Note and Disclaimer: Obsidian Owns Casavir, Bishop, Sand, and all the other OC Characters in this chapter, and while they are welcome to keep Nevalle, nasher, and Kana, they don't deserve Cas or Bishop after what they did to both boys at the end of the OC and in MOTB. Grrrrrrrrr
"He who doesn't fear death dies only once." ~Giovanni Falcone
He drifted through the chromatic mists and silvery swirls like a ship on calm waters. He was absolutely weightless, or at least he believed himself to be, and felt as insubstantial as the bright vapors he passed through without resistance. It was strange indeed, as what seemed like both a moment and an eternity ago, he felt a sudden, blinding pain shoot through his body like lightning. Now he was here, and felt nothing. Not even curiosity.
I am dead, he told himself, looking around with detached surprise. As he passed gyrating portals and looming, alien shapes in the distance, he realized he was in the Astral Plane. He found neither pleasure nor distress at the prospect. Husks of fallen deities and powers sailed in a sea without horizons, but he paid them no mind. The only thing that interested him was the pulsing silver light in the distance that pulled him like a iron to lodestone.
He knew what it was. The door to the Fugue Plane. The first destination of all souls before they went to their final ones. Where the gods came to collect their children and whisk them off to their divine kingdoms. It was where, at that moment in a place where time and place did not exist, he felt every fiber of his being drawn there. What happened beyond the silvery portal was of no concern; only that he pass through to what lay beyond.
The argent light waxed and waned, and he knew it would not be long before he drifted into the last barrier of eternity, when suddenly the whisper of an Astral wind brushed him. In it, he heard the echo of his name being called. Her voice, calling out for him. He halted abruptly, and turned as if to locate the direction of the sound, despite being in a plane where direction, time, nor space held any meaning. Another wind blew past, this one a little more forceful. Again, he heard her call out.
She sounded more desperate.
He turned his attention back to the silver light that had earlier been his entire purpose, and felt the urge to pass through it be replaced by the dawning awareness that he couldn't. Not now. He would not allow it. She had called out to him across the astral sea. Alone. Terrified. And suffering. He did not know what to do at that moment, only that he must refuse that final step into the Fugue Plain. Floating before the portal, no longer feeling its pull, he waited.
A dazzling burst of golden radiance flashed in front of the portal, coalescing into a humanoid form. A pair of pearlescent wings unfurled from behind it, and eyes that blazed with pure holy fire fixed themselves upon him. Never had he found himself in the presence of such beauty and benevolence, and without it speaking a word, he knew what it was. He had seen images of them in the temple library plenty of times, and as a child, listened in awe as the priests told him about such beings that populated the slopes of Mount Celestia.
A solar. Amongst the most powerful of celestial creatures.
The solar was blocking the portal, and its head shook as it waved him away. "No. It is not time. You are not called here yet, Son of Tyr," the celestial spoke in a voice that carried the glory, peace, and beauty of Celestia in it. "Your song is not yet sung." It looked beyond him, and as he followed its gaze, he felt himself begin to grow solid. He understood, and drifted away from solar and portal. He was becoming heavier, and as the Astral Plane faded from his awareness, he heard her voice once more, carried across the winds into his soul.
"Casavir..." Confusion. Fear. Seeking.
Celestia could wait.
**************************
Crossroad Keep
19th of Uktar, 1383 (Seven days After the defeat of the King of Shadows)
"Casavir?" A high pitched voice. Female. Concerned.
"Eh? Leave him be, fiendling! Let the lad rest!" A deeper, rumbling voice, chastising the first. Definitely male.
"Rest? He's waking up! I just saw him move!" The female voice. Insistent.
"Bah! You only think you saw him move! Have you been digging around in the Captain's 'special' pipeweed stash or something?" The male voice, mocking.
"Whatever, stumpy." The female voice, annoyed. "I'm telling you, the paladin moved!"
Casavir's eyes slid open, and he turned his head in the direction of the two speakers. It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the light and focus, but as their forms became less blurred, he recognized them. The male speaker, a dwarf that was built like a granite block, snorted at the female speaker, a whip slender tiefling who merely rolled her eyes in response. Khelgar and Neeshka. He watched the two argue for a while in dazed silence, wondering what they were squabbling over this time.
Dwarf and tiefling were now oblivious to his presence, caught up in their usual duel of barbs and insults, so the paladin closed his eyes and turned his attention to the dull aching in his back. He tried to lift himself slightly to feel if he was laying on something hard, but found his movement arrested by something stiff and restraining. He raised his head to look down, but the movement brought a gasp as sharp pain flashed down the length of his spine. His head collapsed back, and he grimaced.
His gasp did not go unheard. Khelgar and Neeshka both stopped mid argument and turned their attention towards him. The dwarf blinked in surprise, and the tiefling's scarlet eyes widened in delight. "See? I told you, mossbreath!" she exclaimed. "I did see him move! Maybe it's you who needs the freakin' glasses!"
"Well I'll be damned," Khelgar muttered, studying the paladin. "Looks like for once, devil girl was right!"
"Like, when am I ever wrong?" Neeshka retorted. She turned to Casavir. "Welcome back, big guy! You gave us one hell of a scare!" She pulled a chair over and sat down, and Khelgar did likewise.
"Damned right you did!" Khelgar agreed, crossing his arms over his chest indignantly, though the sparkle in his eyes betrayed profound relief.
Casavir looked at them in confusion."I gave you a scare?" he asked after a moment. "Then I must apologize if I have, even though I do not know how I managed this." Though he felt somewhat dizzy and his head was clouded, he managed the ghost of a smile.
"I'll tell you how," Khelgar rumbled, leaning forward. "By dying and then being too stubborn to come back when we were callin' you back! We thought you were gone off to Tyr's Hall for good!" The dwarf smiled conspiratorially. "Though if what I've been hearin' of the mead they serve up there in Celestia, I can't really say I'd blame ya, lad."
"Oh, forget the mead," Neeshka snorted. "I could care less if the all the drinks were on the house! I'm just so glad you're alive! I was afraid when I used up that last charge in the rod of resurrection that it didn't work...you didn't stir or breathe for an hour...I don't even want to think about it." She looked away.
Casavir frowned. Dead? He tried to think back, to remember, but his mind was a haze, and his memories were vague shapes dancing in a grey mist. It was odd. He had been pried from death's clutches before, but it had never been quite like this. Turning his attention back to the tiefling, he said, "I feel...strange."
"Well, that doesn't surprise me," Neeshka said. "With the amount of painkilling salves, ointments, and powerful healing spells they have been piling on you, I'm surprised you feel anything at all." She saw his brow furrow in confusion. "Oh. Damn. You don't remember, do you?"
He shook his head slightly. "No. I do not...even know where I am right now."
"Well, I'll answer that one for you," Khelgar replied. "You're in the infirmary at Crossroad Keep, recovering from the mother of all back injuries. And by Tyr, it's a miracle you are here at all. You did a number on yourself back in those blasted Illefarn ruins, tryin' to hold up that collapsing bit of pillar to free up the escape passage for everyone else." The dwarf looked at the paladin solemnly, his expression rich with respect. "We wouldn't have made it out of there if you hadn't done it, you know. That noble act has earned you a place in the tales the Ironfist skjalds will be tellin' at every Shieldmeet Banquet of Heroes!"
Casavir's recollection had been vague, but he was beginning to remember now. The destruction of the King of Shadows had sent shock waves of energy through the ancient sanctum, weakening what little integrity the structure had left and initiating its collapse. Huge chunks of old stone began raining down on them, and they started running, looking for an escape before they were buried by the dead Guardian's final wrath. He remembered seeing the hint of grey sky through a collapsed passage, half of a large pillar the only thing between his companions and safety. He paused for a fraction of a second as he heard the shouts of alarm coming from behind him in the corridor. It required no further thought; he knew what needed to be done.
Lord Tyr, ever just and merciful, he prayed, more fervently then he ever had in his life, I ask you for one final boon: fill me with your divine strength and glory, so that I may remove this obstacle to their safety. Let me be the instrument of your grace and mercy. If it is my life that is required, I offer it gladly. For my friends. For my Knight Captain.
A flood of divine power surged through every fiber of his being as he felt his god's hand upon his shoulder, filling him with the strength of a score of cloud giants and the serenity of the heavens. It was as if Tyr himself stood next to him, ready to lift the obstacle with his devoted son. Casavir's resolve had never been as solid and unshakable as it had at that point, and with a hymn of praise on his lips, he braced himself against the pillar and began lifting it with his newly god-given might.
The stone groaned as it shifted from the force of Tyr's divine might. He raised it high enough that everyone could run underneath, though Jerro and Zhjaeve would probably have to duck. A chill, damp gust of wind from the Mere caressed his cheek like the kiss of death, but it only hardened his resolve further. They were only a few steps from freedom.
Neeshka was the first through, carrying a bloodied, limp Grobnar in her arms. She stopped for a moment, wide eyed at the sight of the paladin propping up a piece of stone that easily weighed a few tons, but nodded and dashed through the opening he had provided, cradling the gnome like a desperate mother clinging to a child while fleeing a besieged city. Zjhaeve came next, accompanied by what at first he thought was a stone golem carrying another limp form. The githzerai cleric nodded towards the opening and ducked underneath, motioning to the golem. Casavir realized the limp form the golem carried to be Elanee, and as the creature began to shift form into something smaller and more graceful, he knew that it was Sand, transformed temporarily into a hulking brute. The elven mage dragged the druidess through the opening, where Zhjaeve grabbed her legs, and the two of them carried her out of the passage to safety. Sand turned briefly to look at the paladin, and gave him a solemn nod of respect and thanks before disappearing into daylight above.
A few minutes passed. No one else came running. Casavir felt his godly strength start to ebb, and he shouted back down the corridor, his voice bolstered by both the strength of his Lord and growing urgency. No response. Three of his comrades were still in there, and last he saw them, they were alive and well, looking desperately for a route of escape with him. They should have heard him calling out to them. He tried again. Only the echoes of collapsing stone and crumbling foundation replied. A growing sense of dread tightened in his bosom. Great Tyr, please let them still hear me, he prayed. Show them safety is but a few paces away.
A minute later Khelgar bounded down the corridor with a speed that seemed at odds with his squat, bulky, and heavily armored frame. But instead of making a mad dash out of the ruins, he stopped short and looked wild-eyed at the paladin, his arms waving urgently back in the direction he came from. He was shouting something frantically, but Casavir could not hear him. His strength was fleeing fast, and he could feel the weight of the pillar bearing down upon him more and more. He shouted at Khelgar to leave, jerking his head towards the exit, but the dwarf was shouting back at him, telling him to leave the damned rock, yelling about something far worse back in the sanctum. Casavir shook his head. If he let go of the pillar, it would crush them both. He knew his own fate was sealed; that did not bother him. His friends were far more important. Khlegar ran his hand over his bald scalp in frustration. "For the love of Tyr, Khelgar, get the hells out of here before you are buried alive!" Casavir shouted with every bit of force he could muster.
Khelgar balled his fists and bellowed,"The Captain is in serious trouble, Casavir, and she's needin' your help!"
Those words were the last thing he remembered from that day. The next thing he knew, white pain consumed him, and then...a vagueness in his memory of something else, but he could not recall it. Only a twilight veil that hid something from him.
He looked at Khelgar, who was watching him with polite interest. "I'm grateful to see you made it out, Khelgar," Casavir said. "From what I last remember, I feared you wouldn't."
"Bah!" the dwarf snorted. "You think think a couple o' tons of moldy old elf rocks would keep an Ironfist King down? I've dug my way out of piles of broken barstools that were more challenging!"
Casavir smiled weakly and looked at Neeshka. "I remember you were the first to escape, and you carried Grobnar with you. Sand and Zhjaeve came shortly after with Elanee. Did they survive as well?"
"Yep! Tree hugging druid, wise-ass wizard, kooky gnome, and spacey gith, all present and accounted for, sir!" The tiefling replied replied with a wry smile and mock salute. She glanced around. "Elanee is two beds over from you, and Grobnar is at the other end of the room. Thank the gods. Call me crazy, but I swear he snores that whitethistle song in his sleep. Sand is in the library with Aldanon, and the gith is probably somewhere trying to 'know' something new."
He felt some measure of relief wash over him, and murmured a prayer of thanksgiving to Tyr. His comrades had survived, and on top of it, Tyr had allowed him to return to life. Still, the relief he felt was eclipsed by a blooming shadow of unease. There were two names conspicuously absent from Neeshka's report. One was Ammon Jerro, the twisted warlock who had been willing to pay any price, no matter how depraved, to destroy the King of Shadows, and in the end, no matter how one looked at it, he had. Though he was not fond of Jerro, who had made numerous infernal pacts and deals in his single minded-quest to destroy his nemesis, even killing his own granddaughter without thought, he still did not revel in the thought of the man meeting his fate and being dragged off to the Hells to pay those debts.
The other name missing, however, worried him more. He felt a twinge of guilt, because deep down, that missing name was the most important one of all to him. Thinking back to his last memories in the sanctum, he remembered Khelgar's words. The Captain is in serious trouble, Casavir, and she needs your help. He closed his eyes tightly. He had not seen her coming, nor had he heard her call out. Khelgar was frantic. She had been alive, but in some sort of danger. And as he remembered standing there, using every bit of his strength to keep the escape route open, he realized that he could do nothing to help her. That was when everything went blank.
Have I failed her when she needed me most? Casavir wondered as his heart started to sink into a chasm of despair. Sweet Tyr, please, don't let it be so. He turned to Neeshka and Khelgar, his face betraying the turmoil within, but when he tried to speak, he found that he couldn't.
Neeshka mistook the look on his face as one of physical pain, and called for a cleric. She placed her hand comfortingly on Casavir's shoulder. "It's gonna be ok, Cas," she said softly, patting him gently in an effort to soothe him. "The priest is coming, and he will bring some better painkillers with him. They said the reason it's taking so long to heal you up is something to do with the taint of the shadows and some stuff about the negative energy plane. From what they were saying, there were a lot more bad vibes in that place than we realized, and even being there was enough for some of that nastiness to cling to us. It's not permanent, and they can get rid of it, but it does seem to affect the strength of divine magics, so they have to work a lot harder at both healing and getting rid of the spiritual crap blocking them." She looked up as a young man, clad in the blue and golden robes of Tyr, arrived at the other side of the bed, his hands carrying a tray filled with bottles and jars. Neeshka looked back at the paladin, her lips forming a tight smile. "They say it's also why that damned resurrection rod took so long to work."
The priest knelt beside the bed and smiled at the paladin. "Tyr be praised," the man said warmly. "I shall thank Him tonight in my prayers, that he has allowed you to return to us, Brother Casavir. Would you allow me the honor of invoking his grace to tend to your wounds?"
Casavir nodded to the young man. "Of course," he replied. "Brother...?"
"Heskin. Brother Heskin." he said, seeming pleased to be asked. "And I must confess, it is an great honor to heal your injuries and bring you relief from your pain. You are an example to us all: a true hero of the church." The young priest laid his hands on the paladin's shoulders and began to pray. Casavir relaxed and felt the warmth and purity of Tyr's energy course through him, though he felt slightly uncomfortable with the cleric's glowing praise for him. He had never handled praise well, preferring instead the quiet satisfaction that came through knowing he had served Tyr well, and by serving Tyr, served others in need. That in itself had always been reward enough for him.
Heskin finished his healing spells and began administering the potions from his tray. He explained in more detail what Neeshka had told him about the shadowy taint and its interference with healing. The priest also explained the nature of Casavir's injuries: his spine had snapped and the pillar had crushed several bones in his body. The stiff object Casavir had felt earlier was a brace to keep him immobilized while the healing knitted his body back together again. Another tenday, Heskin mused, and they would most likely remove it, and the paladin would be free to move about more. A tenday after that, Tyr willing, and he would be fully healed.
After finishing his ministrations, the young cleric gathered the tray and left. Casavir felt the effects of the pain relief potions disconnecting his brain from his body, and knew that before long, his mind would be shrouded in a thick, narcotic haze. He would be too muddled to carry on much of a conversation; too muddled ask the question that gnawed at him mercilessly at that moment. More than anything, he needed to know before he faded to numbness.
"Khelgar." He turned his head and focused on the dwarf, a feat that was becoming more difficult by the minute. "You were the last one I saw before my back gave. Yet I did not see Ammon Jerro or the Knight Captain before you." His mouth was beginning to feel dry and his lids grew heavy, but he pressed on. "Did they make it out as well?"
Khelgar looked away uncomfortably, as if trying to find the proper words, and even through the growing numbness of the painkillers, Casavir felt his heart sink and his stomach knot. Tyr's mercy, no! Shock and horror rose from deep in his chest, and he fought the expanding tendrils of oblivion that threatened to drown all awareness.
"Then...she is..." He could not say the word: Dead. "Gone?"
Khelgar's eyes snapped back up and his gaze grew firm. "Dead? No, lad, she was alive when I saw her last, which was after the stone caved in on you. The warlock, too."
It did little to quell the chill he felt. "What do you mean? Is she still trapped in there? Or did she escape?" His voice was quivering.
For a few minutes, Khelgar stared off towards the far side of the room, his expression both worried and resigned. The dwarf's silence weighed heavier on Casavir than the stone of Illefarn had. Eventually, Khelgar sighed and leaned forward on his chair, folding his hands as he searched for the right words.
"Well, to be perfectly honest with you, lad, neither," Khelgar said. "The truth is, both the Captain's and the warlock's whereabouts are a mystery to us right now. One that the mages and priests and sages are workin' on figuring out. I was hopin' that you'd be healed up more before I had to tell you what happened in the sanctum, but since you're askin' now, you got a right to know."
Neeshka looked over at the dwarf sympathetically and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Go on, Khelgar," she encouraged. "Best to tell him now, while those wonderful painkillers are kicking in."
Khelgar nodded. "True enough." He took a deep breath, and began to recount what had happened after the pillar collapsed. Casavir listened even as his awareness dimmed within the analgesic fog expanding in his mind, and shortly after Khelgar finished his telling, Casavir was almost totally oblivious to his environment. Yet even as his consciousness escaped into the world of sleep, a nagging specter of worry followed him beyond the veil into his dreams.
What Khelgar had told him filled him with a dread that even the most potent narcotics could not drown.
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The pale Midwinter sun began its early afternoon descent towards the southwest of the keep, and Casavir paused from his exercise to watch it for a few moments. His breath escaped from his lips in frosted clouds as it met the frigid air. This winter was the harshest in generations. Even in the middle of the day, ice crystals sparkled like fairy dust in the waning light. He could not remember when it had ever been this cold on the Sword Coast, and he knew it had something to do with the residual life draining energies that still lingered in the Mere.
After a quiet nod of thanksgiving to the reborn sun, Casavir returned to his practice. He had finally been able to leave the infirmary two tendays ago, a little earlier than expected, and he wasted no time in returning to light weapons practice and sparring to restore his fitness. He had to start slowly, going through the very basics he had learned as a novice, to allow his body to grow comfortable with a weapon again. Before and after every practice session, he prayed to Tyr, thanking him not only for his life, but his speedy recovery.
Today he was cutting his practice a bit shorter so that he could attend the Midwinter celebrations. This year, it held extra importance: the Shadow War had ended little over a month ago, and the unnatural freeze was a bleak reminder of how close the entire Sword Coast North had been to becoming a lifeless wasteland. Midwinter held the promise of the return of the sun, and with it, the return of its life giving warmth. The peasants had suffered the most from the war. The harvest itself that year had already been late and scant, and what little there was had been fouled and laid waste to by the legions of undead that had tried to take the keep. There had also been many casualties, and over the past few tendays, the atmosphere of the keep had been one perpetual funeral. The yuletide festivities would be blessed respite from the harsh reality of rationing and war recovery. Though he himself was in no mood to celebrate, he still planned on attending. If nothing else, it would boost morale, and that in itself would be reason enough for him.
He finished up with the practice dummy. Today he had opted for light training alone, so that he would not risk injury or fatigue from sparring with some of the senior Greycloaks. Many were busy with preparations anyway, and he was happy to leave them to it. The clerics of the temple had temporarily relieved him of duty until the month of Hammer so that he could fully recover and get back in shape. Though he understood their concern, and accepted their judgment, he was not happy about it. There was much work to be done, and though he might not have been at top form at the time, there was still much he could do. He wondered secretly if Nevalle had anything to do with it. As much as he hated to think about it, it was exactly the sort of thing the Captain of the Nine would do.
Shaking the thought from his head, he tucked his hammer back into its belt clip and slung his shield over his back. Right now was not the time for petty grievances that should have long ago been laid to rest. There was a keep to rebuild, injured people to heal, and logistics to deal with. And, just as important, if not slightly more so to him, there was a missing Knight Captain to be found.
As he turned and walked back to the keep, he thought about what Khelgar had told him. After the Captain had ordered Casavir, Neeshka, and Zhjaeve ahead to see if they could find the entrance, another shudder had erupted through the sanctum, causing part of the floor to collapse into a dungeon. The Captain had dodged away from the pit, narrowly missing it, only to evade in the way of a falling chunk of plaster that knocked her down. Jerro saw that she was still breathing, and started chanting an invocation when suddenly, a black, smoky portal began to open, disgorging three creatures that looked like gargoyles made of flesh and shadow. Though they looked warily around at the collapsing structure, they were far more interested in the prone form on the floor, silvery-blue blade still clutched in her hand.
Believing them to be minions of the King of Shadows, Ammon lifted his arms and invoked a wall of eldritch flame between the creatures and himself. They looked at one another and tried circling around the flaming wall. Khelgar charged and hit one squarely with his axe. The blow did little damage, and the creature, more annoyed than anything, flicked its wings and sent the dwarf sprawling across the floor, and then continued advancing on the warlock and the injured Captain. Jerro shouted for Khelgar to go get the paladin and the gith. When Khelgar returned after Casavir had been crushed, he saw that Jerro's flames had been dispelled, and one of the creature's was carrying the Captain's limp form and the Sword of Gith in its arms. The other two were busy trying to distract the angry warlock. Khelgar went after the one with his Captain, and with unnatural speed, it bounded for the portal, shouting for the other two. They followed, and Khelgar tried to keep up, but to no avail. The gargoyles had been magically hasted, and before the dwarf had time to shout in alarm, the portal had swallowed them, Captain and all. Jerro, who looked as if he had been hasted himself, charged through the portal seconds after, and by the time Khelgar had reached it, the shadow door had vanished.
It went beyond strange. According to Khelgar, he had gotten the impression that the creatures wanted her alive. Though they attacked Jerro, they seemed as if they were trying to shield her from harm. It was apparent that she, and only she, was their objective. Had Jerro and Khelgar stood by and done nothing, the dwarf was certain that the gargoyles would have paid them no mind. Even the description of the creatures was bizarre. Human-like shadowy gargoyles who had a repertoire of spells beyond that of most mages? Both Sand and Aldanon had never heard of such a thing, and for a while, were convinced that Khelgar had taken a rock to his own head. It was only after they began divinations that they started taking the dwarf more seriously.
Over the past month, the temple, as well as the keep mages, had been performing divinations and search spells to find out what happened to their Captain. The revelations had been disturbing. Or rather, the lack there of. Expecting answers, they were met with silence. Had she been dead, the summoned planar beings would have said as much. Spirits summoned by both mages and clerics yielded the same results. It was as if she did not exist, and had never existed.
The ruins of the sanctum had been combed over. There was no sign of her anywhere, though they had uncovered the bodies of Garius, his reavers, and Qara. They searched the surrounding Mere, but other than one very faint set of tracks too large to be hers, she was nowhere to be found. Daeghun himself led the search, and when the ruins proved fruitless, he had wandered off into the dead swamps, refusing to give up.
Casavir walked through the keep doors, giving the guards a polite nod as he made his way to his quarters. He glanced over in the direction of the library, and for a moment, wondered if he should go and check to see if Aldanon and Sand had any breakthroughs. He supposed they were getting weary of his daily queries, frustrated as they probably were with their own lack of answers. He had checked with the temple earlier, but most of the senior clergy were busy making Midwinter preparations, so he let them be. Deciding that the sage and wizard were probably doing their own midwinter preparations, he continued on to his room, where he was surprised to find a washtub filled with warm water waiting for him. He guessed Neeshka probably had probably gotten one of the servants to draw it while he was out practicing. She had been quite concerned about him lately, and often took care of small things for him without being asked. Her concern had been touching. And even though she tried to be upbeat about the situation, he knew she was extremely upset over the disappearance of the Captain. They all were.
Stripping out of his armor and clothing, Casavir stepped into the tub and began washing himself. I must thank Neeshka for having this bath drawn for me, he thought. It was very considerate of her.
But as he lathered and scrubbed the sweat from his practice, his mind was filled with thoughts and memories of another tiefling, whose mysterious fate kept him awake many nights. He stopped washing for a moment, and bowing his wet and soapy head, began a prayer to Tyr that she would return home safely.
********************************
The aroma of evergreens, spiced foods, and strong mead filled the main floor of the keep as Casavir made his way to the dinning hall. A lusty ballad twanged from lute as an accompanying drum and the clink of pewter tankards kept time. Taking one last look at his Midwinter finery to ensure it was presentable, he walked through the arched doorway and into the feast.
The tables had been arranged in a horseshoe shape, with a large cluster of tables in the middle that were adorned with ivy, holly, yew, and spruce branches. On them was the night's feast: a large roast boar, a couple of chickens, spicy stewed apples, roasted parsnips with herbs, fresh dark bread, toasted chestnuts, and a plum pudding soaked in brandy. He noticed that there was a fraction of the fare that was enjoyed last year, and as he looked around at the people gathered, he knew he was not the only one who noticed. The season had been bad indeed for field and forest.
Still, the people did not let it ruin their spirits, and he watched peasant and Greycloak drink and dance with merry abandon. Children with chaplets of holly joined in the spirit and danced in rings to whatever tune the minstrels were strumming, and a small group of them broke away from the rest and almost ran into him as they made their way towards the door. One little girl with dark hair and a chubby face looked up at him wide eyed, but he smiled back and patted her on the head, encouraging her to go join her friends. Giggling, she ran past him and out the door, catching up with her playmates. He watched them disappear around the corner, and found himself marveling at the spiritual resilience and innocent hopes that came naturally to the young.
As he turned back to the feast at hand, he felt an arm circled his waist, and before he could fully turn, Neeshka had whirled around to face him, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. He stepped back and regarded the tiefling with surprise, and as the smile that was in her eyes reached her lips, he felt his face flush profusely. Touching the spot where she had kissed him, he gave her a puzzled look, to which her smile grew wider as she looked above his head and pointed. He followed her gaze upward, and saw at once what spurred her unusual gesture. He had been standing under the mistletoe. His face grew even redder, and Neeshka burst into laughter.
"You should really watch where you are standing around this time of year," she told him. "You were standing there for a few minutes, and, well....." She shrugged and gave him her best "the devil made me do it" smile.
Chuckling, he stepped away a few paces before someone else happened to notice his position. "I was not being very vigilant, true. Thank you for bringing it to my attention." He gave Neeshka his best "you are forgiven" look, and they both walked over to the banquet tables to grab plates of food and tankards of mead before taking their seats.
As Casavir sat down to eat, he looked around at the faces gathered. Though mostly humans and half elves, there were other races present. Most notably were the few Ironfist dwarves and lizardmen who had decided to stay and help with recovery. Khelgar was talking to a few of his clansmen on the far side of the room, occasionally lifting and shaking his tankard for emphasis on something. A small group of lizardmen stood off to the side of the banquet tables, sniffing at the food and chattering excitedly to one another in their sibilant tongue. He recognized one of them as Slaan. A table away, he noticed Zhjaeve studying the festivities with curious amusement. Her plate of food remained untouched. As he dug his fork into his own plate, he wondered what the githzerai thought about the feast. They did not have seasons in Limbo, and from what little she spoke of her home plane, they had very few celebrations of any sort.
He quietly ate his meal. Neeshka was sitting on the other side of the table, poking at the small sliver of meat on her plate and commenting that it was a little bit overcooked. Grobnar, who was still wearing a leg brace from his injuries, decided that the chef could learn a few things about cooking turnips from his auntie. Elanee looked at her plate in meditative silence, and something in her gaze said that it was not the quality of food that bothered her, but the quantity. Sand sat directly next to Casavir, and other than the occasional comparison to a proper elven Midwinter, he ate his food with surprisingly little complaint.
Finishing his meal, Casavir started to get up to take his plate to the kitchen when his eyes caught sight of something he had not noticed earlier. At the arch of the arrangement of tables sat an empty seat decked with garlands of holly and ivy interlaced with shiny red foil. An empty plate sat in front of it with what he guessed would be an empty tankard. He shuddered a deep sigh. The Captain's place. They had set up her place as if they expected her to arrive sometime that night, horns wrapped in juniper, a half empty bottle of one in one hand and that mischievous grin on her face.
His mind wandered back to last year's celebration, when she had still only been a squire. The memory was so strong that he could see a ghost image of her, sitting in that seat, legs casually kicked up on the table, eyes glazed, a crooked wreath held to her head only by her horns. A flask of winter wine she held in one hand, while the other hand looked like it was trying to conduct the band of minstrels playing. A half drunken smile was plastered to her pleasantly sharp features, and she toasted anyone who walked past, from lieutenants to scullery maids. Shandra, who had drank more than her share of the fine wine, was dancing with Sand, and the Captain cheered them on. She had forked out her own money to throw a lavish feast for the men and peasants who had chosen to make the keep their home. Kana bridled at the expense of it all, but the Captain, in her usual devil-may-care demeanor, shrugged it off and told Kana "Mind your own business. My money, my party." Although she never said so, her friends suspected that the main reason she had thrown such a large, wild, and lavish party was in memory of West Harbor, her home village which had been destroyed a couple months prior.
Casavir felt his eyes water as he stared at that empty chair, her absence suddenly bearing down on him heavily. He glanced around, and noticed that more than a few times, people would look over at the empty seat with a touch of sadness in their eyes. She had been an... unusual person, to say the least. Her casual demeanor and distaste for hierarchies and ranks were odd traits for a commander, even given her humble beginnings. She had been thrust into the nobility, thrust into command against her own desires, and despised it. However, as with many things, she decided rather than brood and mope, she would find a way to meet the challenge on her own terms, and damn Nasher and his people if they didn't like how she ran things! And in the end, despite her demeanor and heritage, her men and her people really cared about her.
He stared at her empty seat for what seemed like an eternity, and Sand, who noticed the paladin's mind was elsewhere, looked over and immediately understood. The elf's features grew dim, and the others followed his gaze over to the vacant chair. For several minutes, they looked on in silence. It was Neeshka who broke the silence first.
"You know, I bet that's the reason this year's feast isn't as much fun," she mused, tipping her tankard in silent toast to the person who had been the closest to a sister she had known. "She really knew how to throw a good party, and didn't skimp with the coin, either." She sipped her mead absently, and her garnet eyes became distant.
Sand looked wryly at Neeshka. "Well, considering what you tieflings consider a 'proper party', I'll concede your point." He chuckled. "I must admit, I rather miss our dear commander's...um... levity, however inappropriate it was at times."
Though his gaze did not waver, Casavir found himself agreeing silently with the elf. Her sense of humor and penchant for pranks and curious forms of revenge were...odd. At times, they made him cringe. But at that moment, he found that he would have given almost anything for the sound of her husky voice growling obscenities through the keep's corridors, or singing one of Grobnar's latest creations as she sparred with the paladin. Her singing voice was less than pleasant, but right now, it would have been honey in his ears.
He felt a hand on his forearm, and looked to see it was Grobnar. "Sir Casavir, don't let despair darken the day for you," the gnome said softly. "Remember, today we celebrate the shortest day of the year, because afterwards, the days only grow longer. Little by little, but they do." He glanced back at the Captain's chair. "You know she would be heartbroken to see any of us with sad faces, especially you. And you know, she will be back. Maybe not here, but by the gods, she will return. I don't just believe she will. I know she will." He lifted his own tankard in salute to the empty chair and took a sip.
Mimicking Grobnar's gesture, he toasted the absent Captain. He wished he could share the gnome's optimism. The lack of reports and information from divination, however, gnawed at him. Please, merciful Tyr, bring her home. Or at least let us know her fate. Whatever it might be.
Casavir collected his dishes as well as the empty plates of his companions and brought them to the kitchen. Though uncustomary, he preferred to lighten the load of the kitchen staff a bit. They had expected to see him, however, and after scolding him lightly for doing their work for them, they engaged him in friendly, light hearted chat for a while. Suddenly, the ringing of the dinning hall gong drew his attention, and he excused himself to return to his seat.
Kana was standing in the center of the horseshoe, still holding the gong mallet in her right hand. Her face was like that of a judge: stone sober. While not unusual for the adjutant, Casavir could not help but feel uneasy. Kana, who had little time for celebrations and light hearted revelry, was about to announce something she felt important enough to interrupt the Midwinter's festivities.
"Your attention please," she called out. Greycloaks and peasants alike paused whatever they were doing and turned their full attention to her. The Ironfists regarded her with passive interest, and the lizardmen eyed her curiously. "I have a very important announcement that I was ordered to relay as soon as I received it."
"As I am certain you are all aware, Knight Captain Tandis went missing right after the end of the Shadow War, and Neverwinter has spent considerable resources to locate her." Neeshka snorted, and Sand cynically made a clicking noise. Neverwinter had spared a Cloaktower mage and a couple novice priests of Mystra to divine her whereabouts. Most of the effort had been from the mages, clerics, and scouts of Crossroad Keep.
Kana continued, pretending not to hear the faint chorus of snorts and groans. "However, our efforts have been fruitless, and it is with great sorrow that Lord Nasher wishes to inform the soldiers and citizens of Crossroad Keep that Knight Captain Tandis has been officially declared dead, and the process of appointing a new commander has begun. All search and rescue efforts will cease as of tonight, and all the keep's efforts and resources will be refocused on preparation for a change of command. That is all." She turned briskly on her heel and marched out of the hall, her face still an emotionless mask.
Stunned silence followed. Then people started looking around at each other in disbelief. Whispers and groans filled the hall. The music had fallen silent. Even the lizardfolk spoke to one another excitedly. Eyes looked over at the empty seat and the empty setting. Neeshka cursed. Sand rolled his eyes and shook his head in dismay.
Casavir said nothing, only stared coolly at the spot next to the gong where Kana had stood only minutes before. Some small part of him was not shocked at all by the sudden announcement. He glanced over at Sand, and was certain that the elf, who had lived long enough in Neverwinter to know, shared his unspoken sentiment. The paladin stared off beyond his table, beyond the crowds gathered, beyond the hall and the keep itself.
So it begins again, Casavir thought bitterly as he tapped his fingers on the table.
**********************************************
He stood outside the door to the Commander's office in the west wing of the keep. He could hear muffled voices beyond: Nevalle and some emissary from Yartar discussing business. His foot tapped impatiently. The Captain of the Nine had arrived last night to prepare the keep while Nasher looked for a replacement for the missing Captain. It had been a month since Kana had made her Midwinter's announcement, and Casavir felt he had waited long enough for answers.
It seemed hours before the door finally opened, and a well groomed man walked past Casavir without much acknowledgment. Nevalle appeared shortly after, and would have walked right past the paladin had he not cleared his throat. He looked at Casavir in brief surprise, which quickly changed into mild annoyance.
"What is it Casavir?" Nevalle asked impatiently. "I'm rather busy at the moment, if you don't mind."
"I wish to speak with you." The paladin kept his voice neutral with some effort.
"Can this wait? I have important matters to attend to." Dismissive. Irritated.
"No, it cannot wait." Casavir motioned towards the empty office and walked in, seating himself before the cherry wood desk without waiting for Nevalle.
He heard an annoyed grunt behind him, and then the door shutting. Nevalle appeared before him moments later, seating himself behind the desk.
"Make it quick. I'm a busy man."
"Of that, I have no doubt," Casavir replied, keeping his voice level. He silently prayed to Tyr for strength and wisdom. The Captain of the Nine was not a pleasant man to deal with, and Casavir was feeling less than diplomatic at this point. "In this case, I will be upfront with you. I want to know why Lord Nasher has decided to call off the search for the missing Captain and declare her dead with no evidence or proof of her fate."
Nevalle looked at him incredulously. "You are wasting my time on that? I thought the reasons are pretty clear, Casavir. Divinations and searches of the ruins have turned up nothing. We have yet another war to recover from, and need all manpower and resources we can muster. And this keep needs a proper leader." He did little to hide the contempt in his last sentence.
"It has been barely a month, Nevalle. Surely even the silence from the divinations should warrant some investigation, should it not?"
"Investigate exactly what? If the gods choose not to reveal something, is it our right to question?" A trace of condescension.
"And what of the arcanists, then? They do not seek their answers from the gods, but from the mysteries of the Weave and the planes themselves. And they, too, have only been greeted by silence. Is that not cause for concern?"
Nevalle snorted. "It's not the Time of Troubles, if that is what you are suggesting. All other magic works fine, and divinations on other issues have brought result. It is only on this particular issue. While odd, it is certainly not alarming or earth shaking for Neverwinter, especially given the...subject...of our searches." He sat back smugly as if this was a perfectly reasonable answer, and further discussion was pointless.
Casavir clenched his fists and released the tension in them. He reined in the urge to slap the smug arrogance off Nevalle's face, and silently prayed to Tyr again. "I disagree. A clever rogue who danced in shadow she might have been, but even the greatest of them are not invisible to the eyes of the gods and skilled wizards. As for Neverwinter, I would think the disappearance of not only a noble, but a leader who successfully led her people into victory over the greatest threat since the Creator races would be of grave concern to a city that is said to cherish its heroes."
Nevalle leaned forward. "Listen, and listen once, Oathbreaker," he said in a low, contemptuous voice. "Do not play games with me. We both know just how 'noble' she was, and the reasons we knighted her. Lord Nasher knew it was a necessary evil, but one that benefited Neverwinter in the long run. Now the war is over, and frankly, I think the rebuilding of the keep, the recovery of Neverwinter, and the restoration of order are far bigger priorities than the fate of some...tiefling with questionable morals and ethics."
"Ahhh, yes. Necessary evils. A concept Neverwinter and Lord Nasher have used freely to excuse numerous indiscretions on both their parts. Though 'evil' is not a word I would have ever thought to associate with our captain, but considering the source, I am not at all surprised." Nevalle started to get up as if to dismiss him, but Casavir held his hand up and snapped coolly, "I am not finished, Nevalle, and I find it very rude and unbecoming of someone of your station to storm out like an angry child when legitimate grievances are being aired in a civilized, honest fashion." Nevalle froze, and the look on his face said that he was less than pleased by the paladin's firmness. But he sat down nonetheless, and favored Casavir with a penetrating look that worked well for intimidating unruly subordinates. Casavir, however, was unfazed.
"As for priorities," he continued as if no interruption had occurred, "I am aware of Neverwinter's 'priorities' in the past in regards to its heroes and greatest servants, and that troubles me. Which is why I feel it necessary to address this issue now, as it seems the tragedies and lessons of the past are being forgotten. I am not expecting Lord Nasher to call forth legions of soldiers and spellcasters to engage in this mission. It was quite clear to me the 'priority' Lord Nasher placed on locating our missing lady when he set a handful of novice clerics and wizards to the task. The more serious efforts were done voluntarily by the personnel of Crossroad Keep."
Nevalle's eyes narrowed, and he lowered his voice to a dangerous growl. "Please tell me I did not just hear you question the intentions and motivations of Lord Nasher. That is presumptuous coming from a man who fancies himself a paladin yet betrayed his oath to his lord and city."
Casavir closed his eyes and smiled. The peace and resolve that had washed over him earlier became stronger, and he knew Tyr's grace was with him. "Nevalle, you may insult and ridicule me for my past actions," he said calmly, "But it is not I who consider myself a paladin, but Tyr. And his opinion on the matter is more than enough for me, even if it means little to you." His heartbeat steadied, and he felt the pleasant intensity of Tyr's favor and blessing fill every fiber of his being. "But that is not the issue here. The problem is that the dedicated people of Crossroad Keep have been using their free time to try and discover news of her fate, and their work has not interfered in the reconstruction and recovery here. Thus, I am concerned why Lord Nasher has seen fit to end the search when it has barely begun, especially as it is using so few resources, and declare her dead without even the slightest shred of evidence."
"Do you not hear well? I just told you, we have greater priorities. In case you haven't been paying attention, Casavir, this war caused a lot of destruction, even if the city itself was spared. Fort Locke and Highcliff were devastated, as well as many small villages and minor posts in between. Trade has been severely disrupted, and many lives were lost. Like I said, there are far more important things needing our limited time and resources than one absent Knight Captain, who more than likely would not have remained as such after the war, either by her own choice or actions. Besides, Lord Nasher and the council have decided there is another individual associated with this keep whose whereabouts they are far more concerned with, and have increased priority and resources to locate this person."
Casavir frowned. For a moment, he wondered who Nevalle was talking about. All of Crossroad Keep's personnel, whether alive or dead, had been accounted for, save for the Captain and Ammon Jerro. Certainly no one whom Nasher would have considered important enough to devote any significant time or resources locating. The lizardlings had returned to their tribes to seek out new lands and territories to settle in, and the remaining Ironfists had gone home after they stayed long enough to help the engineers restore the walls and repair the damaged gates...
Damaged gates. The main gates and the mechanisms that operated them had not been damaged by the raging legions of darkness or the machines of war they employed. They had been destroyed from within the walls, by the hand of a man who, unlike Garius' forces, had been very much alive. And since he fled the shadow sanctum before the final battle with Garius and his shadowy lord, he remained very much unaccounted for.
"Bishop." The name tasted of acid and bile as it rasped from his lips.
"Now we are getting somewhere. And of course, I don't think we need to go into the why when discussing Lord Nasher and the Council's interest in him. A traitor of the worst sort, and a murderer of innocents on top of it. Neverwinter, and the Sword Coast in general will be a better place once this man no longer walks free and swings from the gallows. I'm sure that even you can see the wisdom of this."
Casavir leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Bishop. Betrayer. Coward. Murderer. The ranger had been all these things and more. Casavir found it difficult to even think about the man without disgust and anger rising from his belly. Especially when it came to matters concerning the Captain, as Bishop had been his arch rival in the war for her affections. And won. He swallowed a lump in his throat.
Nevalle nodded and continued. "I thought you might see it our way. I've also been told that the two of you were less than bosom buddies. If my sources are correct, which they usually are, the two of you clashed like rutting bulls constantly for the favors of Captain Tandis. And if rumors are to be believed, in the end, it was the ranger who ended up grazing her pastures. Which doesn't surprise me, given the nature of the 'prize cow' in question."
Blood pounded in Casavir's ears, and veins bulged from his temples. His face turned scarlet. "Do not speak of her in that way, Nevalle," he growled. "Not to me, nor to anyone. That is the kind of coarse metaphor I would expect from the man you are now hunting, and I did not tolerate it from him. Nor will I tolerate it from you."
Nevalle held up his hands in an attempt to placate the angry paladin "All right, I'm sorry. That was crude of me. I should have chosen better words. Still, I am curious as why a man of your creed and morals would even be interested in a woman like that, given her obvious heritage and her nature."
"Her heritage is of no concern to me, only her actions and outlook," Casavir replied shortly. "Nor should it be to anyone who looks at the world through Tyr's eyes. As for her nature, you knew nothing about her. None of you did, and I would suggest you hold your tongue and speculations regarding her or her private life."
"All right, all right," Nevalle sighed. "It's none of my business. Let's get back to the matter at hand. We have bounties posted on Bishop up and down the Sword Coast, and so far, a number of bounty hunters and sell swords have already taken on the task. We also know that prior to joining up with your party, he haunted Luskan territory extensively. While we can't send hunters up that way, we have shared what we know about him and his crimes with the new Luskan ambassador, and it seems Luskan has taken some interest of his whereabouts as well. In this, Luskan might actually prove useful for a change."
"If you are bringing Luskan into this, then you also know that if they find him, he will be subjected to their idea of 'justice', which is a mockery of the true thing. He will not even have a proper trial where he could be made to answer for his crimes. They would simply execute him publicly for the amusement of the masses."
"I don't need a lecture on the finer points of High and Low Justice," Nevalle said. "I know damned well what the Luskans would do to him should they catch him, and frankly, it couldn't happen to a nicer guy, as far as I'm concerned. The important thing is not who finds him first, only that someone finds him and he gets exactly what he deserves. Whether Neverwinter or Luskan, or even some bloodthirsty mercenary looking for gold and glory, all that matters is that Bishop gets his just rewards."
"Just rewards?" Casavir asked, incredulous of what he was hearing. Was Nevalle even listening to himself? "I am hearing an interest in blind vengeance, not justice."
"Oh, come on, Casavir," Nevalle snorted. "Spare me the semantics. In the end, is there really a difference?"
The paladin sat silently for a long time, watching Nevalle in disbelief. Were these words really coming from the Captain of the Nine, a man who was supposed to be a paragon of duty to Lord and Land, a Lord and Land who claimed to serve Tyr and uphold his tenets and ideals? Tenets and ideals which were the antithesis of the cavalier vigilantism being condoned right now? The answer came to him quicker then the question had. Of course these words are coming from him. This wouldn't be the first time Neverwinter has allowed mob rule and emotional reactions to prevail while allowing a grave injustice to go unpunished.
"There is a big difference, Nevalle," Casavir replied after a while. "And I am truly disturbed to hear you say that. Such attitudes are what caused the death of an innocent priest of Tyr, and the subsequent fall of one of his greatest champions, leading to the devastation and suffering of the Luskan War. Or have you already forgotten the bitter lessons of Brother Fenthick and Lady Aribeth?"
"You are comparing that fiasco with the current situation? You can't be serious, Casavir."
"I am gravely serious," he said coolly. "And I would not call it a fiasco, but a tragedy of the worst sort. Neverwinter stood by and did nothing as an innocent man, a devoted priest of Tyr, was brutally murdered by an angry mob. And to add insult to injury, no trial was held to bring the murderers to justice, nor was his name ever cleared after the fact. He was buried in the Tomb of the Betrayers, where his body still lies today, his spirit still crying out for justice. It was this travesty that caused Lady Aribeth's fall from grace, as the city failed to provide her help when she needed it most. You abandoned your champion, and she abandoned you."
"I still don't see what this has to do with anything." Nevalle was getting impatient.
"Then you are dangerously blind, Nevalle. The situation now might appear to be different. There is no doubt that Bishop is guilty of his crimes, nor is the Captain an elven paladin of Tyr in danger of bringing ruin to the city she once served. But the spirit of the matter has not changed. Nasher is pursuing the easy path of convenience and expedience once again, Neverwinter seeks the path of blood instead of justice, and the city's greatest hero since the Luskan War is being abandoned in her time of need. You may not choose to see the similarities, but they are as plain as this keep's walls to me."
"I should have known better than to expect any sense from you on the matter," Nevalle spat. "From someone who turned his back on his duty, I should expect little else. I had hoped you changed, Casavir, but I can see now such hopes are in vain."
"I had similar hopes as well," Casavir replied calmly. "For you, for Nasher, for the city. That you had all changed, had learned from the mistakes of the past. I see that my hopes were in vain as well. But I do wish to thank you, Nevalle, for enlightening me. I now realize, more than ever, that my leaving the service of Neverwinter was the right decision. Though the Captain helped quell many doubts for me before, it is always good to have further confirmation from the source."
"I believe this conversation is over," Nevalle growled through gritted teeth. "I'm sure you can see yourself out."
"Indeed I can." Casavir got up and walked towards the door, then stopped. Without turning back, he said, "Remember, Nevalle, Tyr's justice does not solely apply to criminals. In the hearts of men and nations, He balances His scales as well. I ask you this: when the time comes for Him to judge Neverwinter and her leaders, which way will the scales tip? It is something I hope you will ponder. Good day." With that, Casavir left the office and closed the door loudly behind him.
Casavir, whose mood had grown darker after his confrontation with Nevalle, decided his day would be best spent in the temple in prayer and meditation. He needed Tyr's strength and guidance more than anything right now. Neverwinter might not care about her, but he still did. Even if she was not meant to be his love, she had always been his friend, despite everything.
"Nasher and Nevalle might have given up on you, but I will not," he whispered as he made his way through the courtyard to the temple.
***********************************************
He had spent the day before the altar of Tyr meditating upon his god, praying and contemplating his faith and beliefs, asking for guidance and wisdom. That night, Tyr answered.
His sleep was far from peaceful, and he had woken several times. Eventually, he drifted into a deep sleep, and that is when it began.
He woke to find himself sitting on a stone bench in the courtyard of Crossroad Keep. The light of a full moon washed the courtyard in a silvery blue radiance, reflecting off the frost on the ground like thousands of diamonds. The normal sounds of keep life were absent, and as he looked around, he saw he was alone. It was eerily silent.
A soft hand brushed his shoulder and he turned to see who was there. He was stunned to find that it was no creature of the Realms, but the higher planes. Long hair of purest silver was braided into many plaits that framed a face of unimaginable beauty. Her skin was softly golden, radiating a light of its own. She was garbed in magnificent robes of blue and gold, and a sleeveless mythril chainmail tunic was worn over them. A brilliant golden sword was strapped to her hip. Silvery, gossamer wings unfurled behind her, and eyes of the deepest sapphire blue gazed at him with unearthly intensity. A planetar. Judging by the colors of her robes, she was more than likely one of Tyr's celestial servants. He bowed his head in respect. She took his hand, and saying nothing, beckoned him to follow her through the front gates of the keep.
When they emerged on the other side, they were, to his surprise, not in the surrounding farmlands that nestled near Crossroad Keep, but somewhere very different. Virgin snow dusted trees and blanketed the earth two feet deep. The night sky was a grey blur as pregnant clouds gave birth to squalling flurries. He looked at the trees, and realized that several were a species unfamiliar to him. The absolute silence that was present in the courtyard of the keep was here as well, and the entire scene had a strange, alien feel to it. Even his breath came in silence. He turned to the planetar, puzzled. She said nothing, and motioned for him to follow her.
They walked through woodland for several minutes until they came upon a large outcropping of rock. From a small, shallow cave in the rock, he saw the flickering of firelight, and the planetar nodded. He followed her towards it, certain that there was something very important she wanted him to see. Stepping inside, he saw four figures ringing the fire.
The woodland he had just emerged from was strange in its own right, but did not compare to sheer oddness of the scene before him. A large, hulking shape that looked painted in an array of dizzying colors lay curled around something, and as Casavir looked closer, it resembled an unusually large, and unusually colorful, bear. To the creature's right reclined a man, who in all respects, was as strange as the bear-thing. His skin was a vivid blue-violet, and his hair, a pale shade of blue-grey, lay braided on one shoulder. A bored expression graced his handsome features as he watched rainbow sparks of light dance from his fingertips. He turned to the bear shape, and though the blue man's lips moved, Casavir heard no sound.
Sitting cross legged across from the blue man sat a beautiful winged woman whose skin matched the pale pearl grey of her wings. A crop of downy, snow white hair crowned her head, and her eyes, which resembled obsidian mirrors, held a deep sadness in them. He noticed an amulet around her neck, and with closer study, saw that it was a holy symbol of Ilmater. She caressed it gently, and though he could hear nothing as her lips moved, he got the impression that she was singing.
Between the winged singer and the blue man was the fourth figure, and unlike the others, Casavir at least had an idea of what she was. Though seemingly human, her head, unlike the other two, was completely shaved and decorated with an intricate pattern of tattoos. Golden eyes were rimmed with black kohl, and her skin, a pale golden color, looked as if it had not seen much sunlight. What was most noticeable, however, were her robes: brilliant and red, they were decorated in strange, arcane symbols. On her lap lay an open book, which he suspected was most likely her spellbook. She did not appear to be reading it; instead, she looked like she was talking to a bizarre little winged creature sitting next to her. Though he had never met one like her, he had heard enough stories and studied enough of lore regarding Faerun's darker cabals and sects to recognize that her tattoos and attire marked her as a member of one of the most dreaded brotherhoods in the Realms: a Red Wizard of Thay. Instinctively, he grasped his holy symbol and reached for his weapon, only to remember he was not carrying it. He turned to the planetar, and her expression was calm. She nodded towards the odd group. She wanted him to see something here.
He waited patiently for what seemed like an eternity, and eventually, the blue man and Red Wizard slipped into their bedrolls. The winged woman's lips moved in silence, and a swirling mass of air appeared at the entrance of the cave, after which she slipped into what seemed like a meditative trance. A guardian elemental, he reasoned, summoned to stand watch as the group slept.
Another eternity passed as he watched the strange party sleep, when he noticed something stirring from beside the colorful bear-thing. A shadow outline of a smaller head poked up from beside the sleeping creature, and for a moment, Casavir wondered if the strange giant had young it was guarding. As the form moved closer to the fire, its face became visible, and his eyes widened in surprise. Unlike the others, he knew that face almost as well as he knew his own.
She knelt next to the fire and glanced around at the others as they slept. Flamelight danced over the sharp oval of her face as she stood up and turned towards the cave entrance. He saw that she was wearing boots and a cloak of dark grey fur, and her leather armor, padded and lined against the cold, was of a design he had never seen before. More importantly, however, he noticed something that troubled him. Despite the many layers of protective clothing she undoubtedly wore to ward off the deep winter chill, she looked thinner than he remembered. Her skin, normally pale on its own, held a faint greyish cast, and she looked incredibly ill. The expression on her face was grim and tortured, and her eyes had a fevered, hungry look to them that sent a shiver down his spine. But there was no denying it; it was her. The Captain.
Despite a feeling of wrongness that seemed to emanate from her, his heart briefly lightened. He had found her, and whatever was wrong with her, he would find out and help her. Yet when he reached out to embrace her, she passed through him as if he were made of thin air. She looked nervously at the air elemental, which stood still as she staggered by it and out of the mouth of the cave. He tried calling her name, but dead silence remained. He turned to the planetar, and she nodded towards the Captain. They left the cave and followed her.
As they followed her, he noticed she moved liked a wounded animal, lacking the normal catlike grace and speed she normally possessed. A few times she stumbled in the snow, and it would take her several minutes to get back up, appearing to heave and gasp as she did. When she fell, Casavir knelt next to her and tried to heal her, to hold her, to help her, but his hands always passed through her as if she were illusion. Frustrated, he tried to curse, but the maddening silence of the dark dreamscape prevailed. He looked at the planetar pleadingly. Her expression changed, and there was a deep, unfathomable sadness in her eyes. She held her hands out in a gesture of helplessness.
It was not long before they came upon what appeared to be an ethereal badger. The ghost-like creature at first took no notice of the Captain, seeming content to watch snow flakes drift onto a nearby bush. She, however, war far from disinterested, and she eyed the creature with a hungry intensity that made Casavir stomach turn. She closed her eyes, and suddenly, a dark wave of something indescribably foul flashed from her. The badger jumped and its snout curled into a snarl as it charged her. She whipped out a rapier and a dagger and waited for the creature to attack, the unholy hunger in her eyes reaching a fevered pitch.
Despite her physical weakness, the badger was no match for her. The creature only hit her once, but it now lay mortally wounded before her. He expected that she would simply dispatch it and be done with it, so he was unprepared for what came next. Her arms hung limply at her sides as her weapons dropped in the snow. She fell to her knees, and stared intently at the wounded badger before her. He eyes rolled to the back of her head, and suddenly, went completely black.
Without warning, her flesh erupted into ribbons of darkness as something tore free from inside her. It looked akin to shadowy spider or octopus, except shadow could not describe it. It was blacker than the darkest of shadows, blacker than even the King of Shadows she had slain. Black and shadow could not adequately describe it, and the feelings it gave him just looking at it made the worse pit fiend or balor seem righteous by comparison. There was only one thought that came to his mind as he looked in abject horror at the thing that had just ripped through the flesh of his beloved friend: a screaming, hungry void.
The void things tentacles waved menacingly at the helpless badger before it, and he felt the creature's terror as it tried flee. Casavir tried to move, to run to the creature's aid and defend it from whatever that abomination was, but his muscles would not obey. He remained frozen to the spot, and could only watch as the void-thing's tentacles shot out and grabbed the helpless badger, pulling the squirming, ghostly form into its black nexus until it had been totally consumed. No trace of the badger remained, and the spidery abomination retreated back into the slumped body of the Captain.
She sat up, and he saw the blackness had faded from her eyes, returning them to their normal pale green. Her expression for several moments was of blank confusion. Casavir saw that the greyness had vanished from her skin, and far from the frail, sickly thing she had been moments before, she looked...restored somehow. The blank look vanished from her face, replaced by confusion as she looked around. Then the reality of what had happened sunk in, and her face twisted into an expression of horror, disgust, and shame as she slumped forward into the snow, her body trembling.
Casavir looked down, and saw that his own hands were shaking. Though he could not hear her, he knew she was weeping. He walked over to her, and though his touch passed through her, he still tried to grasp her shoulders and gently pull her up. Though no words issued from his mouth, he still tried to speak to her, to comfort her, to find out what happened. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see the planetar standing over him, her eyes both sad and compassionate as she looked at the crumpled form of the Captain. She gently took his arm and pulled him to his feet, motioning behind her. He turned in that direction and saw the four strange individuals from the cave making their way towards her. The planetar led Casavir over to a nearby tree.
The great bear-thing walked up to her and sniffed around. A pained, knowing expression crossed its intelligent face and he nudged the Captain gently. She refused to move. It grasped her gently in its maw, like a mother bear picking up a cub, and carried her towards the other three. They all turned and walked back in the direction of the cave.
He turned once again to the planetar, trying to voice the many questions he now had, but she shook her head sadly. He felt as if she wanted to speak, to explain what he had just witnessed, but something prohibited her from doing so. He looked back in the direction that the Captain and the strange band had retreated to. The forest began to fade into a grey mist, and as he turned to catch a final glimpse of the planetar, one thought filled his mind with such power and force that it remained on his lips as the dreamscape vanished.
Casavir woke with a start, the words audible now as they escaped his lips. He was still shaking. The imagery of the dream was still strong, and he knew for certain that Tyr had sent him the vision.
"Great, merciful Tyr," he whispered into the pre-dawn darkness. "What evil has befallen her?"
He quickly got out of bed and dressed hastily. Glancing briefly out his window, he guessed it was still an hour before even the earliest of risers would wake, but he felt that it could not wait. Father Ivarr, Sand, and Aldanon needed to know what he had seen.
As he made haste down the darkened corridors of the keep, he could not help repeating that last, terrible thought that struck him as the dream ended.
"A thing that should have never been, an ancient injustice allowed to fester."