"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.
Friedrich Nietzsche
Close your eyes, look deep in your soul, Step outside yourself, and let your mind go, Frozen eyes stare deep in your mind as you die.
Close your eyes and forget your name, Step outside yourself, and let your thoughts drain, As you go insane, go insane!
Slayer - "Seasons in the Abyss"
19th of Mirtul, 1384
The feet of men and horses kicked up a fine dust in the streets, which became a brownish haze in the warm afternoon sun that bore down on the town of Triboar, and Faithless cursed and spat out a mouthful of the irritating grit she accidentally inhaled. She was standing in front of the Drunken Kobold Inn, her lodging for the past two days, making the last minute preparations to her mare before setting out once again. A couple of horse flies buzzed constantly near her head, but she ignored them, focusing instead on getting the mare ready so that she could leave town before sunset.
After Faithless finished tending to the mare, she returned to her room in the inn to finish packing and gathering her things. She had acquired an assortment of things in Rashemen, many of which were redundant in their usefulness, and she had spent two days in Yartar selling a lot of it off, using that money to purchase various supplies she knew she would need for the journey ahead. Potions and healer's kits, traps and trap making supplies, and plenty of poisons. She had even organized everything neatly into her three bags of holding, a concept normally alien to her, as organizing anything had always seemed such a waste of time. Not anymore. Things have changed, haven't they? She thought.
The last thing she slipped in her pack was a scroll case that was filled with maps, notes, and knowledge of Luskan, both the city and the surrounding territory. While Yartar was a full, bustling market of goods and sundries, Triboar, with it's large resident population of trackers and guides, was a bazaar of information and lore of the northern lands. She had paid handsomely for not just maps, but detailed information on the Luskan forces' patrols: meeting points, common patrol grounds, habits, make up of patrolling units, and various other bit of intelligence that would prove necessary and useful once she slipped into Luskan lands.
She wore her original armor, the set that had been created and enchanted by now dead companions, the gear that she had fought the King of Shadows in. She stuffed it all down in a magic bag in Rashemen when she realized her thin leathers and eelskin boots did not accommodate the cold, harsh Rashemi winters. Safiya had created a new set of powerfully enchanted leathers, boots, and other items, and Faithless had forgotten about her old gear until now. The , dusky black leathers, though not as powerful as the destroyed set she had dumped back in the bathhouse in Everlund, were still formidable enough, and wearing them once again, gave her the sense of slipping into a paradox of prelude and prologue in the same breath, as if an intangible circle had finally been closed.
A circle? No, she thought with dark amusement as she attached the pack to her harness. More like a spiral that I am looking down at. A circle keeps repeating itself over and over again, but a spiral merely mimics and mocks the whole fucking cycle as it draws you endlessly nowhere.
Nowhere? Is that where we are going? The Shattered Host's multitude of voices asked slyly. Hmm...sounds about right. Your "crusade", just like Akachi's, and for that matter, all crusades, end up the same.
Faithless smiled coldly as she checked her weapons for ease of movement. The Host bombarded her with their mockery far less since that night in The Calling Horns, and even then, their tirades and tantrums had lost much of their vitriol. What had once been a head-splitting roar of disconnected and conflicting thought-voices now seemed more like annoying background noise, not unlike the irritating buzzing of the horse flies that harassed her earlier. An irritating buzzing that could be ignored and relegated to insignificance, provided one had the proper focus to do so.
Indeed. The Voice of Terrible Purpose's cool, passionless presence began filling the void that had been created by the sulking, retreating host. All that you have left is me, and there is no room for anything else. Faithless felt the Shattered Host cringe, and as they retreated further into the edges of her mind, she felt slightly more numb. She savored the sensation.
Lost your teeth now, have you? Faithless shot back as she pulled her cloak over and checked her back mounted weapons again. The Sword of Gith, which was now mounted on her harness by a specialized brace, rested between her shoulder blades, it's hilt protruding slightly above her left shoulder. She reached up and caressed the cool, silken hilt with her fingertips, and despite the lightness of her touch, she could feel the sword's resolve and purpose as strongly as her own. She allowed the blade to slip back into its resting position with a heavy sigh. Taking one more look around the room to make sure that nothing was left behind, she headed downstairs to settle accounts with the innkeeper, and left.
She rode through Triboar's gates and turned north onto the Long Road. Behind her, it wound south, where after many miles, it would terminate in Waterdeep, and the bulk of the merchant traffic was turning in that direction, the City of Splendors no doubt their final destination. Faithless had never been there, and she remembered a time when she was certain that curiosity and whim would eventually take her there. Now that curiosity and whim had died their lonely deaths, Waterdeep was little more than the wrong direction. Her eyes followed the road ahead of her, which ran as straight and unswerving as the path of an arrow in flight. That was the only direction that mattered now, and she urged the mare on.
She had ridden for only a half an hour when she noticed ahead a junction, where what looked to be a wide and newly laid road spurred off from the Long Road and ran west. Faithless frowned slightly, as she had studied her maps before leaving Triboar to plot the best and most discreet route into Luskan lands, and did not see any major road junctions before Longsaddle. She wondered if she had somehow had her sense of direction turned on its head and was either travelling in the wrong direction, or the wrong road all together. She glanced at the sun, which in the late afternoon, was two hands breadths over the Sword Mountains, and then looked back at the unknown side road. She was definitely going north. As she approached closer to the unknown road, she saw a sign at the corner of the junction that was covered in dried mud, enough to make it illegible. Curious, she dismounted and led the mare to the sign post, where she began chipping away at the dirt to see what was beneath. Mud crumbled away beneath her hands to reveal clumsy Thorass lettering that had been burned into the wood.
This Way to Old Owl Well and Neverwinter
Faithless took a step back and licked her lips, which she found had become suddenly dry. She now realized why it hadn't been marked on her map, which while a fairly good map, was also drawn up five years ago, back when the well was an pissing hole for the orcs, and the road leading there was little more than an old disused trail that few merchants in their right mind would take. Long before Nasher, wanting a trade route to the interior that did not involve taking the long way through Waterdeep, sent a small army and a trusted lieutenant to retake the well. And, she thought, as a bitter taste crept into her mouth, long before a misfit group of Greycloaks on assignment from the City Watch ended up doing the job for them. With the help of an obsessive, suicidal paladin, of course. She swallowed a small lump forming in her throat.
Don't go there, she warned herself, and the brief memory faded away to be replaced by an odd, empty confusion. She wanted nothing more than to get back on her horse and ride fast until she arrived in Longsaddle, yet she found the desire to remain planted right where she was at equally compelling, and felt no conflict between the two urges. She followed the Old Owl Well Road with her eyes until it disappeared in the distance behind a hill, and continued following the road in her mind. Beyond the outpost that now guarded the well, the road continued on to Crossroad Keep. To the High Road, to Neverwinter, to the Sword Coast. To home.
The Shattered Host began to whisper incoherently, and she was ready to smack her head against the sign post, as their keening gibberish, even if muted and dulled, was the last thing she wanted to listen to right now. As she grabbed the post and prepared to do a little therapeutic ramming, a voice rose above the others, and while it was subtle and unassuming, it captured her full attention.
Home? It whispered dreamily. The pitch was soft and childlike, and Faithless realized that whatever it was, it was not part of the Shattered Host. I...we...can go home now? It's over now, right? All you have to do is jump on the horse, and she'll take you there. That's all you really want, ain't it? Isn't it all you really ever wanted? Just to go home?
Faithless frowned, unsure what to make of this new guest in her head. She glanced back at the Long Road. Traffic was thinning considerably as the day was approaching its end, but a couple of wagons did turn onto the road to Old Owl Well. Those travelling paid her little mind, as she still had the old cloth wrapped on her head to conceal her demonic heritage. The lack of attention was exactly what she had hoped for, and decided she would ignore the new voice to avoid accidentally conversing out loud, which would certainly draw unwanted eyes and ears to her. Piss off, she growled mentally. Yet the childish voice persisted, undeterred.
Look! See all the merchants? They know the way. Just follow them! Up and over the mountains, and then there you are. Back on the Sword Coast. The Keep, West Harbor, Neverwinter...they are all still there. You don't need to go to Luskan. You don't belong there, never had. Forget this stupid idea and just go home and take a nice long nap and forget about it.
Forget about it? She mentally snapped back. Forget about everything that has happened since the githyanki tried to raze West Harbor to the ground? Since the sanctum collapsed, since I woke in Okku's barrow? And my soul? Will it forget its imprisonment in the Wall?
Not to mention the fact that West Harbor is as dead as the Mere, Terrible Purpose added, a trace of irritation creeping into the normally emotionless Voice. Of course, even if it still stood, would you ever really return there? You couldn't wait to get the hells out when you were there. A small stinking swamp village of people who were as happy to see you leave as you were, and a "father" who never cared. That is where you should return? And the keep...all it ever was was a prison. And now it's a prison full of ghosts. Return there, and you slip Nasher's collar back on and chain yourself to a hell made of memories.
The child within shifted, but remained defiant. So? There's other things! We don't have to go back to the castle and that creepy witch Kana and all those boring people who say nice things when you're around but then say bad things about you when you can't hear. Maybe West Harbor is all gone, but what about all your friends? I bet they are still buried in that creepy temple, and stupid Nevalle or anyone else won't bother to go get them and make sure they are buried fine. Why don't we go back there and bury them like they wanted? You promised, remember? You were gonna build the other tiefling in a nice, sparkly crypt. And the paladin wanted to lay in that elf temple. You can bring him flowers. He was really nice! Don't leave them all under that cold, moldy rock!
Tying the mare to a small ash tree, Faithless then went and sat on a smooth boulder by the roadside. The loud creaking of wagon wheels and the sharp barks of train drivers goading their horses and oxen onward filled the air as many travellers and caravans were eager to make it to the foothills and set up camp before nightfall. The sun was already starting to dip behind the jagged peaks of the Sword mountains, and as she watched it descend, she realized she had never seen the mountains from the east. The slopes were rockier and drier on this side, compared to the thick, lush forests that covered the western slopes facing the sea. The rock faces, periodically dotted with small trees and scrub, looked darker and more foreboding from this side, and Faithless found herself surprised at how alien it all looked.
Those are the same mountains that loom over the Mere, that were a background to my entire life, and I can't even recognize them now, she mused. Looking slightly southward, she recognized the smoky peak of Mount Galardrym, its eternal fires still belching thin columns of greenish smoke from it's crest. There. That's where we went to retrieve the Belt of Ironfist so those rock-headed dwarves would fight the King of Shadows instead of waiting in their caves for their own eventual doom. And we ended up killing a very nasty red dragon in the process. My first dragon kill. Hells, I even remember breaking out a bottle of dwarven brandy and dancing madly on top of the dragon's gigantic horde...the gnome fiddling away a celebration tune and the sister tiefling rolling around in gold coins like she was taking a bath. She wanted to go to sleep on top of it all in case it was just a dream! Even the paladin was pleased, because he found several Tyrran relics that could be returned to the temple. And the ranger, he stuffed handfuls of gold into his pack while mumbling about how he couldn't believe we had all survived.
The sounds of her surroundings faded, and for a long moment, the voices within remained silent. She was close...so close to home. Home. During those months in Rashamen, home was a fading memory, one that she had thought less and less of as Akachi's shattered dreams and memories began displacing her own. She had held little hope of ever returning to the Sword Coast as the reality and magnitude of her situation became clear. Now the road stood before her, a road that would take her back to the place of dashed hopes and faded dreams. But it's still home, and despite everything, it's the only one I've known. Maybe I can start all over again. It's not too late.
You see? The child quipped in delight. It's never too late, no way! We can call this whole stupid idea of yours off. Go home! There is nothing left to hurt you. The King of Shadows is gone, that eater of souls restored, and that stupid shard is out of your chest. Maybe not the keep or West Harbor, but there's lost of other places to go! Let's go back to Neverwinter, back to the Flagon, and visit Uncle Duncan! Remember him? He was so nice! I bet he will be happy to see you. He sure liked you! You can stay with him, and the two of you can sit together at the bar and drink up last seasons cider, and can forget the bad stuff and go out to the docks and throw that dumb sword into the harbor and forget everything and start fresh!
The childish voice, so eager and innocent, grew more compelling, and Faithless wondered if it was indeed possible. To start anew, to lay the old demons and spirits of the past to rest. After all, don't want to end up like Daghun, do I? That's why he lingered on in West Harbor like a festering wound, and I moved on. Start Fresh. Clean slate. I've had twenty winters of life behind me. Maybe if I'm lucky, another twenty or so ahead of me, if I play my cards right? Who knows what can happen then?
Faithless stood up, deciding that returning home wasn't such a bad idea, when sharp, piercing bolts of pain shot through her skull and down her neck. She crumpled down to her knees and grasped both sides of her head, grimacing in agony as the Voice of Terrible Purpose, in all its cold, crystalline might, reverberated violently through her mind, down to her bones, and to the depths of her soul.
What idiocy is this? It demanded with all the biting harshness of a glacial wind. Home? Such a place no longer exists, you silly bitch. And truly, it never did. Where will you go? Back to the Flagon? Back to the Uncle who saddled you with two "friends" that ended up betraying you? Oh yes, if you think Crossroad Keep is a boneyard of memories, then the Flagon is the fucking Fugue Plane in comparison. The memories there will annihilate you, and rather than being able to do something about it, you will waste away there in screaming torment as every sound, every battered table, every smell, every corner will hold his visage for you to see.
To drive the point home, the Voice faded to be replaced by a dizzying array of memory images, of friends now dead sat around the room, but most of all, him. The ranger, sitting alone at his customary table, watching everything around him with a bored tension as he drank his ninth or tenth ale of the day. Another memory danced before her, this one of quiet moments in the early hours before dawn, where the two sat in the empty taproom alone, emptying the last of Duncan's kegs and trading jokes, stories, and sometimes, thought-provoking conversation. He kept turning to study her, his normal irritated expression replaced by one of curiosity, amusement, and, for brief flashes, longing. The mental image was far more painful to look at than the stabbing pains brought on by Terrible Purposes' rebuke.
So, what was this about returning "home"? The Voice continued in icy irritation. There is no where you can run where the stench of your past will not tear you to pieces, and I do not think I will let you drink yourself to death, when so much remains undone. You can't run so far, that I will not find you. Cease this asinine sentimentality and these pipe dreams, and get your ass on the road. The only thing that will bring you resolution lies on the road to Luskan, not Neverwinter.
The child, who had been startled to silence by the vicious intrusion, spoke up once more. Why? He's gone. You can't bring him back, and even if you could, why? He was mean and didn't care about you anyway. He wanted to be gone. So let him go. He has some peace, isn't that enough?
Faithless stood up, her body still shaking. No. It was never about that. I knew then, and know now he is lost to me. I did not want him back in my company. Only to set him free for once and for all, and thus, set myself free. But he is not free, and peace and oblivion are not what the wall grants. The wall took my chance at freedom as well, and someone is going to pay. She reached up and pulled the Sword of Gith from its brace. In the scarlet light of the fading sun, the blade shimmered like a river of eldritch blood. As she gripped the hilt, she felt the sword's own force wind through her body and mind. The sound of a thousand slivers of metal resonated through her soul. I will not go back to the Flagon. That's where it started, and it was Duncan who ultimately combined our two roads together. No, I do not want see him, he helped start this mess. I shall follow the trail back to Luskan, and make them pay for what they stole from me.
Now you see what needs to be done, Terrible Purpose became calm and cold once again. Now you see the pointless stupidity of your hopes and dreams. They must die once and for all, like everything else that ever meant something, because the only thing left that you can truly have is revenge. See that the foolish whimpering of little girls does not hinder you from attaining your prize!
The presence of the child faded in one last whimper, and her thoughts hardened and became focused once more. Returning the Sword of Gith back to its brace, Faithless walked over and untied her horse. The Voice of Terrible Purpose filled her mind with a humming that made her feel oddly numb. She welcomed it as she jumped back into the saddle and turned the mare back northwards.
I will not be delayed any further, she thought with frigid resolve. The horse's hooves kicked up a thick cloud as she galloped off, covering the signpost to Old Owl Well in dust once again.
Only the barely perceptible rustle of an occasional blade of grass and slight flicker of shadow gave hint to her passing as Faithless moved with swift determination through the edge of the northern reaches of Neverwinter Wood. She paused occasionally, searching and listening for any signs of her quarry. According to her map, there were a series of trails and roads ahead that were frequently used by Luskan patrols and scouting parties in monitoring their southern borders. She hoped she would catch one today, but if not, she would wait patiently.
She soon reached her destination, but found it deserted, so she found a spot which provided her a good vantage point from which to observe and crouched in waiting. She had spent the past few days travelling through shadow to get here, and felt a twinge of disappointment that other than the trails themselves, no signs of human activity existed. Only the muted chatter and earthy smells of forest life were present. The midday sun had burnt away the morning's overcast, deepening shadows around her and increasing her area of concealment. Had anyone, even an extremely skilled ranger like her father, come upon the place where she now lurked, they would have had an extremely difficult time detecting anything amiss.
Hours passed, but nothing happened, and Faithless forced away the exhaustion that was subtly trying to lure her into much needed rest. Since she had left Longsaddle and taken old, abandoned roads and trails through the Crags into Luskan lands, she had rested little. Upon arriving in Longsaddle, she traded the mare to an old scholar in exchange for further knowledge and lore of Luskan. He was surprised at what he saw as a wondrous bargain: a gentle, sturdy, good tempered horse with full tack, in exchange for a few bits of information he had collected over the years. He had even updated her maps and notes, adding markers showing more places of interest and sharing even more secrets of Luskan. He had spent a couple years in the city proper as a scribe for the docksmaster, and shared a few insights that Faithless was certain might come in useful later.
She had watched as the old man, who said he was returning home to Candlekeep, led the mare to the stables of the inn he was staying at. She had already decided long before she arrived, that she was going have to be rid of the mare. While a quicker method of travel on open road and grasslands, the horse would have difficulty making haste through the Crags, where tribes of giants, gnolls, goblins, and orcs roamed freely. And even once past the cold, dangerous hill and mountain range, her intentions and plans within Luskan territories required absolute stealth and non detection, something impossible on horseback. Though she refused to allow herself to feel any sadness on parting ways with the steed, she was pleased that the beast, who she had mercilessly driven since leaving The Calling Horns, was more than likely going on to a more calm, leisurely existence as the humble mount of a scholar.
Being rid of the steed freed her to return to walking in shadow and disappearing from any prying eyes, but it also meant that travel would now be slower, and she made up for it by only resting in two hour snatches. She never even set up camp, choosing to wrap her cloak tight and sleep directly on the ground. She ate little, subsisting instead off a combination of road rations, easily identifiable food plants, and, when she came upon the opportunity, stealing from the stores of a farmstead. She occasionally would come upon some types of plant, which she knew from past adventures and knowledge shared by those she once knew, that acted as stimulants and appetite suppressants, and made liberal use of them. Even now, as she watched her surroundings with quiet intensity, she took some neversleep seeds from her pouch and chewed them, ignoring the urge to wince at the bitter, metallic flavor they contained.
The day began to wane, and Faithless began to think it unlikely than any patrols would show up today. The Luskans could be erratic in their timing, she had been told, and generally, encountering them was often a hit and miss affair. She had chosen this spot for several reasons: It was the closest to the route she had taken out of the Crags, its location near the woods provided ample concealment for observation and planning, and the patrols that came here were generally light and seldom consisting of more than six men. The last was the most important, however. She wanted to observe and gauge the Luskans, testing their ability and prowess, before venturing deeper into their lands. While she had collected much information on them, she knew from her own past adventures that it was better to trust direct and first hand experience than rely on and make plans based on the the exploits of others.
Stepping out of the shadows, she looked around for a good place to rest undetected. Luskans, being mostly human, would unlikely travel at night when they could not see well, unless they were accompanied by mages or clerics who could cast spells or create charms to do so. Perhaps, tonight, I will catch up on some sleep, she thought, though she wondered, since consuming a lot of neversleep, if rest would even be possible. She looked back at the trail, and an idea occurred to her. Of course. I should have thought of that before. I will set up some traps anyway. It will give me something to do, and provide an extra surprise for when the fuckers do show up.
She set her pack down and began to go through it when she heard low, distant voices coming from beyond the wood. Quickly, she kicked her pack under the cover of a dense patch of fern and slipped back into the shadow. The voices, both male, grew closer, and soon, two figures appeared in the distance, heading straight on the trail that went past her position. As they neared the woods, she saw both men were armed with small crossbows and short swords and wore simple leather armor. The two men occasionally stopped to briefly look around, but soon, they were close enough that she could hear clearly what was being said.
"Can't believe da' bastard really wants to go all the way around da' woods," one of the men grumbled.
"How else we gonna get there without their dogs findin' us first, eh?" the other replied. He was the taller of the two, and even in the fading daylight, Faithless noticed a whip-like scar that bisected his face.
"Ne'erwinter dogs ain't no problem!" The shorter man exclaimed. "Ha'ent ya been payin' tention'? All da 'Cloaks be way down south, still a'scared of da Mere, or in da city tryin' to keep da peace wit' all da folks commin' back!"
"Ayuh. But you don't think that they ain't got lackeys up 'round Port Lllast and the Wood to make sure none of our boys go playin' 'round their yards?" The scarred man stopped next to a mound that was several yards from Faithless' hiding spot and pointed. "'Ere's a good place as any to camp. Got a good view around with some bush to hide behind if we need. We can start scoutin' out a good route on the 'morrow. Getting' late, it is." His shorter companion grunted in agreement and the two figures disappeared behind some bush that concealed some of the mound.
Scouts, Faithless thought, quietly slipping away from the wood's edge and advancing slowly towards the mound. The shadows were long and deep, but she still moved with great caution. She listened and watched, focusing her attention in the direction the two men had come, expecting the rest of their scouting party, but no one else came. Not a proper patrol, then. She returned her attention to the two men on the mound, who were starting a small fire behind the concealment of some low growing bramble. Several minutes later, they started talking again.
"Dis' bread be hard as a fuckin' rock!" She heard the shorter of the two complain. "Why don' I go an' see if I can kill us up somethin' dat don' taste like golem turds."
"Good idea," Scar-face replied. "Ya better hurry, tho' cuz you be lucky to be havin another half an hour good light. You get yourself lost, and I aint a'commin to find you." She heard a snort, and then footsteps moving in her general direction. The shorter man came into view and passed her position by a few feet. He gave no indication that he sensed anything out of the ordinary, and she watched him head back towards the woods. She remembered leaving her pack under a cluster of ferns, and hoped that the man did not find it.
He returned an hour later, not long after the sun had totally set, carrying a limp form in his left hand, holding it by the tail. She switched to darkvision, and saw what it was that he had killed: a skunk. Slightly wincing, she hoped the idiot knew enough to carefully remove the stink-glands near the creature's tail before skinning and cooking it, or else she might spend the night retching from the stench that would cloud the area if he accidentally ruptured them instead. You better not end up dousing the area in skunk-stink, Luskan, or your death is going to be long and gruesome. A few minutes later, the man joined his companion, and she heard him discussing the removal of the glands while the other helped. She stifled a sigh of relief.
A half hour later she heard the sounds of eating, and their earlier conversation picked up from where it had been left off.
"So jes' when is Gurith 'spectin' us to meet up with the main body, anyway?" the shorter man asked after a brief, but loud bout of flatulence.
"Three days, I'm believin', "Scarface replied. "An' next time you wanna fart 'round me, do it downwind, will ya?"
"Ya, but only if ya promise not to breathe near me," the shorter one retorted. "So, three days, we report back, an' den we finally gets to go waste us a few Ne'erwinter villages?"
"You've the right of it, I'm thinkin. 'Bout damned time too, I say. The dogs been whipped and ripe for a raid for half a year, with all the troubles they seem to be havin' down 'round that big swamp of theirs." She heard a wet thunk a few feet away, and saw that one of them had just tossed the offal and waste from skunk over the side of the bramble. She moved carefully to her left, away from the animal's remains, afraid that the fools might accidentally hit her with the discarded scent glands.
"Pfeh! Usually not much loot, but dey gots lots of 'cruit fodder an' plenny o' wenches for da takin', an' it reminds 'em of who really rules da' North."
"Ayuh. So, you have the coin so we can flip an' see who gets first watch an' who gets a few winks first?" Scarface asked. She heard the clanking of a few coins and a minute later, a quiet slap.
"Ha! Looks like ya done lost dat toss, Rugin!" The shorter man crowed.
"Looks like I have. Jes don' be a snorin' too loud, or I'll be shuttin' you up with my dagger."
Faithless waited until she heard muffled snoring before she decided to act. She stood up, still wrapped in shadow, and crept up the mound in total silence. The camp-site came into view, and she saw Scar-face/Rugin first sitting on a rock and looking bored. A few feet away an elongated lump covered in leathers and blankets snored without pause. Carefully, she circled around until she was behind Rugin.
Kill the big one first, then torture the other and find out where the rest of his friends are, she thought cooly.
Pulling her dagger from its sheath, she closed the distance between herself and Rugin. The tall, scarred scout was completely unaware of her presence, and he didn't even have enough time to register his surprise when her hand whipped out of the shadows and jerked his chin back violently, exposing his throat to the blinding slash of her dagger that followed. His hands reached up and clasped at his throat, but Faithless still held his head against her chest in a tight death grip as his life's breath and blood gurgled quietly away. Eventually, his arms fell limply to his side, and she released the corpse quietly, letting it crumple quietly into an inanimate heap.
Faithless turned her attention to the sleeping figure a few feet away. This one, she wanted alive, at least for the moment. She picked up the dead scout's cross bow and walked over to to the sleeper, carefully pulling his blankets away and retrieved the short sword that was still sheathed in his belt. He was laying on his back, his legs sprawled and open, and she smiled widely. You are making this too easy, fool, chuckled inwardly. With the same blinding speed and violence she dispatched the other man, she drove her foot in the sleeping man's crotch with a sickening thud, then stepped back and levelled the crossbow at his head.
The sleeper woke quicker than she had ever seen anyone do so in her life. He let out a high pitched, breathy wail as he sat up, one hand going to his loins, the other grasping at a weapon that was no longer there. The twisted, agonized grimace that was his face changed to wide-eyed shock and fear as he looked up to see the loaded crossbow aimed directly at him.
"Ahhhh! Beshaba's white tits!" he cried out, backing slightly away from Faithless. "What in da Nine Hells is this?"
"This," Faithless said, tapping the crossbow for emphasis while keeping her cold, predatory gaze fixed on the scout, "is a very quick way to the Nine Hells if you do not sit still and answer a few questions for me."
"An' who da fuck are ya?" he demanded, his still high-pitched voice trembling.
"You really aren't off to a good start, are you?" she replied coolly. "For someone whose life is one itchy finger twitch from ending, you sure aren't saying the right things to make me consider other alternatives." She made a show of tapping her finger on the crossbow's trigger guard, and he shook his head frantically.
"Ah, shit, don' kill me!" he pleaded. "Am a jes a scout, ya know! I'll tell anythin' ya wanna know, okay?"
"Good. Start talking, and I'll let you live. Where is the rest of your patrol?" she demanded.
"Eh? Da boys? Dunno. I swear, I dunno. We split off from 'em yesterday to look for a way 'round da woods."
"The Neverwinter Woods?"
"Yep, das right! Our 'tenant Gurith tol' us to find a sneaky way down to Ne'erwinter turf, so we don' a run into no 'Cloaks."
"I see. Then, if you don't know where they are now, how is Gurith supposed to know if you found anything?"
"Well, he says dat we 'spossed to meet up at Thenig's stan', where da other patrols are gonna meet up too in a few days."
"Meet up?" She frowned. "How many patrols are meeting up, exactly?"
The man shrugged helplessly. "Dunno. Two besides ours dat I know of. Maybe more 'ill show up, if da word gets out dat we are goin' on a raid."
"Where exactly is this 'Thenig's Stand?'" she pressed on.
"Huh? Ya ain' from around here, are ya?" he asked suspiciously. She glared angrily at him, and he held up his hands in the hopes of warding off her wrath. "Okay, okay, ain' my business, okay? Thenig's Stan' sits east of 'ere, near da Crags. 'Bout a couple hours north of the point where da' Crags an' da' woods meet. If you dunno, Rugin's got a map dat shows ya right where it's all at." As if thinking of his partner for the first time, the man looked over to his left, and saw the lifeless corpse a few feet away. Cringing, he looked back up at Faithless and motioned towards the dead man. "It's in his stuff. I swear!"
"I'm sure you do," she replied. A faint smile creased her lips. "You have been extremely helpful, and told me everything I need to know."
The man's expression became wide eyed and hopeful. "Ya said if I tell ya what ya wanna know, ya'll lemme go!"
"I certainly did," she agreed. She quickly jerked the trigger on the crossbow and watched as the scout's head exploded in a shower of blood, bone, and gore. She tossed the crossbow to the side as the the man's body flopped back. "But then again, I do have a habit of lying a lot."
She crouched down and began rummaging through the dead men's belongings until she came across a wooden scrollcase. It contained a crudely drawn map with the meeting point marked, as well as what looked like marching orders hastily scribbled. Perfect, she thought as she stuffed the case into her belt. She went through the rest of their belongings to see if there was anything of use, but other than a weak healing potion and a few coins, there was nothing of interest.
Kicking some dirt over the dying camp fire to extinguish it, she then left the mound with its two bodies and started heading slightly north-east. If the dead scout had told her the truth, it would be a couple days before the patrols met up there. If the map that took was fairly reliable in scale, she could arrive there tomorrow morning, giving her plenty of time to prepare a nice, warm welcome for "the boys".
Within the confines of her mind, she felt the Shattered Host stir. Do you realize what you have just done? The Voice of Conscience cried out above the whispers of the others. You just killed a man, who was on his knees and begging for his life, killed him in cold blood! By the hells, you've never done that, even when you were at your worst!
Faithless stopped, listening to what the Voice was telling her. She felt a sick sensation of cold surprise. Very true. Even Lorne I made stand up before I gutted him, and technically, he wasn't even begging for his life.
The whispers of the host grew louder, and suddenly, they all cried out in unison. What in the hells are you becoming?
A crusader. The Voice of Terrible Purpose cut through the Host like a knife, and the multitude of voices retreated from its presence. For the first time in your life, you are finally on a road that was meant to be carved out by you, and you alone. Gods and men have used you for their own purposes and then discarded you, but in their haste, they forgot that beyond them, you possessed a terrible purpose of your own.
And just what purpose is that?
The Voice of Terrible Purpose burst into laughter so cold and harsh that Faithless shivered as if a winter wind howled in her face and bit into her flesh. DESTRUCTION! TOTAL ANNIHILATION! IT IS ALL YOU ARE, ALL YOU WERE EVER MEANT TO BE!
The Voice fell silent, and Faithless stood motionless. She looked back at the mound where the two scouts lie dead. Quietly, she walked back into the woods and retrieved her pack. The Voice of Terrible Purpose's declaration still rang through her entire being, drowning out any other objections and feelings she might have had before. Before long, she felt neutral emptiness within had replaced everything.
"Naturally," she whispered numbly as she bounded off into the night.
Faithless stood in the shadow of a petrified alder as she watched the the road that wound through the gully and up to the rise where she stood waiting. The dry, relatively barren rocks and spurs of the Crags offered little concealment down along the road, so she perched herself within the irregular ring of Therig's Stand. The stone trees provided shadow, and the elevation gave her a better vantage point to watch everything going on below.
She had spent the whole of yesterday creating and laying a network of traps right at the bend where the road turned and lead up to the stone tree circle. The spot she had chosen for the ambush was perfect for the purpose, as it narrowed and was couched between two sheer rock faces. Once the traps went off, there would be no place for her quarry to run or hide, and her position gave her a clear path to pick off anyone who tried to escape with her short bow. She had rigged a few rocks on the ledge to come crashing down as well, if the need arose. The traps, which she had concealed well, were very difficult for even her to detect. She spared another glance about, checking to see if there was anything else that she could have missed, but much to her satisfaction, the site was as prepared as she could make it, and she turned her attention back to the gully, licking her lips in anticipation of the blood bath to come.
It was early afternoon when she saw the first signs of their approach. The sun was bright, and she had to squint, but she spotted a cloud of dust in the distance, where the entrance to the gully was. Not even bothering to try and hide their approach, she thought. They must have great confidence in the security of this place. She heard the tramping of their feet before she finally saw them as they rounded a bend that brought the road into her field of view once more. Their numbers were hard to gauge in the distance, but by the length and width of the dust cloud, she guessed that there were over a dozen. Possibly, two squads worth. She unslung her bow and drew an arrow from her quiver, ready to nock it when they came within range.
Ten minutes passed, and the first of their number appeared on the final approach, passing the first of her traps. She had laid them in a V configuration, which was a technique she had learned from her fellow fiendling rogue. Two lines of traps, each one's trigger wired to another, were set to converge on the main trigger trap, which once set off, would trigger all the others in a frenzy of destruction. Everyone, from the one who had triggered it to the person who was in range of the rearmost two traps, would be struck. It was an effective set-up for situations just like this, when one was significantly outnumbered by an enemy who was fairly organized, and in the past, it had proved a successful method of evening overwhelming odds. She had spaced each trap further apart than normal, as she was unsure exactly how the Luskans marched. Now, as more spilled into the bend, she was certain that all of them would be within the trap field, and she could not help smiling. It would get very messy, just like she hoped.
The man who was on point finally stepped on the well-concealed tripwire, and an innocuous click was all the warning the doomed patrol had. There was a second of a delay before suddenly, the bend in the road was engulfed in chaos. Explosions of fire, ice, and lightning erupted from both sides of the road, while putrid clouds of acid and poison hissed and spat. The noise echoed throughout the gully, with the screams and shouts of wounded and dying men further amplifying it. The sounds were so loud, a couple of the boulders she had rigged ended up being triggered, and the went crashing down into the chaos below.
Through clouds of smoke, steam, and acid, she could not see any targets well, so she waited a few moments for some of it to clear before she nocked her arrow and fired at the first moving target, a man who looked like a spellcaster of some sort. He staggered around, coughing and choking, his once sturdy robes now hanging in tatters. Faithless drew and let the arrow fly, calling on the respectable skills with the bow that she had learned from her father and former lover. The arrow struck the mage in the neck, and he collapsed to the ground without another sound. She continued firing at the remaining troops, who also staggered around in agony and confusion, offering no threat or resistance as she peppered them with arrows. When the last man lay dead, she set her bow down and examined her handiwork.
Faithless counted a total of nineteen bodies, though some of them, those closest the the incendiary traps when they went off, were so badly dismembered and scattered that she wasn't sure if she was over or underestimating the final count. A dark chill of exhilaration quaked through her, and she could not suppress a whoop of glee as she left the cover of the stone tree and skidded down the rock face to get a closer look. She wanted to see their faces up close, to savor their death-masks and further desecrate their corpses.
A respectable start. The Voice of Terrible Purpose mused. A successful execution with fair amount of death. At least you didn't manage to fuck anything up.
What?! Faithless was getting ready to smash the remainder of one of the Luskan's half ruined skull. Respectable? That's all you have to say? Look at these shitrags! They're beyond dead! I think I've done more than a "fair" job of it. I've wasted the ratfucks good!
That you did. But it is not enough simply to lay waste to your enemy. Anyone can do that. No, you will not realize your true purpose, your reason for existing, until you have truly become it.
Faithless snorted. Whatever. She turned her attention back to the dead around her, refusing to let the somber, passionless Voice spoil the moment. She wished bitterly that the ranger could have been brought back from pseudo oblivion if only for a moment, so she could show him what she had done. It would have brought a smile to his face, a face that seldom formed anything beyond a smirk or suspicious glare.
So absorbed was she in the carnage that she was more surprised than hurt when a sudden blast of magical force knocked her from her feet and sent her flying into the rock face. She had not even fully started to stand when a sudden rain of crossbow bolts and arrows rained down around her, striking rock and corpse alike. One arrow punched cleanly through her shoulder, while a bolt struck her thigh, sending blasts of blinding pain through her body as she collapsed on one knee. She stifled a shriek of pain as she rolled away from the rock face, frantically looking around for some form of cover. The same bend, however that had trapped her victims and made their slaughter easier to execute also gave her no place to run. It was then that she noticed that the sun's position was different, causing one of the stone trees above to cast an elongated shadow through the narrow gully. Despite the excruciating pain, her reflexes took over, and she rolled into the shadow, pulling it about her like a cloak and vanishing from view just as another rain of projectiles battered the place where she once was.
She heard a loud curse and looked towards the direction from where the assault came, and swore at herself under her breath for her careless stupidity. Another group of Luskans, most likely the "others" that the scout had told her about, had shown up not long after the first wave, and from what she could see, this group was much larger. She had gambled on the premise that if other patrols were going to join the first two, they would do so later, giving her plenty of time to re-stage another ambush and dispose of the victims of the first. Now she saw her error, and realized it would cost her dearly.
She remained frozen as more Luskans cautiously advanced into the bend, their weapons unsheathed. She was cornered, she knew, and began to wonder how long before she was discovered. She remembered she had been struck first by a magic spell, which meant they had another mage with them. Faithless cursed herself again through gritted teeth Well, they ain't taking me alive. They may find me and kill me, but I will take as many with me to Wall of the Faithless as I can.
You will do no such thing! Terrible Purpose rebuked her. You will not give up, not after you have come so close! You stand, on the threshold of the crusade, ready to sheathe your sword before it has even tasted blood?
Faithless wanted to laugh at the Voice, but was cut off by a sudden rush of pure energy through her spine. A metallic chiming filled every crevice of her mind and soul, resonating continually as it became louder. Before she could even think about it, her hand reached back and silently drew the Sword of Gith. The sword's tip had barely cleared her shoulder when suddenly, the blade burst to life in her hand. The force of the sword burst threw every part of her whole being, binding every part of her being to it as wave after wave of raw power show through her. The pain of bolt and arrow washed further away from her awareness as the whole of her mind, her soul, and her very existence merged in perfect unity with the blade.
The Voice of Terrible Purpose grew distant, but its crystalline clarity remained undiminished. Now you awaken to your purpose. See that it is carried out.
Faithless focused her attention back on the Luskans, who had called their mage to the front, no doubt to cast a spell to reveal her position. She felt no fear, no anticipation, only the desire that the mage should cast the spell successfully and purge the shadow briefly. She moved through the shadow undetected, positioning herself for maximum effect. The mage pulled something from his pouch and began chanting. As his casting came to a finish, the bend was washed in a wave of arcane light, and the shadows vaporized, leaving faithless fully exposed the eyes of all.
The Sword of Gith fully awoke. The smooth, silken silver of the blade shifted, and became liquid, looking more like an argent river running through a rent in reality than a blade. A flash of sunlight reflected off its unearthly surface as Faithless raised to strike. The small, enclosed bend filled with a painful blue light, and as she brought the sword down on its first victim, the world around and within her were consumed by in the painful, azure radiance.
As sunset bled a carnelian glow into the gully, a cold wind began to whisper down from the Crags, replacing the deathly silence that had filled it since the afternoon. One could have been forgiven had they mistook the scene as a glimpse to a time before time began, if they did not look closer at a particular bend in the road, where a dark, reddish shadow would draw the eye and display the remains of what had been an orgy of murder hours before.
It was in this reddish shadow that Faithless lifted her head and began to stir, looking around at the scene before her, which resembled more a deep layer of the Abyss than it did the rocky foothills of a small mountain range. The earth and rock were painted red, with chunks of what might have once been living people splashed or stuck at various intervals. Blood was starting to coagulate on the ground, forming gelatinous scarlet pools in random patterns. Unidentifiable gore littered the road, and she struggled hard to find anything that resembled a humanoid body.
She looked down at her own body, and found it covered in blood and pieces of flesh. The smell of blood, bile, and entrails was overwhelming, but she breathed it in like sweet, costly incense. . A dark corner of her soul, perhaps the part of her that held the tanari'i within, howled in exhalation and triumph. She lifted the Sword of Gith, which lay quietly in her left hand, and held it up to see her reflection. Her face was splattered in wet, red streaks that occasionally showed the pale flesh beneath. She took her hand, which was completely soaked in blood, and rubbed her face until it was a singular, violent shade of red. Only her eyes, glittering with a fevered, mad light, broke the scarlet uniformity.
For the first time in her life, Faithless resembled something that had just crawled out of the blackest pits of the Abyss, rather than a human descendant of someone sired by such a beast. The thought neither excited nor repelled her as she savored every sight, smell, and sensation brought forth by the carnage before her. A pulse of all-consuming ecstasy engulfed her entire person, and inside, shrieking howl of pleasure and pain cut through it all like a knife.
I've wielded the sword before, fully restored, yet this has never happened, she thought flatly. What is this?
This, shard bearer, the Voice of Terrible Purpose stated, matter-of-factly, is your terrible purpose. The sword awoke only when your crusade did. Only for Gith herself, has it done this before, and when she held it, the planes themselves quaked in her path. Akachi and Ammon Jerro never experienced the fully awakened blade, for they had no purpose of their own. Akachi wielded it in service to his master, while Jerro saw it as little more than a means to an end. But for Gith, and ultimately, you, the sword is so much more, and it knows this, because it was for terrible purpose that this blade was forged.
Faithless stood up, barely understanding what the Voice had said, yet its words rang with some vague, alien truth. The only thing she knew for certain is that once she drew the blade to kill the Luskans, the barrier between sword and wielder vanished, and the two became something else entirely. The evidence lay at her feet and splattered around her. She hadn't just killed the Luskan patrols. She had unmade them.
The sense of ecstasy waned, and Faithless was left with hard, numb feeling within. Without another glance around, she began walking away from the site of the slaughter and towards the mouth of the gully, her boots squishing as she stepped through the carnage. The sword had shared some of its powers of restoration, healing the wounds from bolt and arrow, and she moved with only a hint of stiffness. By morning, she suspected that would be gone as well. For now, she accepted it blandly, her needs focusing more towards finding a source of water so she could wash all the blood off and then get a little bit of rest. Tomorrow, she would resume her crusade anew.
Yes...The Voice of Terrible Purpose whispered with a touch of approval. The Crusade. Today Luskan, tomorrow...existence itself.
Faithless did not even nod her agreement as she vanished once more into the shadows.