***** Author's Note: Hello again, and welcome to part three. Just a
quick note here concerning Olidammara. I'm a relative newbie where D&D is
concerned, so I described the god of rogues as I, personally, have always
seen him. If this is glaringly incorrect, I really do apologize. As it
is, my own imagination was my only reference.
Author's Note Part II: To the people who read this right after I posted it: Reading over chapter 3 after I posted it today, I decided that I really wasn't happy with my explanation of why exactly Oli was so upset with Weylyn. I felt like I was making too much of a stretch there, so I altered it pretty drastically. If you don't want to bother reading the whole thing again, the only part I really changed was the main body of conversation between the two. I hope it's a little better this time around. (
Peace. ~EC ******
The sky was exploding. One thousand thousand minute flashes of light broke apart and came together and broke apart again in dazzling flecks of white and gold and blue. The world was shifting. It dipped and spun sickeningly, twisting away rhythmically into endless bursts of darkness, light, darkness, light.
In the heavy pressing silence, a figure hung motionless and suspended. His eyes were closed as if in dreaming. His black hair floated wildly about his fair face. Slowly and delicately he began to sink, down into the deep blackness. The pale dream of sunlight glinted down on him, lighting his white face one last time with the green glow of the sea.
Weylyn, floating on the edge of consciousness, felt himself falling. He couldn't breath. This worried him slightly, but he was so tired, in so much pain, it hardly seemed to be worth bothering about. As the last trailing bubbles escaped his lips, he gave in to the inevitable comforting darkness.
And yet, something tugged naggingly at the back of his mind. It was almost a tickling-- the whisper of a thought, or a voice or . . . Exactly what, he didn't know, but it got his attention enough to pull him back from his abyss momentarily. The tickling grew more insistent, and Weylyn foggily tried to pull the fuzzy bits of his brain together into coherence. Yes. He could hear it now. It *was* a voice. A voice that currently seemed to be laughing at him.
"Not yet little one," it whispered. "Not yet."
Weylyn's eyes snapped open as the sea became suddenly violent. A dull roaring grew in his ears as a sudden powerful current surged beneath and around him and, slamming powerfully into his back, began to bear his body upwards. The water rushed over him painfully fast, and he was forced to shut his eyes against the blinding flashes of light and the power of the water catapulting him upwards.
He was far below the surface, and the urgent squeezing in his chest was beginning to remind him just how long he had been without air. Just as he was beginning to wish his lungs would explode and get it over with, however, his body broke the surface in a dazzling spray of foam and water.
Gasping, choking, and half conscious, Weylyn floundered drunkenly around in the tossing waves. All around him, the charred, and in some cases still-burning, wreckage of the two once proud ships was bobbing gently on the tossing waves. Gathering the last shredded bits of strength he possessed, Weylyn pulled himself up onto the largest piece of flotsam he could find, and clung there like a half-drowned rat. He started trying to pull air into his ravaged lungs, but succeeded only in retching miserably over the side of his tiny raft. After ridding his guts of what seemed like far more seawater than anyone could possibly swallow, he closed his eyes and laid his bruised and aching face against the soft, damp wood. He sighed softly. And this had started out such a nice day.
"Serves you right, really."
The voice came so suddenly out of the silence that Weylyn attempted to leap backward and managed to dunk himself once again into the dark water. Sputtering incoherently, he surfaced and grabbed onto his little raft before it floated away. Pulling himself aboard, he looked around wildly for the speaker. He wasn't too difficult to locate.
There, sitting smugly cross-legged on the opposite side of the wreckage he clung to, was a little figure grinning infuriatingly at Weylyn's soaked form. He was small, and dressed in an oversized jerkin and breeches that seemed to be made entirely from different colored tatters and patches. Strung about his odd costume randomly were flashing medallions and bright little charms. He wore no shoes, and oddly enough, he seemed completely dry. How he had managed to climb onto the floating piece of wreckage without drenching himself was more than Weylyn's aching brain felt like dealing with at the moment. His face . . . His face was giving Weylyn a headache. It kept . . . shifting around. One minute it was merry, another moment somber, another moment angry. Red haired, then blonde, then brown, then raven black. The features and expressions molded and shifted continually in a sickening blur. Weylyn blanched at the sight, feeling the bile rise again in the back of his throat. Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead down into the wet wood.
"Can you please stop doing that?" he moaned softly. The odd figure across from him rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Seasick are you? Some vicious pirate. Feh."
Weylyn cracked one eye open at him. He attempted an icy glare, thought better of it, and closed his eyes again with a soft whimper. The figure sighed loudly.
"I suppose if this conversation is to go anywhere, I'll have to cater to your pleadings for the time being." The air shimmered slightly, and the figure's face slowly stopped its mad spinning. The features it resolved into were sharp and angular beneath two diamond blue eyes that shone with something better left to itself. His hair settled at a rusty fox red that ran down past his shoulders, tied back at the nape of his neck with a strap of leather. He blew an errant strand out of his face and leaned over to poke Weylyn's sodden shoulder.
"Alright, you can look now."
He settled back, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ". . . you big infant," under his breath.
Weylyn half-heartedly opened his eyes, taking in the strange little man before him. "I don't suppose," he grunted "That I'm lucky enough for you to be a hallucination?" The little man shook his head merrily.
"I'm afraid I'm as real as you are, boy." Those frightening diamond eyes twinkled dangerously. "Perhaps even more so." Weylyn sighed resignedly, and turned his head to gaze at the odd little figure.
"I thought so. So it only remains to ask just who exactly the hell you are, and why you couldn't leave me to die in relative peace. I'm assuming," he quirked an eyebrow "That I do have you to thank for that."
The odd man smiled crazily at him. "It was my doing, yes. But, as to whether or not you'll thank me for it. . . Well, that remains to be seen." He added a cackling laugh to the smile and leapt suddenly to his feet with a small flourish. "My name," he intoned rather too dramatically for Weylyn's taste "Is Olidammara; prankster, lover, rogue, and ne'er-do-well." He bowed and gave Weylyn a sharp toothed smile. "At no one's service but my own. Doubtless you've heard of me."
Weylyn lifted his head to stare briefly at the self-proclaimed god before him. Now this, he really did not need at the moment. He had enough problems without odd little men in odd little clothes claiming to be odd little deities. He banged his head against the wreck a few times.
"And I am a high priestess of the Drow. Pleased to meet you. . ."
Whatever the rest of Weylyn's remark was, he never got to give it. In an instant he felt an invisible but incredibly powerful force wrap itself around his elbows and drag him head first over the side of the wreckage and into the water. Helpless, he was held a few feet below the surface, kicking madly in the grip of something he couldn't see or fight until white spots began to dance before his eyes.
As suddenly as it had happened, however, it was over. The force didn't release its grip on him, but it did push him to the surface where he spat and cursed, damply and ineffectively. With his arms pinned to his sides, it took him a few moments to shake the long, clinging strands of hair out of his face enough to see. When he did though, the first thing that came into his vision was Olidammara, sitting on his haunches with his arms folded on the edge of the wreckage.
"Are you prepared to take me seriously now? I'm perfectly willing to teach you that particular lesson all day, you little sea whelp, if that's how long it takes." He sniffed airily. "Show some respect, if you please." Weylyn only growled at him sullenly from his watery prison. "Now," he crossed his legs and sat comfortably facing Weylyn. "We have some business to discuss, you and I."
"What dealings could possibly lie between us?" Spat Weylyn. "Even if you are who you claim to be; I am no rogue. No sneak about locksmith. I am a fighter, and have asked no boons of you that seek repayment." Olidammara raised an eyebrow, and Weylyn found himself with a mouthful of seawater as he was jerked under the waves yet again.
"Respect," he said, grinning that infuriating grin again as Weylyn surfaced. "Our business," he said, "Concerns the ship that you and your bloodthirsty crew have just blown up. And don't even think about trying to tell me it wasn't your fault," he snapped as Weylyn opened his mouth to protest.
"On this ship, which you have so wantonly destroyed, there was a passenger." Olidammara stopped to rub the back of his neck reflectively. "Alright. . . a stowaway. The point is he happened to be one of my followers. A cleric, whom I happened to be rather attached to." He shrugged. "Admittedly, the boy was a bit of a butterfingers, but his heart was really in the right place. And, I can tell you, my dear sir," he paused to glare at Weylyn. "I am not at all pleased at having him so prematurely removed from my service."
Weylyn gazed at Olidammara dispassionately. "And?" he said. "I fail to see exactly what this has to do with me. If your bungling cleric was stupid enough to get himself killed, that blame can hardly be laid on my shoulders." He laughed shortly. "I would, in fact, think you would be happy that I rid you of such an incompetent lackey. I do not see how this concerns me."
Olidammara didn't lose his mocking smile, but his eyes were attempting to gouge holes in Weylyn's face.
"Oh no, my dear boy," he said softly. "You owe me one very important thing. A life. I have lost a cleric; one whom I both liked and needed. Followers don't come cheap, Weylyn, and I mean to exact my price from you." He laughed. "Don't worry, my dear boy. I don't mean in the literal sense. I merely mean that I have decided that *you* will fill the shoes, so to speak, of my recently departed disciple."
Weylyn shook his head in disbelief and irritation.
"Why, exactly, in the name of blood and black steel have you decided it has to be me?"
Olidammara smiled crookedly.
"You," he leaned forward and grabbed Weylyn by the string of shark teeth around his neck. "Are a thief. You are an overzealously violent thief with no style or flair and the subtlety of a rhinoceros, but you are a thief nonetheless, and as such, fall under *my* domain. You will, therefore, make an ideal follower. Don't try to deny it." He glared wildly as Weylyn seemed about to refute this, causing the pirate to close his mouth with an audible snap.
Olidammara sighed theatrically. "Just look at you," he said. "You float there, completely in my power, soaked to the bone, covered in bruises, half burnt and still spitting at me like a cornered rat. Snarl at me all you want, Blackwolf. I will have my life for a life, and I will have it from *you*. You have robbed me of one of my followers, and in return you yourself must carry on the work that he so unfortunately was unable to continue." Olidammara turned his back and started to pace the small piece of wreckage nonchalantly, studiously ignoring the incoherent outraged muttering coming from Weylyn. "There is, of course, one minor problem." He turned suddenly to face Weylyn. "I've been watching you for some time now Blackwolf. I have, in fact, had my eye on you ever since you showed a predilection for things that don't belong to you. You pillage, you burn, you murder and steal, and for what? For the harper's songs? For the drunken revelry after a night of bloodshed? For the scores of women falling at your feet? No," he glared contemptuously at Weylyn. "Not *you*. You rarely partake in the ale soaked festivities of your crew, you killed the last three bards who even dared to *mention* songs about you, and I can't even *count* how long it's been since you've bedded a nice wench." He leaned over and poked Weylyn roughly in the chest to cover the young pirate's attempt at outraged denial.
"You are far too serious. And if there is one thing I cannot stand from those who follow in my path, it's a wet blanket." He laughed. "No pun intended."
Olidammara gestured deftly, and the invisible force once again plucked Weylyn from the water and dumped him unceremoniously on the floating wreckage. Weylyn shivered miserably, pressing his fingers against his eyes to fight off the pounding headache that was starting to assert itself behind them.
"With any luck," he whispered. "I'll wake up on the firm deck of my own ship to find that this has all been an odd, rum flavored dream." He sighed. "But, as my luck apparently hasn't been the best lately, I suppose I'm just going to have to play along for now, aren't I?" He let his body fall forward with a soft thunk onto the damp, rocking wood. Opening one eye, he gazed wearily at Olidammara. "What exactly is it you want?"
Olidammara jumped up, rubbing his hands together and cackling delightedly. He folded his long, elegant fingers under his nose and stared over the tips of them at Weylyn's sodden prone form.
"What I want from you, Blackwolf, is no easy thing. It is both a quest, and a punishment for robbing me of one of my precious few clerics." He folded his arms and stood tall and stiff; a little colorful judge standing before his accused. "In addition to living life according to my teachings, your task, Weylyn Blackwolf, your holy charge given by me, and not to be ignored unless you wish upon yourself a very painful and, if I have anything to do with it, embarrassing death, is to turn over a proverbial new leaf."
Weylyn opened his other eye, the deep green was still clouded, but Olidammara certainly had his attention now.
"You want me to what?"
The patchwork god leaned close to Weylyn, smiling in a way that a more suspicious person would have called slightly malicious. He propped his chin on his hand jauntily.
"It's quite simple, Weylyn. You are going to become one of my devoted followers. I have decided, however, that you are obviously not doing enough honor to the grand tradition of hedonism as a thief and a villain. I really can't allow my followers to be so uptight. I told you, if there's one thing I can't stand, it's a glorified bandit with a stick up his arse. And therefore, so you will properly pay homage to the triple goddess of wine, women and song, I hereby strip you of your evil ways. You aren't properly appreciating the finer points of life as a villain; let's see what you can do as a hero."
"WHAT?!" Weylyn leapt up and wobbled uncertainly on the gently bobbing raft. He stood gaping at the smug little god before him, but Olidammara only raised an eyebrow at him. "You can't possibly be serious. I am Weylyn Blackwolf. Terror of the Ten Seas, the Black Daemon, the Laughing Blade. . ." He trailed off slowly as Olidammara just continued staring at him in amused silence. Weylyn shook his head angrily.
"I am no man's hero. I am a corsair. I am a black hearted shadow to be feared, not carted around like some puffed up jackdaw." He glowered fiercely. "The only men who sing of my deeds do so with hushed voices in dark corners. Or they get their tongues cut out."
Weylyn started as he felt the pressure of Olidammara's power wrapping around his elbows once more. He glared at the rogue, but the strange little god seemed intent on cleaning his fingernails. He spoke finally, slowly and deliberately enunciating his words as he tightened the band of power around Weylyn.
"I don't remember giving you any sort of choice in this matter, my dear boy." He walked slowly over to where Weylyn stood rooted helpless to the spot. He gazed intently at the dripping pirate for a moment, and his voice was as cold as his diamond eyes. "Run from it as you will, Weylyn, from this day forward, your quest and your curse is to live a glorious life, to uphold the weak, stand against tyranny and cruelty, and shine as a golden example of good for all those around you. Until," he smiled crazily. "Until you are even more famous for your deeds of good and kindness than you are for your cruelty."
Weylyn grit his teeth as he struggled to breathe against the invisible force holding him still.
"Let me go, Olidammara." He spat. "I am not one of your lackeys. And I would rather drown myself now and get it over with than degrade myself by becoming a slack faced cleric."
"A cleric?" hooted Olidammara. "A cleric? What deity in their right mind would be stupid enough to give *you* divine powers, boy?" He laughed loudly and shook the loose foxy hairs from his eyes. "No, my lad, I'm afraid you will have to rely on your wits and your strength alone." The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "Alright, on second thought, perhaps on your strength alone."
He slapped Weylyn's shoulder with a short laugh and turned to face the bright blue of the sea.
"Well, my boy, I'm afraid I must leave you now. Can't hold your hand the whole time now, can I?" Weylyn opened his mouth angrily, but Olidammara turned to him quick as a cat, something frighteningly close to anger burning behind his eyes.
"It is never very wise, Weylyn, to anger a god, even one as charming and gentle mannered as myself. Make no mistake Blackwolf, I will be watching your progress *very* closely."
He struck out like lightening, grabbing Weylyn's right arm in a vice- like grip. The young pirate sucked in his breath sharply as a stab of burning pain shot up his arm from where the god's hand held him. The strange pain blossomed and spread, searing through him and within him until his whole world was reduced to the blinding white agony pulsing through him.
Through the hazy clouds that seemed to coat all his senses, Weylyn heard Olidammara whisper in his ear.
"You are marked as mine now, boy. Try not to disappoint me." Weylyn gave a small cry as the burning pain boiled past his breaking point, and his world went finally and soothingly black.
* * * * * * * * *
His entire body was on fire. His face was pressed deep into some black nameless grit while the cold waves lapped softly against his legs. Weylyn opened his eyes slowly and wished he hadn't. The blinding sun flashing against the white sand sent nauseating waves of pain deep into his weary brain. Spitting out small quantities of sand, he sat up slowly, trying to ease some of the ache out of his protesting muscles.
He shook his head softly, trying to clear the clouds away that obscured his memory. The battle, the fight with the captain, the shipwreck. . . Weylyn paused. Olidammara. He had had that strange crazed dream about meeting the weird little god of rogues while floating around half dead in the middle of the ocean. Weylyn laughed softly at his own stupidity as he started brushing the sand from his shoulders. A quest from Olidammara. Really, he should be ashamed that he had even entertained the thought that anything that happened could possibly be real. . .
Weylyn paused suddenly. His shirt had been lost sometime before he washed up on shore. As he brushed the clinging white sand from his shoulders, a soft thrill of pain blossomed as his fingers brushed over his right bicep. Weylyn closed his eyes for a moment, and then slowly turned his arm so he could see it more clearly.
For a number of years, the black tattoo on Weylyn's right bicep had stood alone and proud. It was a wolf's head, pitch black and snarling across the scarred muscle of Weylyn's arm. Not, however, any longer.
Weylyn gazed at the tattoo on his arm for quite some time. After awhile, he dropped his head into his hands, and sunk to the soft white sand in a miserable ball of disbelief. He stayed there, rocking himself slowly on the beach for hours. And the sun rose high into the sky and set again, shining softly on a black wolf's head tattoo that now sported a strange addition. On one side of the wolf, a mask of sorrow, on the other, a mask of mirth. The mark of possession of Olidammara, who even now was laughing.
Author's Note Part II: To the people who read this right after I posted it: Reading over chapter 3 after I posted it today, I decided that I really wasn't happy with my explanation of why exactly Oli was so upset with Weylyn. I felt like I was making too much of a stretch there, so I altered it pretty drastically. If you don't want to bother reading the whole thing again, the only part I really changed was the main body of conversation between the two. I hope it's a little better this time around. (
Peace. ~EC ******
The sky was exploding. One thousand thousand minute flashes of light broke apart and came together and broke apart again in dazzling flecks of white and gold and blue. The world was shifting. It dipped and spun sickeningly, twisting away rhythmically into endless bursts of darkness, light, darkness, light.
In the heavy pressing silence, a figure hung motionless and suspended. His eyes were closed as if in dreaming. His black hair floated wildly about his fair face. Slowly and delicately he began to sink, down into the deep blackness. The pale dream of sunlight glinted down on him, lighting his white face one last time with the green glow of the sea.
Weylyn, floating on the edge of consciousness, felt himself falling. He couldn't breath. This worried him slightly, but he was so tired, in so much pain, it hardly seemed to be worth bothering about. As the last trailing bubbles escaped his lips, he gave in to the inevitable comforting darkness.
And yet, something tugged naggingly at the back of his mind. It was almost a tickling-- the whisper of a thought, or a voice or . . . Exactly what, he didn't know, but it got his attention enough to pull him back from his abyss momentarily. The tickling grew more insistent, and Weylyn foggily tried to pull the fuzzy bits of his brain together into coherence. Yes. He could hear it now. It *was* a voice. A voice that currently seemed to be laughing at him.
"Not yet little one," it whispered. "Not yet."
Weylyn's eyes snapped open as the sea became suddenly violent. A dull roaring grew in his ears as a sudden powerful current surged beneath and around him and, slamming powerfully into his back, began to bear his body upwards. The water rushed over him painfully fast, and he was forced to shut his eyes against the blinding flashes of light and the power of the water catapulting him upwards.
He was far below the surface, and the urgent squeezing in his chest was beginning to remind him just how long he had been without air. Just as he was beginning to wish his lungs would explode and get it over with, however, his body broke the surface in a dazzling spray of foam and water.
Gasping, choking, and half conscious, Weylyn floundered drunkenly around in the tossing waves. All around him, the charred, and in some cases still-burning, wreckage of the two once proud ships was bobbing gently on the tossing waves. Gathering the last shredded bits of strength he possessed, Weylyn pulled himself up onto the largest piece of flotsam he could find, and clung there like a half-drowned rat. He started trying to pull air into his ravaged lungs, but succeeded only in retching miserably over the side of his tiny raft. After ridding his guts of what seemed like far more seawater than anyone could possibly swallow, he closed his eyes and laid his bruised and aching face against the soft, damp wood. He sighed softly. And this had started out such a nice day.
"Serves you right, really."
The voice came so suddenly out of the silence that Weylyn attempted to leap backward and managed to dunk himself once again into the dark water. Sputtering incoherently, he surfaced and grabbed onto his little raft before it floated away. Pulling himself aboard, he looked around wildly for the speaker. He wasn't too difficult to locate.
There, sitting smugly cross-legged on the opposite side of the wreckage he clung to, was a little figure grinning infuriatingly at Weylyn's soaked form. He was small, and dressed in an oversized jerkin and breeches that seemed to be made entirely from different colored tatters and patches. Strung about his odd costume randomly were flashing medallions and bright little charms. He wore no shoes, and oddly enough, he seemed completely dry. How he had managed to climb onto the floating piece of wreckage without drenching himself was more than Weylyn's aching brain felt like dealing with at the moment. His face . . . His face was giving Weylyn a headache. It kept . . . shifting around. One minute it was merry, another moment somber, another moment angry. Red haired, then blonde, then brown, then raven black. The features and expressions molded and shifted continually in a sickening blur. Weylyn blanched at the sight, feeling the bile rise again in the back of his throat. Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead down into the wet wood.
"Can you please stop doing that?" he moaned softly. The odd figure across from him rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Seasick are you? Some vicious pirate. Feh."
Weylyn cracked one eye open at him. He attempted an icy glare, thought better of it, and closed his eyes again with a soft whimper. The figure sighed loudly.
"I suppose if this conversation is to go anywhere, I'll have to cater to your pleadings for the time being." The air shimmered slightly, and the figure's face slowly stopped its mad spinning. The features it resolved into were sharp and angular beneath two diamond blue eyes that shone with something better left to itself. His hair settled at a rusty fox red that ran down past his shoulders, tied back at the nape of his neck with a strap of leather. He blew an errant strand out of his face and leaned over to poke Weylyn's sodden shoulder.
"Alright, you can look now."
He settled back, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ". . . you big infant," under his breath.
Weylyn half-heartedly opened his eyes, taking in the strange little man before him. "I don't suppose," he grunted "That I'm lucky enough for you to be a hallucination?" The little man shook his head merrily.
"I'm afraid I'm as real as you are, boy." Those frightening diamond eyes twinkled dangerously. "Perhaps even more so." Weylyn sighed resignedly, and turned his head to gaze at the odd little figure.
"I thought so. So it only remains to ask just who exactly the hell you are, and why you couldn't leave me to die in relative peace. I'm assuming," he quirked an eyebrow "That I do have you to thank for that."
The odd man smiled crazily at him. "It was my doing, yes. But, as to whether or not you'll thank me for it. . . Well, that remains to be seen." He added a cackling laugh to the smile and leapt suddenly to his feet with a small flourish. "My name," he intoned rather too dramatically for Weylyn's taste "Is Olidammara; prankster, lover, rogue, and ne'er-do-well." He bowed and gave Weylyn a sharp toothed smile. "At no one's service but my own. Doubtless you've heard of me."
Weylyn lifted his head to stare briefly at the self-proclaimed god before him. Now this, he really did not need at the moment. He had enough problems without odd little men in odd little clothes claiming to be odd little deities. He banged his head against the wreck a few times.
"And I am a high priestess of the Drow. Pleased to meet you. . ."
Whatever the rest of Weylyn's remark was, he never got to give it. In an instant he felt an invisible but incredibly powerful force wrap itself around his elbows and drag him head first over the side of the wreckage and into the water. Helpless, he was held a few feet below the surface, kicking madly in the grip of something he couldn't see or fight until white spots began to dance before his eyes.
As suddenly as it had happened, however, it was over. The force didn't release its grip on him, but it did push him to the surface where he spat and cursed, damply and ineffectively. With his arms pinned to his sides, it took him a few moments to shake the long, clinging strands of hair out of his face enough to see. When he did though, the first thing that came into his vision was Olidammara, sitting on his haunches with his arms folded on the edge of the wreckage.
"Are you prepared to take me seriously now? I'm perfectly willing to teach you that particular lesson all day, you little sea whelp, if that's how long it takes." He sniffed airily. "Show some respect, if you please." Weylyn only growled at him sullenly from his watery prison. "Now," he crossed his legs and sat comfortably facing Weylyn. "We have some business to discuss, you and I."
"What dealings could possibly lie between us?" Spat Weylyn. "Even if you are who you claim to be; I am no rogue. No sneak about locksmith. I am a fighter, and have asked no boons of you that seek repayment." Olidammara raised an eyebrow, and Weylyn found himself with a mouthful of seawater as he was jerked under the waves yet again.
"Respect," he said, grinning that infuriating grin again as Weylyn surfaced. "Our business," he said, "Concerns the ship that you and your bloodthirsty crew have just blown up. And don't even think about trying to tell me it wasn't your fault," he snapped as Weylyn opened his mouth to protest.
"On this ship, which you have so wantonly destroyed, there was a passenger." Olidammara stopped to rub the back of his neck reflectively. "Alright. . . a stowaway. The point is he happened to be one of my followers. A cleric, whom I happened to be rather attached to." He shrugged. "Admittedly, the boy was a bit of a butterfingers, but his heart was really in the right place. And, I can tell you, my dear sir," he paused to glare at Weylyn. "I am not at all pleased at having him so prematurely removed from my service."
Weylyn gazed at Olidammara dispassionately. "And?" he said. "I fail to see exactly what this has to do with me. If your bungling cleric was stupid enough to get himself killed, that blame can hardly be laid on my shoulders." He laughed shortly. "I would, in fact, think you would be happy that I rid you of such an incompetent lackey. I do not see how this concerns me."
Olidammara didn't lose his mocking smile, but his eyes were attempting to gouge holes in Weylyn's face.
"Oh no, my dear boy," he said softly. "You owe me one very important thing. A life. I have lost a cleric; one whom I both liked and needed. Followers don't come cheap, Weylyn, and I mean to exact my price from you." He laughed. "Don't worry, my dear boy. I don't mean in the literal sense. I merely mean that I have decided that *you* will fill the shoes, so to speak, of my recently departed disciple."
Weylyn shook his head in disbelief and irritation.
"Why, exactly, in the name of blood and black steel have you decided it has to be me?"
Olidammara smiled crookedly.
"You," he leaned forward and grabbed Weylyn by the string of shark teeth around his neck. "Are a thief. You are an overzealously violent thief with no style or flair and the subtlety of a rhinoceros, but you are a thief nonetheless, and as such, fall under *my* domain. You will, therefore, make an ideal follower. Don't try to deny it." He glared wildly as Weylyn seemed about to refute this, causing the pirate to close his mouth with an audible snap.
Olidammara sighed theatrically. "Just look at you," he said. "You float there, completely in my power, soaked to the bone, covered in bruises, half burnt and still spitting at me like a cornered rat. Snarl at me all you want, Blackwolf. I will have my life for a life, and I will have it from *you*. You have robbed me of one of my followers, and in return you yourself must carry on the work that he so unfortunately was unable to continue." Olidammara turned his back and started to pace the small piece of wreckage nonchalantly, studiously ignoring the incoherent outraged muttering coming from Weylyn. "There is, of course, one minor problem." He turned suddenly to face Weylyn. "I've been watching you for some time now Blackwolf. I have, in fact, had my eye on you ever since you showed a predilection for things that don't belong to you. You pillage, you burn, you murder and steal, and for what? For the harper's songs? For the drunken revelry after a night of bloodshed? For the scores of women falling at your feet? No," he glared contemptuously at Weylyn. "Not *you*. You rarely partake in the ale soaked festivities of your crew, you killed the last three bards who even dared to *mention* songs about you, and I can't even *count* how long it's been since you've bedded a nice wench." He leaned over and poked Weylyn roughly in the chest to cover the young pirate's attempt at outraged denial.
"You are far too serious. And if there is one thing I cannot stand from those who follow in my path, it's a wet blanket." He laughed. "No pun intended."
Olidammara gestured deftly, and the invisible force once again plucked Weylyn from the water and dumped him unceremoniously on the floating wreckage. Weylyn shivered miserably, pressing his fingers against his eyes to fight off the pounding headache that was starting to assert itself behind them.
"With any luck," he whispered. "I'll wake up on the firm deck of my own ship to find that this has all been an odd, rum flavored dream." He sighed. "But, as my luck apparently hasn't been the best lately, I suppose I'm just going to have to play along for now, aren't I?" He let his body fall forward with a soft thunk onto the damp, rocking wood. Opening one eye, he gazed wearily at Olidammara. "What exactly is it you want?"
Olidammara jumped up, rubbing his hands together and cackling delightedly. He folded his long, elegant fingers under his nose and stared over the tips of them at Weylyn's sodden prone form.
"What I want from you, Blackwolf, is no easy thing. It is both a quest, and a punishment for robbing me of one of my precious few clerics." He folded his arms and stood tall and stiff; a little colorful judge standing before his accused. "In addition to living life according to my teachings, your task, Weylyn Blackwolf, your holy charge given by me, and not to be ignored unless you wish upon yourself a very painful and, if I have anything to do with it, embarrassing death, is to turn over a proverbial new leaf."
Weylyn opened his other eye, the deep green was still clouded, but Olidammara certainly had his attention now.
"You want me to what?"
The patchwork god leaned close to Weylyn, smiling in a way that a more suspicious person would have called slightly malicious. He propped his chin on his hand jauntily.
"It's quite simple, Weylyn. You are going to become one of my devoted followers. I have decided, however, that you are obviously not doing enough honor to the grand tradition of hedonism as a thief and a villain. I really can't allow my followers to be so uptight. I told you, if there's one thing I can't stand, it's a glorified bandit with a stick up his arse. And therefore, so you will properly pay homage to the triple goddess of wine, women and song, I hereby strip you of your evil ways. You aren't properly appreciating the finer points of life as a villain; let's see what you can do as a hero."
"WHAT?!" Weylyn leapt up and wobbled uncertainly on the gently bobbing raft. He stood gaping at the smug little god before him, but Olidammara only raised an eyebrow at him. "You can't possibly be serious. I am Weylyn Blackwolf. Terror of the Ten Seas, the Black Daemon, the Laughing Blade. . ." He trailed off slowly as Olidammara just continued staring at him in amused silence. Weylyn shook his head angrily.
"I am no man's hero. I am a corsair. I am a black hearted shadow to be feared, not carted around like some puffed up jackdaw." He glowered fiercely. "The only men who sing of my deeds do so with hushed voices in dark corners. Or they get their tongues cut out."
Weylyn started as he felt the pressure of Olidammara's power wrapping around his elbows once more. He glared at the rogue, but the strange little god seemed intent on cleaning his fingernails. He spoke finally, slowly and deliberately enunciating his words as he tightened the band of power around Weylyn.
"I don't remember giving you any sort of choice in this matter, my dear boy." He walked slowly over to where Weylyn stood rooted helpless to the spot. He gazed intently at the dripping pirate for a moment, and his voice was as cold as his diamond eyes. "Run from it as you will, Weylyn, from this day forward, your quest and your curse is to live a glorious life, to uphold the weak, stand against tyranny and cruelty, and shine as a golden example of good for all those around you. Until," he smiled crazily. "Until you are even more famous for your deeds of good and kindness than you are for your cruelty."
Weylyn grit his teeth as he struggled to breathe against the invisible force holding him still.
"Let me go, Olidammara." He spat. "I am not one of your lackeys. And I would rather drown myself now and get it over with than degrade myself by becoming a slack faced cleric."
"A cleric?" hooted Olidammara. "A cleric? What deity in their right mind would be stupid enough to give *you* divine powers, boy?" He laughed loudly and shook the loose foxy hairs from his eyes. "No, my lad, I'm afraid you will have to rely on your wits and your strength alone." The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "Alright, on second thought, perhaps on your strength alone."
He slapped Weylyn's shoulder with a short laugh and turned to face the bright blue of the sea.
"Well, my boy, I'm afraid I must leave you now. Can't hold your hand the whole time now, can I?" Weylyn opened his mouth angrily, but Olidammara turned to him quick as a cat, something frighteningly close to anger burning behind his eyes.
"It is never very wise, Weylyn, to anger a god, even one as charming and gentle mannered as myself. Make no mistake Blackwolf, I will be watching your progress *very* closely."
He struck out like lightening, grabbing Weylyn's right arm in a vice- like grip. The young pirate sucked in his breath sharply as a stab of burning pain shot up his arm from where the god's hand held him. The strange pain blossomed and spread, searing through him and within him until his whole world was reduced to the blinding white agony pulsing through him.
Through the hazy clouds that seemed to coat all his senses, Weylyn heard Olidammara whisper in his ear.
"You are marked as mine now, boy. Try not to disappoint me." Weylyn gave a small cry as the burning pain boiled past his breaking point, and his world went finally and soothingly black.
* * * * * * * * *
His entire body was on fire. His face was pressed deep into some black nameless grit while the cold waves lapped softly against his legs. Weylyn opened his eyes slowly and wished he hadn't. The blinding sun flashing against the white sand sent nauseating waves of pain deep into his weary brain. Spitting out small quantities of sand, he sat up slowly, trying to ease some of the ache out of his protesting muscles.
He shook his head softly, trying to clear the clouds away that obscured his memory. The battle, the fight with the captain, the shipwreck. . . Weylyn paused. Olidammara. He had had that strange crazed dream about meeting the weird little god of rogues while floating around half dead in the middle of the ocean. Weylyn laughed softly at his own stupidity as he started brushing the sand from his shoulders. A quest from Olidammara. Really, he should be ashamed that he had even entertained the thought that anything that happened could possibly be real. . .
Weylyn paused suddenly. His shirt had been lost sometime before he washed up on shore. As he brushed the clinging white sand from his shoulders, a soft thrill of pain blossomed as his fingers brushed over his right bicep. Weylyn closed his eyes for a moment, and then slowly turned his arm so he could see it more clearly.
For a number of years, the black tattoo on Weylyn's right bicep had stood alone and proud. It was a wolf's head, pitch black and snarling across the scarred muscle of Weylyn's arm. Not, however, any longer.
Weylyn gazed at the tattoo on his arm for quite some time. After awhile, he dropped his head into his hands, and sunk to the soft white sand in a miserable ball of disbelief. He stayed there, rocking himself slowly on the beach for hours. And the sun rose high into the sky and set again, shining softly on a black wolf's head tattoo that now sported a strange addition. On one side of the wolf, a mask of sorrow, on the other, a mask of mirth. The mark of possession of Olidammara, who even now was laughing.