Pelerin
11-30-2007, 08:29 AM
((no message in this one really... and it's shorter than HTSaL! Enjoy.))
Loam. Soil. Dirt. The old familiar smell, a dear friend from the Fenris of my youth. A deep, engulfing scent that worms its way into the deepest recesses of your nose and digs its metaphorical heels in. You never forget that rich aroma; that dank, heavy thing that can turn sour the stomach and convince the lungs you’re swimming in viscous sludge. Some will even tell you there’s a taste to it… as if the very muck and peat had not only developed a malicious nature, but had come to opinion that you would make for a fine subject in the art of leisurely torture. Could that be? Was it possible that these Glades are the tomb of a long-forgotten and dark prescience? Or is it grander still? Is this fair Lady Azeroth, come to seek her revenge for the plowing of her fields and clearing of her forests?
These thoughts swirled through my head whilst dense soil wafted into my nostrils, threatening to overcome my already-strained nerves and nearly-broken body.
How did I end up here… fearful and face-down in a quagmire, lungs screaming for air, while desperately fighting the natural impulse to gather my feet and run from this accursed wood? What compels someone to forge a path into the unknown wilderness, forsaking personal safety?
A moment of clarity at that internal question!
Love.
A word, yes. But the idea, a beacon of lucidity in my foggy mind.
Despairing thoughts again attempt to overwhelm me, having recovered from the brilliant flash a moment ago. Thoughts of injury… of teeth and claw… of poison and ichors… and of that nameless and horrid shape whose very presence drove me to this uncomfortable place. Thoughts of failure… of the cheerless faces of my family, long since gone and anxiously waiting… of solemn schoolmates, not long known, who would passively grieve… and of that one special girl, a beautiful and marvelous soul that bonded to me in my hour of self-doubt and need. These thoughts and more, darker visions swirling; a black beast that lurks just under the skin, threatening to engulf me in the very Shadow I seek to dispel.
Again, that flash!
Love.
The softest whisper escapes my lips:
“Fortitude.”
A trickle of energy blooms in my mind. It is fire. It is Light.
It roars down my quaking spine, obliterating the weariness of muscles and weak-willed creep that had descended on my bones.
It blasts through every fiber of my being. It is fire. It is Light.
I feel it now in my fingertips, in my toes. That old, deathly, loamy familiarity is gone, replaced by the crisp bite the air takes just before Hallow’s End.
My mind is clear, as is my purpose. It is fire. It is Light.
Hands flex into soft ground and, finding purchase, provide me base to rise from. I lift slightly, testing my strength. It is a foolish question of myself… and of my faith. I am light as a Dragonhawk hatchling’s feather. Holy love and the Light has seen to that. I push myself to a crouched position and take in my surroundings, hearing my attacker and allowing recent memory to flood my brain: an old cottage, a dark bridge, and an unfamiliar mound of decrepit cloth strewn upon the cobbled pathway leading to Brill.
----------
At first, I mistake it for a mangled pack… perhaps one of those cheap, linen bags that young Forsaken always seem to have in surplus had fallen apart on and been discarded by a fellow traveler. I am a mere few steps from the mess, having resolved to do my part in restoring the beauty of this place, when I hear strained breathing. I stop, and listen.
The hand moved! Ever-so-slightly, but there nonetheless.
I creep slightly forward, mustering myself, before standing in the most neutral stance possible and saying “Hail, traveler! Do you require assistance?”
A ragged Forsaken face turns to me and barely utters “Heeeee….eeeelllppp”.
Old teachings spring to mind, the words and ideals of a kindly old human whose teachings were always centered around one idea: love.
Forgoing any danger, I rush to her side, tossing down my worn silk rucksack and producing a flagon of conjured water I had received from a kindly mage in Deathknell. I touch the leather jerkin to her teeth, having no lips to aim for, and give her a faint trickle of the refreshing beverage. A hint of focus returns to her eyes, the yellow-tinged iris nearly-imperceptivity brightening. I remove the canteen from her mouth, noticing the slightest hint of an undead’s smile, a facial gesture lost on most other races because the expression has a subtle quality due to the physical limitations of a rotting jawbone.
With a deep inhalation, she began to speak:
“I am roaming traveler… like yourself. I was… set upon… by… agents of the foul Scourge. Wretched… beasts. I was… wounded… and left… for dead.”
A convulsion ripped through her body; the sound of withered bones grinding and leathery flesh ripping filled the air. I held her tight, silently praying to the Light for relief, for her condition was beyond my ability to heal. After what seemed like ages, but was actually a few moments, she stilled. As I began to recite a verse taught to me by my mentor, she resumed speaking; her now gravely voice silenced me instantly.
“Go toward… Agaaaa… mand… Mills… near… Stilllll…wattteerr… Lake. Theeerrreee… young… priest. Theeeerrrreee… It…. waits.” she croaked. Her eyes closed in the deepest pain, her small frame gave one last, great heave, and she lay still.
Tears sprang for the briefest moment and were quickly wiped away as burning resolution filled my eyes. I had to avenge this woman… and further avenge my family. Grim thoughts of celestial retribution whirled, gathering hatred from the hidden and sinister underbelly of my mind.
“No!” I said in a hushed shout, jarring myself from those dark visions.
Purity is divine. Holy is the Light.
Casting off blood lust for the Scourge, I stood, lifted the woman, and carried her to the northern side of the road. I gently laid her down and covered her face with a worn hide cloak I had picked up off the body of a shambling undead. With a rusted spade, I dug a shallow grave for the crone. Once buried, I said a few silent words of prayer, and was on my way toward the horror that awaited me near the body of water mentioned in her dying breath.
The late night was pitch black, though I didn’t dare produce the lesser wand I carried from my belt… the forest was far from silent, and sporadic gut-wrenching moans and too-frequent ear-piercing screams compelled me to retain what little cover the darkness afforded. I had gone a few hundred paces when my boots began squelching noisily in boggy soil; I must’ve neared the Stillwater Lake spoken of by the old Forsaken. I steeled myself… nay, mithriled myself… for the woods around me had gone eerily silent. This was the place.
I stood perfectly still, no more limber than the rotting trees or prickle bushes all around, and listened. I’ve often found that closing your eyes helps in times of aural need, but I didn’t dare risk such a thing while so deep in woods that were crawling with undead. Instead, I squinted... hoping to force sight into the inky blackness surrounding me. Minutes inched by; far in the distance I heard the bell tower of Brill faintly toll the late hour.
When first seeing the pale glow floating toward me, I thought it was a trick… either my eyes created a being out of vivid imagination or perhaps the a few strands of moonlight pierced the leafy canopy above…
No. Not a trick…
It was a figure unlike any I’d ever seen. A vision of exquisite beauty and deepest, unexplained horror. I was entranced by this being of wisp, yet an inner voice cried out in revulsion. My mind raced to name such a fiend, dusty tomes of yore spilling their contents anew from the long-forgotten recesses of my childhood learning.
Nothing…
What is it… who is she?
My eyes were fixed upon her, couldn’t have strayed if I’d so desired.
I noticed the long, slender ears first... more perfect ones I had only seen on statues… her skin was the palest blue… kaldorei? Here!?
No, that didn’t make sense. Darnassus is a lifetime away.
Besides, those infernal Star Children don’t have the ability of one such as this, to levitate slightly off the ground with apparent ease… not to mention the glaring difference in eye color; the ghoulish vision before me had eyes of most brilliant, yet sickening yellow.
No, this stunning being was something else…
She had a shapely-cut dress of lilac and gold. The fabric seemed nearly ethereal, flowing around her as water would a rock in a gentle stream. Her hair, too, had this otherworldly quality…
That’s it! So obvious…
This ghostly creature was a banshee; mistresses of temptation, these foul beasts were elven kindred once, their souls resurrected through fel magics to serve the will of dark forces in an ancient war.
I knew then what had happened to the Forsaken crone collapsed near Cold Hearth Manor: this cursed abhorrence had fallen upon her in the wilderness and taken the last scrap of vivacity… unlife?... from someone who had already once faced the sting of life’s ebbing. A loathsome act, from a repugnant being.
“The last act” I muttered, as I drew my wand silently from my belt. I looked down at that stick for a moment, considering its deadly efficiency, and replaced it in its holster. No, a quick death is not enough… too merciful. I began to channel the darker side of the power granted me by the Light, a necessary evil for combating the more egregious evils of the world. A word formed on my lips:
“Pain.”
At once, a flash of indigo spikes radiated from the head of the lost soul before me. She reeled backward for a split second, then turned a terrible mask of hatred upon me. Her mouth, punctuated with curvaceous lips, filled with Sunstrider daggers, opened as she raced toward me… and a horrendous wail, born of countless ages of unliving torment, crashed upon my ears in horrifying cacophony.
I found myself frozen to the spot, unable to move, to defend myself, as wraithlike hands and slashing talons came for me. The banshee reared back and struck me in the chest with strength I hadn’t before thought to attribute to phantoms, and sent me flying back into moldy, rotten, once-proud tree. Splinters of stinking timber exploded all around as the wind was forced from my body. As I started to fall, I feebly reached for a fractured branch, only to find it wither beneath my fingers. I landed with a painful jolt, collapsing face-first in muck at the foot of the wooden carnage. Every sense was inundated with excruciating pain… especially my sense of pride in the Light.
My mind began to race as I slipped toward unconsciousness; insane randomness seems to fill my being. I abstractly find myself concentrating on the ground beneath me… of the heady aroma I associate with a home long-gone… of the dirty taste in my mouth (was that over-powering smell, or were my lips parted and allowing the oozing mud to creep in?)… of the suspicious ground, was it thinking?... of ancient rumors about Old Gods and resting places… of the very world itself being alive and filled with vengeance… of my lungs burning for air, unable to breathe the ooze offered…
Of love!
That clear and noble beacon.
That brilliant light of the Light.
That defining purpose of my class.
Doubt creeps in… and for a few brief moments I contemplate succumbing to the pain and allowing the fel demon to finish the job she’d started. The deep-seeded inner hatred is loosed from its prison in these times of inner weakness, and the Shadow beckons for my surrender.
The flash returns and a barely audible word somehow escapes my lips, casting away all doubt, all fear, all darkness. It is an inner fire, a fortitude, known only to followers of the Light’s higher calling.
I slip my hands under my torso, fingers digging into the soft loam. The ease with which I push myself up into a crouch defies any pain I should feel. I can just barely hear the hushed rustle of the phantasm growing closer as I recall and reassert my purpose for coming to this damnable place. I stand, revealing myself to the unholy monster, and defiantly, proudly yell:
“FORTITUDE!”
The ghoul looses a shriek at this, at the mere word of the Light, as I am briefly bathed in holy radiance. She charges with reckless abandon; I draw my wand, a lesser strand of wood, and summon and hurl a violet ball of arcane energy toward the oncoming fiend. Pain… or perhaps something as close to it as an undead wretch can feel… crosses the banshee’s face as the magical attack splashes into her. At this, I give a silent, perhaps premature, and certainly unhallowed inner cry of victory. I make a quick mental note of my folly and the penance required of my order for such an offense, then block out all thoughts and allow the Light to guide my actions as the creature closes to within arm’s length.
The world seems to slow dowwwwnnnn…
A hand swipes, talons searching for flesh… but is easily dodged with a backward hop.
A flash of enchanted silver slips easily into her ethereal stomach.
Gnashing teeth seek a soft neck, hoping for a geyser of warm, life-giving blood… but a quick sidestep parries the assault.
Another dagger slash, this time across the arm of the vile thing.
Both limbs plunge lift then downward, a powerful deathblow strike… but before contact can be made, an unazerothly voice rises from deep within me…
“Shield.”
I am surrounded by brilliance; it is a bubble of righteous protection. The hands of the lost soul seem to halt in mid-air, an almost comical event, crashing into an invisible barrier and sending a shower of sparks shooting around me. My amazement is only surpassed by the look on the face of the shocked horror looming before me.
That instant of hesitation is more than enough time…
I concentrate and call forth but a fraction of the power granted by the Light, lashing out at the ghoul with a swift and furious blow…
A blinding sickle lacerates my foe, crossing her in a flattened arc, from wispy locks of hair to the opposite shoulder…
She cries out, freeing a sound that chills me to the bone…
And she is no more. Her sickly glow exterminates, and all that remains are a tattered few scraps of cloth and a rusted, grimy pair of bracers.
It is done.
I collapse to my knees, breathing heavily; never before have I been more thankful to be alive. I sit there, trying to mentally record the events and devise what lesson the Light has taught me this early morning.
Before I lose myself completely to inner thoughts, I hear a faint moaning coming from deeper in the forest and curse myself for forgetting my surroundings. The shambling monstrosities lurk all around! I find my pack in the splintered timber of the broken tree; I take a second to place a hand upon the remains and say a muted prayer of thanks for my fall having been broken… while I am no worshipper of Elune or practitioner of the Druidic lifestyle, I have a fair appreciation of nature and my surroundings.
I flip open the backpack and root through the items inside: tough hunks of bread, a few lesser healing potion vials, assorted items from my questing that’s been requested by local townsfolk… there it is! I pull out the palm-sized piece of rock I’ve been deeply grateful to have more times than I can recall, and sling the re-closed pack over my shoulder. I activate the hearthstone and swirling green energies play across my hands. My head begins to swim over the imminent creature comforts… a warm fire, a hearty…
The nauseating feeling of translocation lasts only a moment, not even a long enough to reflect on the twisting nether all-around…
...meal, and a soft, welcoming bed.
Innkeeper Renee, proprietor of the Gallow’s End Tavern, bids me a boisterous and pleasing welcome to her establishment. Or as lively and friendly-sounding as a Forsaken can. But her meaning is clear:
I am safe and among friends… and should feel free to spend a few silver.
Loam. Soil. Dirt. The old familiar smell, a dear friend from the Fenris of my youth. A deep, engulfing scent that worms its way into the deepest recesses of your nose and digs its metaphorical heels in. You never forget that rich aroma; that dank, heavy thing that can turn sour the stomach and convince the lungs you’re swimming in viscous sludge. Some will even tell you there’s a taste to it… as if the very muck and peat had not only developed a malicious nature, but had come to opinion that you would make for a fine subject in the art of leisurely torture. Could that be? Was it possible that these Glades are the tomb of a long-forgotten and dark prescience? Or is it grander still? Is this fair Lady Azeroth, come to seek her revenge for the plowing of her fields and clearing of her forests?
These thoughts swirled through my head whilst dense soil wafted into my nostrils, threatening to overcome my already-strained nerves and nearly-broken body.
How did I end up here… fearful and face-down in a quagmire, lungs screaming for air, while desperately fighting the natural impulse to gather my feet and run from this accursed wood? What compels someone to forge a path into the unknown wilderness, forsaking personal safety?
A moment of clarity at that internal question!
Love.
A word, yes. But the idea, a beacon of lucidity in my foggy mind.
Despairing thoughts again attempt to overwhelm me, having recovered from the brilliant flash a moment ago. Thoughts of injury… of teeth and claw… of poison and ichors… and of that nameless and horrid shape whose very presence drove me to this uncomfortable place. Thoughts of failure… of the cheerless faces of my family, long since gone and anxiously waiting… of solemn schoolmates, not long known, who would passively grieve… and of that one special girl, a beautiful and marvelous soul that bonded to me in my hour of self-doubt and need. These thoughts and more, darker visions swirling; a black beast that lurks just under the skin, threatening to engulf me in the very Shadow I seek to dispel.
Again, that flash!
Love.
The softest whisper escapes my lips:
“Fortitude.”
A trickle of energy blooms in my mind. It is fire. It is Light.
It roars down my quaking spine, obliterating the weariness of muscles and weak-willed creep that had descended on my bones.
It blasts through every fiber of my being. It is fire. It is Light.
I feel it now in my fingertips, in my toes. That old, deathly, loamy familiarity is gone, replaced by the crisp bite the air takes just before Hallow’s End.
My mind is clear, as is my purpose. It is fire. It is Light.
Hands flex into soft ground and, finding purchase, provide me base to rise from. I lift slightly, testing my strength. It is a foolish question of myself… and of my faith. I am light as a Dragonhawk hatchling’s feather. Holy love and the Light has seen to that. I push myself to a crouched position and take in my surroundings, hearing my attacker and allowing recent memory to flood my brain: an old cottage, a dark bridge, and an unfamiliar mound of decrepit cloth strewn upon the cobbled pathway leading to Brill.
----------
At first, I mistake it for a mangled pack… perhaps one of those cheap, linen bags that young Forsaken always seem to have in surplus had fallen apart on and been discarded by a fellow traveler. I am a mere few steps from the mess, having resolved to do my part in restoring the beauty of this place, when I hear strained breathing. I stop, and listen.
The hand moved! Ever-so-slightly, but there nonetheless.
I creep slightly forward, mustering myself, before standing in the most neutral stance possible and saying “Hail, traveler! Do you require assistance?”
A ragged Forsaken face turns to me and barely utters “Heeeee….eeeelllppp”.
Old teachings spring to mind, the words and ideals of a kindly old human whose teachings were always centered around one idea: love.
Forgoing any danger, I rush to her side, tossing down my worn silk rucksack and producing a flagon of conjured water I had received from a kindly mage in Deathknell. I touch the leather jerkin to her teeth, having no lips to aim for, and give her a faint trickle of the refreshing beverage. A hint of focus returns to her eyes, the yellow-tinged iris nearly-imperceptivity brightening. I remove the canteen from her mouth, noticing the slightest hint of an undead’s smile, a facial gesture lost on most other races because the expression has a subtle quality due to the physical limitations of a rotting jawbone.
With a deep inhalation, she began to speak:
“I am roaming traveler… like yourself. I was… set upon… by… agents of the foul Scourge. Wretched… beasts. I was… wounded… and left… for dead.”
A convulsion ripped through her body; the sound of withered bones grinding and leathery flesh ripping filled the air. I held her tight, silently praying to the Light for relief, for her condition was beyond my ability to heal. After what seemed like ages, but was actually a few moments, she stilled. As I began to recite a verse taught to me by my mentor, she resumed speaking; her now gravely voice silenced me instantly.
“Go toward… Agaaaa… mand… Mills… near… Stilllll…wattteerr… Lake. Theeerrreee… young… priest. Theeeerrrreee… It…. waits.” she croaked. Her eyes closed in the deepest pain, her small frame gave one last, great heave, and she lay still.
Tears sprang for the briefest moment and were quickly wiped away as burning resolution filled my eyes. I had to avenge this woman… and further avenge my family. Grim thoughts of celestial retribution whirled, gathering hatred from the hidden and sinister underbelly of my mind.
“No!” I said in a hushed shout, jarring myself from those dark visions.
Purity is divine. Holy is the Light.
Casting off blood lust for the Scourge, I stood, lifted the woman, and carried her to the northern side of the road. I gently laid her down and covered her face with a worn hide cloak I had picked up off the body of a shambling undead. With a rusted spade, I dug a shallow grave for the crone. Once buried, I said a few silent words of prayer, and was on my way toward the horror that awaited me near the body of water mentioned in her dying breath.
The late night was pitch black, though I didn’t dare produce the lesser wand I carried from my belt… the forest was far from silent, and sporadic gut-wrenching moans and too-frequent ear-piercing screams compelled me to retain what little cover the darkness afforded. I had gone a few hundred paces when my boots began squelching noisily in boggy soil; I must’ve neared the Stillwater Lake spoken of by the old Forsaken. I steeled myself… nay, mithriled myself… for the woods around me had gone eerily silent. This was the place.
I stood perfectly still, no more limber than the rotting trees or prickle bushes all around, and listened. I’ve often found that closing your eyes helps in times of aural need, but I didn’t dare risk such a thing while so deep in woods that were crawling with undead. Instead, I squinted... hoping to force sight into the inky blackness surrounding me. Minutes inched by; far in the distance I heard the bell tower of Brill faintly toll the late hour.
When first seeing the pale glow floating toward me, I thought it was a trick… either my eyes created a being out of vivid imagination or perhaps the a few strands of moonlight pierced the leafy canopy above…
No. Not a trick…
It was a figure unlike any I’d ever seen. A vision of exquisite beauty and deepest, unexplained horror. I was entranced by this being of wisp, yet an inner voice cried out in revulsion. My mind raced to name such a fiend, dusty tomes of yore spilling their contents anew from the long-forgotten recesses of my childhood learning.
Nothing…
What is it… who is she?
My eyes were fixed upon her, couldn’t have strayed if I’d so desired.
I noticed the long, slender ears first... more perfect ones I had only seen on statues… her skin was the palest blue… kaldorei? Here!?
No, that didn’t make sense. Darnassus is a lifetime away.
Besides, those infernal Star Children don’t have the ability of one such as this, to levitate slightly off the ground with apparent ease… not to mention the glaring difference in eye color; the ghoulish vision before me had eyes of most brilliant, yet sickening yellow.
No, this stunning being was something else…
She had a shapely-cut dress of lilac and gold. The fabric seemed nearly ethereal, flowing around her as water would a rock in a gentle stream. Her hair, too, had this otherworldly quality…
That’s it! So obvious…
This ghostly creature was a banshee; mistresses of temptation, these foul beasts were elven kindred once, their souls resurrected through fel magics to serve the will of dark forces in an ancient war.
I knew then what had happened to the Forsaken crone collapsed near Cold Hearth Manor: this cursed abhorrence had fallen upon her in the wilderness and taken the last scrap of vivacity… unlife?... from someone who had already once faced the sting of life’s ebbing. A loathsome act, from a repugnant being.
“The last act” I muttered, as I drew my wand silently from my belt. I looked down at that stick for a moment, considering its deadly efficiency, and replaced it in its holster. No, a quick death is not enough… too merciful. I began to channel the darker side of the power granted me by the Light, a necessary evil for combating the more egregious evils of the world. A word formed on my lips:
“Pain.”
At once, a flash of indigo spikes radiated from the head of the lost soul before me. She reeled backward for a split second, then turned a terrible mask of hatred upon me. Her mouth, punctuated with curvaceous lips, filled with Sunstrider daggers, opened as she raced toward me… and a horrendous wail, born of countless ages of unliving torment, crashed upon my ears in horrifying cacophony.
I found myself frozen to the spot, unable to move, to defend myself, as wraithlike hands and slashing talons came for me. The banshee reared back and struck me in the chest with strength I hadn’t before thought to attribute to phantoms, and sent me flying back into moldy, rotten, once-proud tree. Splinters of stinking timber exploded all around as the wind was forced from my body. As I started to fall, I feebly reached for a fractured branch, only to find it wither beneath my fingers. I landed with a painful jolt, collapsing face-first in muck at the foot of the wooden carnage. Every sense was inundated with excruciating pain… especially my sense of pride in the Light.
My mind began to race as I slipped toward unconsciousness; insane randomness seems to fill my being. I abstractly find myself concentrating on the ground beneath me… of the heady aroma I associate with a home long-gone… of the dirty taste in my mouth (was that over-powering smell, or were my lips parted and allowing the oozing mud to creep in?)… of the suspicious ground, was it thinking?... of ancient rumors about Old Gods and resting places… of the very world itself being alive and filled with vengeance… of my lungs burning for air, unable to breathe the ooze offered…
Of love!
That clear and noble beacon.
That brilliant light of the Light.
That defining purpose of my class.
Doubt creeps in… and for a few brief moments I contemplate succumbing to the pain and allowing the fel demon to finish the job she’d started. The deep-seeded inner hatred is loosed from its prison in these times of inner weakness, and the Shadow beckons for my surrender.
The flash returns and a barely audible word somehow escapes my lips, casting away all doubt, all fear, all darkness. It is an inner fire, a fortitude, known only to followers of the Light’s higher calling.
I slip my hands under my torso, fingers digging into the soft loam. The ease with which I push myself up into a crouch defies any pain I should feel. I can just barely hear the hushed rustle of the phantasm growing closer as I recall and reassert my purpose for coming to this damnable place. I stand, revealing myself to the unholy monster, and defiantly, proudly yell:
“FORTITUDE!”
The ghoul looses a shriek at this, at the mere word of the Light, as I am briefly bathed in holy radiance. She charges with reckless abandon; I draw my wand, a lesser strand of wood, and summon and hurl a violet ball of arcane energy toward the oncoming fiend. Pain… or perhaps something as close to it as an undead wretch can feel… crosses the banshee’s face as the magical attack splashes into her. At this, I give a silent, perhaps premature, and certainly unhallowed inner cry of victory. I make a quick mental note of my folly and the penance required of my order for such an offense, then block out all thoughts and allow the Light to guide my actions as the creature closes to within arm’s length.
The world seems to slow dowwwwnnnn…
A hand swipes, talons searching for flesh… but is easily dodged with a backward hop.
A flash of enchanted silver slips easily into her ethereal stomach.
Gnashing teeth seek a soft neck, hoping for a geyser of warm, life-giving blood… but a quick sidestep parries the assault.
Another dagger slash, this time across the arm of the vile thing.
Both limbs plunge lift then downward, a powerful deathblow strike… but before contact can be made, an unazerothly voice rises from deep within me…
“Shield.”
I am surrounded by brilliance; it is a bubble of righteous protection. The hands of the lost soul seem to halt in mid-air, an almost comical event, crashing into an invisible barrier and sending a shower of sparks shooting around me. My amazement is only surpassed by the look on the face of the shocked horror looming before me.
That instant of hesitation is more than enough time…
I concentrate and call forth but a fraction of the power granted by the Light, lashing out at the ghoul with a swift and furious blow…
A blinding sickle lacerates my foe, crossing her in a flattened arc, from wispy locks of hair to the opposite shoulder…
She cries out, freeing a sound that chills me to the bone…
And she is no more. Her sickly glow exterminates, and all that remains are a tattered few scraps of cloth and a rusted, grimy pair of bracers.
It is done.
I collapse to my knees, breathing heavily; never before have I been more thankful to be alive. I sit there, trying to mentally record the events and devise what lesson the Light has taught me this early morning.
Before I lose myself completely to inner thoughts, I hear a faint moaning coming from deeper in the forest and curse myself for forgetting my surroundings. The shambling monstrosities lurk all around! I find my pack in the splintered timber of the broken tree; I take a second to place a hand upon the remains and say a muted prayer of thanks for my fall having been broken… while I am no worshipper of Elune or practitioner of the Druidic lifestyle, I have a fair appreciation of nature and my surroundings.
I flip open the backpack and root through the items inside: tough hunks of bread, a few lesser healing potion vials, assorted items from my questing that’s been requested by local townsfolk… there it is! I pull out the palm-sized piece of rock I’ve been deeply grateful to have more times than I can recall, and sling the re-closed pack over my shoulder. I activate the hearthstone and swirling green energies play across my hands. My head begins to swim over the imminent creature comforts… a warm fire, a hearty…
The nauseating feeling of translocation lasts only a moment, not even a long enough to reflect on the twisting nether all-around…
...meal, and a soft, welcoming bed.
Innkeeper Renee, proprietor of the Gallow’s End Tavern, bids me a boisterous and pleasing welcome to her establishment. Or as lively and friendly-sounding as a Forsaken can. But her meaning is clear:
I am safe and among friends… and should feel free to spend a few silver.