really wanted to demand, What have you done?

Selecting a tall, thin bottle he glanced back over his shoulder. "Not right now." he repeated, gently but firmly. His long, slender fingers deftly removed the stopper from the bottle, and even at this distance Twen could detect a new addition to the already unpleasant mish-mash of scents in the air; a sharp, acidic smell. He took a delicate drink and sighed, shoulders slumping with something like relief.

The golem -- Alan? -- shuffled back into view, dragging a long, flat wooden board. Twen's heart pounded once, deafeningly in her ears, as she recognised leather restraints at each end, but the creature did not yet look at her as it set about dragging the table and it's contents carefully off to one side. "Are my companions here as well?" she asked, voice a little too shrill for her liking.

The man glanced at her again -- and abruptly, Twen felt something in her mind, a loathsome, oily caress that wound itself with disgusting intimacy through her thoughts. It was gone even as she gasped at the contact, not noticing the musing expression on her captor's face. "A summoned pseudodragon, a half-orc, and a . . . a kobold who thinks itself a bard? No, I'm afraid they are not." he said with genuine regret. "More's the pity. I would have liked to have met them."

At the wistful expression on his face, and thinking of the strange things in the bottles and jars on the shelf behind him, Twen suddenly found herself glad Deekin and the others were absent.

"But you're here." he went on, expression brightening as he reached into a small, heavy pouch hanging on a rope about his waist. "And I can do this myself. Alan is a wonderful worker, but the bits and pieces I need are often of less than sterling quality. I cannot complain, as I believe I have said I am incapable of restraining the ones we have found thus far, as is Alan without . . . forcing compliance . . . but with you . . . maybe with you I will finally be able to find something of better value." And he held up two items.

Twen, whose uncle had dabbled from time to time in things of an artistic nature, recognised them at once as a chisel and a small but heavy mallet. And she thought of the cracked open heads of the bodies on the floor. "No." she said, at once, loudly but still as calmly as she could manage.

"I know." he sighed. "They never like this part. Myself, I had hoped to rest a while before I continued, but I sincerely doubt you would have lasted the night. Your wounds are not so great, but Alan is at times impetuous."

"No." Twen said again, hands balled into fists. "You cannot. No. This is not to be."

He seemed a little sad as he looked at her. "Others have said much the same, Twen Brangwin. You think yourself so different? Trust me, I am doing you a favour. Soon, you will care for nothing. And I? I will be able to return to my books . . . at least for a little while longer. Alan." he said, in a sharper voice, snapping his fingers. He pointed at the slab of wood now lying in the center of the room, and at once the golem turned toward's Twen; the touch of it's hands was loathsome on her skin as it unlocked her bonds, unmoved by her struggles.

"I did not come so far for this to be the end of it." Twen gasped, angry through her fear. The golem pressed her down hard on her belly on the slab, fastening her arms and legs in place with surprising dexterity even as she tried to twist away.

"Do any of us?" her captor said regretfully as her head was turned roughly to one side. She found herself staring at the desk as a fifth strap was placed painfully tight about her head. "If it is any consolation, I do not enjoy the menial tasks beforehand as I do the after effects." The position of his voice had shifted now, and Twen realised he was kneeling over her. She felt his fingers almost tenderly part her hair, and then the chill touch of the chisel on her scalp. "It was nice to meet you, Twen Brangwin of Hilltop. I suppose you seem a nice enough young woman. I shall be sure to send my condolances to your loved ones."

"No." Twen said again, horror leaking all the strength from her voice. She had survived J'Nah, survived Undrentide, survived all manner of beast and treachery for this? To die for a cause she would never understand, a forgotten corpse on the floor of this place? Her eyes rolled in a panic about the room even as she strained against her bonds. Her gaze landed on the books on the desk, and at this level, she recognised the runes and writing covering the spine of one of the largest as Netherese. "Undrentide has risen and fallen again!" she shrieked in desperation, loud enough to ring her own sensitive ears though not loud enough to mask the sound of her heart.

She drew in breath and waited for the first blow of the mallet.

Silence.

Then; "I have heard many a plea in my lifetime, Twen. Yours is surely the oddest."

"It is true." Twen spat, bitter with fear. And then, before she could draw breath to continue, she felt it again.

That feeling like a slick of oil inside her mind, invading and encompassing and demanding. It shoved it's way so violently inside her that she cried out in pain although she could not hear it, odd memories and flashes appearing before her eyes until she felt sick with it all. When it was over, she lay gasping and trembling on the wooden slab, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.

"How very interesting." Her captor's voice floated down from above now; he had stood, and she realised she no longer felt the press of the chisel against her skull. "It seems you believe it to be true, at least. Alan, keep an eye on her, if you will. Do not touch her. I must verify this."

And Twen found herself watching as his bare, dirty feet left the room.

She tried to form a plan, anything, thoughts still jumbled from the intrusion. Not long, not long, how long do I have? she thought.

From behind her, Alan let out a rumbling growl.

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XANOS

The night had completely claimed the woods and they had been travelling unsteadily westward for several hours before Xanos realised something.

He spun about and levelled a finger at the startled pseudodragon who had been flying behind him, jabbing at the creature's snout angrily. "You! Beast! You have been allowing Xanos to make a fool of himself!"

"Me?!" Skald said indignantly, puffing out his small chest. He never failed to believe himself as intimidating as any real dragon. He, at least, was reassurance Xanos had done the wise thing in his youth and refused a familiar. "I ain't been doin' nothin'! You make a fool outta yerself all on yer lonesome, you don't need my help! . . . not that I couldn't do it better." he added as an afterthought.

"Do not toy with me, you flying piece of carrion." Xanos snarled, voice surprisingly low and silkly in a frightening rumbling whisper. For once, Skald looked slightly nervous. "You and Twen are linked as surely as you are with your own stench. You could easily have sensed where the elf is, but instead you have allowed Xanos to spend hours wandering about in this godsforsaken tangle of dirt and twings! Xanos hopes you have enjoyed your little joke, because it will be the last before I wrap my hands around your useless neck!"

Puffing with alarm, Skald flew back out of reach. In the gloom, his wiry shape was little more than another tangle of branches, even if accompanied by the steady beat of wings. "You ain't! You wouldn't! 'Cause she'd be mad at you, and I ain't done pulled no jokes today!" His head drooped suddenly, and he regarded Xanos with what appeared to be genuine misery from one yellow eye. "You don't think I been tryin'? I can't feel nothin' . . . it's like I got a wet blanket thrown over me. Ya don't think . . . she's . . . maybe . . . well . . . "

Xanos was silent for a long moment before he finally grunted and turned away. "If she was, I can assure you that you would be blessedly silent."

The thought had occured to him as well.

Xanos had been in an increasingly foul mood throughout the hours he had spent shoving aside tree limbs and stubborn bushes, and he honestly didn't think it would have been much improved even if Skald hadn't been along for the trip -- although the burrs that had found their way into his britches on more than one occasion or worked their way underneath his armor could have been done without. The frigid air of Hilltop and it's seemingly incessant snow had hardly been pleasant, but at least it was familiar; after months of travel and being shunted from one extreme to another, Xanos was rapidly losing the small taste for travel and new places he'd had to begin with.

Things could have been worse. At least the summoned beast was easily distracted, and Xanos had been able to find a healing potion hidden in a tangle of cloth at the bottom of his pack that had taken care of the worst of his injuries, as well as a wrapped portion of dried meat for rations that he had been careful not to mention to the little beast. And speaking of the beast, he was certain he was better off at this time of night, able to easily see the overhanging branches that caught the blasted creature by surprise, and avoid treacherous dips in the ground that might have snapped the ankle of a less wary traveller. All in all, he had to admit, he was better off than he might have been. After all, hadn't he seen worse training sessions under the tutelage of Drogan?

That old dwarf . . .

Xanos didn't realise he'd stopped until Skald called, "What is it?"

"Nothing." Xanos replied gruffly, surging forward with renewed vigor, quickly enough that Skald nearly found himself snapped out of the air by the branches the half-orc viciously shoved aside.

There had been things . . . left unsaid between himself and his old mentor. And although Xanos had made an effort to express similar gratitude towards the elf before they had climbed towards Heurodis -- had it really only been hours ago? -- it would have been a gross shortcoming of his own to think that she had survived the ensuing battle only to be struck dead by a wayward streak of wild magic. The kobold was of little consequence; there were dozens more like him in caves riddled throughout Toril.

At least, so he told himself grimly.

You had best not have the audacity to die, elf.

"You will not die until I've had the chance to berate you for doing so." Xanos muttered aloud.

Sounding slightly cheered, Skald said, "That's the spirit."