In the morning before departing from the camp where the barghest battle occurred, Rask does his usual set of sword exercises, including the new flat-of-the-blade less lethal techniques. Rask starts with a plain longsword, and before he can do anything else, he tosses the plain longsword into the woods with abandon and starts his exercises with the Black Blade.
Rask follows Alexis direction and keeps his distance from Drinos as much as possible throughout the journey. When not marching on the opposite side of the wagon from Drinos, Rask keeps himself busy with camp chores, helping Gus and Ca’armine hunt and gather when needed, and tending to the group’s horses. He prays with Ca’armine to Raiden whenever he can, and listens closely when anyone in the group talks about the gods.
Rask puts very little of his kit on the wagon most days. He typically wears his armor at all times as far as anyone notices. Those close to him can hear him singing Raiden-themed songs, sometimes to a marching cadence.
Rask stays up on watch for much of most nights. Over the first week or so he pushes his sleep schedule to the point of exhaustion and naps a bit in the cart one day before finally sleeping a bit each night.
Rask starts focusing on the last watch, early in the morning. He still sleeps for some portion of most nights, and avoids sleeping in the daytime again. Occasionally he sleeps thought most of the night.
In the wee hours of the morning, always after he is certain Drinos is sleeping, Rask removes and services his armor, and works through his full set of sword forms using the red blade, he does a set and then starts over, this time slightly modifying each strike to turn the blade just so to not do deadly damage. Somewhere near Earamos, he switches to carrying and using his black blade for these exercises, wrapping the red blade.
Rask still manages to make a point to be kind to Sally-Crow and he helps Gus train her as needed. Rask follows Gus’s lead and copies and reinforces and rules for tricks Gus works to train Sally on.
After a few days a routine develops, in the mornings, Rask trains with whomever will join him. After sword and bow practice, he swims with Red.
In afternoons Ca’armine prays to Raiden, Gus does Gus things, and Red and Alexis study.
Rask assists with camp chores in the afternoons and often continues to practice his sword forms, never using his Black Blade, and working diligently to advance with the flat of the blade and on pommel-strikes.
One afternoon, about five days into their stay on the banks of the Llanos River, Rask approaches before dinner as Ca’armine is concluding his afternoon prayer, he waits patiently for the right moment and then addresses the holy man,
“Brother, Can you teach me some prayers so that I might join you on occasion? I know a little from Service in the chapels at various Forts, but would like to learn more, and learn more stories of Raiden if you would be willing to share?”
Ca’armine wakes in his lean-to, it’s still pitch dark all around, the only sounds are the crickets, and his own fast breathing—the undead alligator-monster isn’t likely to leave his restless nightmares for some time to come. At least tonight, he was not inside the jaws.
Ca’armine rises, and ducks out from under his rude shelter. In a moment he can see occasional stars overhead. He makes his way in the dark, toward the bank of the river. Looks out over the water. A fish jumps, but otherwise the landscape is still.
The dream having faded, Ca’armine has a moment to take a deep breath and stretch his weary shoulders. The opportunity to sleep, and rest—sure, not in a bed, but not in the sewers again, either!—such luxury. Though he can’t get it out of his head that he and his friends were still vulnerable, in the background, at this moment the thought of danger fades. Here he stands, not carrying a weapon, or wearing any armor, for the first time in what seems like a long time.
The last days in the city seem far away now. Every corner they had turned, an enemy was waiting for them! His sense that there were no safe paths of travel had unfortunately proved correct. Thankfully, Alexis had reluctantly accepted that another trip to the Collegium, or any other destination including their hideout, would result in another battle. Seeing wisdom, that gift Raiden had given him. Not always, could he convince others to listen. His new Captain was beginning to heed his advice.
That thought gratifies Ca’armine, as he stares up into the night sky.
He feels a warm breeze at his back. Puzzled he turns—nothing is there—but when he turns back, there is a radiant figure in front of him.
“Raiden!” he whispers, dropping to his knees suddenly. A moment passes.
He looks up. The figure has disappeared.
The Presence, however, stays with him. He stands, feeling both strong and light in that moment. “Raiden, lord, thank you for blessing me with a vision of your form.” He looks up at the sky again, feeling the blessing surrounding him.
The next day, starting his morning routine, the memory is with him. The Presence felt very real, moreso than spending time with any human he had yet met. It had faded with the stars, but when he reaches for it now, the memory is strong.
On reflection later in the afternoon he realizes that the sensation of the Presence was essentially, the opposite of how he had felt about his faith when he met the heroes he now calls his team-mates, at Mavon’s castle. Then, he had been conflicted in his faith. The visage of Raiden was clear to him, but it was also artificial—the paintings he had seen at the Temple, for example. He had been avid for Raiden’s blessing, but “Raiden” had been a figure he had read about, heard about, learned about at church and from his Father’s catechism. He was terrified that he had made a dire mistake, leaving the Raidensblud and forsaking their ideas about what “Raiden” commanded; was that what Raiden wanted for him? He had felt that it was, but it was as if he had yet to complete that conversation with his deity.
Now, he feels, the conversation has happened and he is reassured. Raiden is not a figure, only; He is a Presence that accompanies Ca’armine now. When Ca’armine reaches out for the power to heal, Raiden is present and provides instantly, instinctively. He feels sure.
Ca’armine practices the sword forms, practices with his bow. He reflects on the martial nature of Raiden’s Presence. It is right to stay in training, right to keep one’s blade sharp. Raiden doesn’t choose war, War is chosen for him, to protect humanity—and so it is for Ca’armine. It is wrong to allow evil to flourish, or even establish a root. Evil chooses violence, oppresses the weak and helpless. To be strong for good, one must not shrink from that violence, lest Evil prevail. The swords whirl, as he trains. Today, he is not using the blades to kill. This is a good day, therefore.
Finishing his training for the day, he takes a dip in the river to rinse off, and takes out some rations for his mid-day meal. Prayer will occupy the majority of the rest of his day, seeking to understand the nature of Raiden’s plan for him and his place in the greater scheme. Over the meal however, he is thinking about the team with which he is now aligned, and his place within it.
He senses that the Southroni comrades are loathe to leave the city, and he feels for them. He was similarly conflicted when he left Aegir, to come find these heroes. Ca’armine advocated for the team to leave because of their safety, and the safety of the less puissant comrades with whom they had aligned themselves (Mavon first among them), but as he chews the hard tack into pieces small enough to swallow, he acknowledges a yearning inside him, to be doing something. Not just reacting to circumstances, or taking up small tasks to curry favor with people who might be able to point them in the right direction.
Wisdom in this moment, is in conflict he realizes. He wants to attack the Dark Hand, eliminate Bandesingh and in so doing, cripple the foe that has corrupted the Raidensblud and all of Aegir. But how to do that? Sitting there on the ground, looking at the river, he admits that he himself has no idea where to start. He is convinced that Bandesingh is in Aegir, not in Southron, but he has to admit he has no source for that information. In other words, leaving Southron is wise because it is better than the alternative, but having no sure direction to travel, he is still only reacting to circumstance.
So, it is wise to leave Southron… but is it wise to travel back to Aegir? He resolves to take this up with the team when next they meet. Maybe they will eat together at sunset.
As he starts his prayerful observance, this thought is still on his mind, and it occurs to him to ask Raiden for guidance in this moment. Show me the path, he prays, as he feels the suffusing warmth of his connection to his deity. Raiden, your presence is near to me and gives me comfort. Now I implore you… show me the path. Show me what you need me to see, so that I can serve you and protect humanity from the scourge now using your Name to oppress the weak. At first he doesn’t notice that he is engaging his magical energy in this prayer, but when he does sense it, he puts his heart into the request, using all of his focus to send this prayer to Raiden—Show me the path!!
In the dry part of the sewers, where the Crimson Calling has paused, and as Alexis starts to relax: Rask is on guard facing back the way the came when he quietly but clearly starts to speak to the leader.
“Alexis, you – all of us -” He looks around in the darkness, “Need to understand the Army and the Raidensblud.”
“The second group we fought was Raidensblud and probably some their soldiers, maybe mercenaries. They are, in theory, the King’s Guard, right? The sworn brothers at least, and serve the King Directly. In theory.”
Rask looks at Ca’armine briefly.
”Out in the world, the Sworn Brothers primarily act like officers do in the Armies. The Raidensblud have their own men at arms, most are not much better trained than a common foot soldier. And they hire mercenaries.”
Rask’s disdain for mercenaries is as evident as ever.
“In the field, the Kings Dogs work like that Blade did, leading a group of 4 to 10 men at arms, archers, crossbowmen and sometimes a specialist or two, trackers, trap-breakers etc.”
“The Raidensblud, all of them and their soldiers, are probably about the size of the First army, but they… operate in the King’s Interest… anyhow…”
He looks to where he thinks Ca’armine is again.
“They are separate from the armies, but do work together on occasion. Sometimes the lead groups of soldiers, sometimes the really high ranking ones “advise” commanding officers in the Army.
In addition to one leading a group of men at arms, they travel in pairs, or in small groups, and some times lead larger forces in pairs or small groups, The army in general doesn’t usually work that way, but some of the small companies, like mine, do.
“There is a bit of a rivalry between the Armies, especially units like the one I was in, and the Raidensblud. There are a lot of high born in the Raidensblud, and even the ones that aren’t… often act like their shit doesn’t stink.”
“My unit, Captain Thorne Blackwood’s unit really, Company A, Fourth Battalion of the Second Army’s 9th-Infantry, numbers about 100, mostly probably about half soldiers, a quarter scouts and a quarter specialists and leadership. I was a sergeant, so lower level leadership. I did what that Blade was doing, led a group of soldiers though, no mercenaries.”
“So, not exactly what Darius was doing, but.. still, I led a group of solders and a specialist or two. Most often I was second in command, under a lieutenant, and had a small group that was the ‘distaff claw of the pincer,” or the ‘bolt of the ballista.”
Rask smiles ruefully recalling a some of the ambush maneuvers he used to drill with Lt. Nightshade.
“Sometimes there are two or three of us of rank, Sergeants, a Lieutenant and maybe a promising corporal or two, in a small hard-strike team, or surveillance team. I was less on the surveillance teams.”
“The battalion had 5 fighting companies, most of them larger than 100, not all of them as well trained as ours, and but the Fourth is a proud fighting battalion, even the support battalion had some tough cooks and paper-pushers. The 9th Infantry.. has maybe 5 battalions? The Second Army doesn’t really have 9 Infantries, really, the 9th is just the division that the Infantry is in. I’m honestly not sure how many Army’s there are, at least three, I think?”
“I have no idea how many battalions… or Army’s Aedelfred has in Sutheron, nor how many Raidensblud are here, but I doubt more than Company A is here with Cedric and Maris, it may not even be the whole Company, though, just survivors that worked with me closely enough to recognize me.”
“I am my own Kaelen Darkwater.”
Rask shakes his head.
“I led the Bolt of the Ballista, the frontal strike team on that mission. Our whole team was about thirty people. Kaelen Darkwater was a former Aegierian soldier who had served in the First Army under Ursill, and had been one of their toughest commanders. He knew of Aegierian military tactics well, and used them.. quite effectively against… us… his former comrades in the Aegierian army…”
Rask becomes very quiet.
Armored and clean. Back in the scene.
As usual, he quickly scoops up and girds the Black Blade of Aegier.
Unusually, he does not stretch or patrol the permiter.
Instead, he immediately moves to find Alexis Laelius, leader of the Crimson Calling.
No longer exhausted, the deadly Aegeirien warrior finds and rouses the Sutheroni lordling.
“We need to talk,” Rask says in an even; non-threatening tone, as he gently shakes AlexIs’ shoulder.
Once Alexis is a awake and ready, Rask speaks again, calmly:
“I am not a mercenary Alexis. Not yours or anyone else’s.”
“I’m not much of a treasure hunter or deal maker either. I know what I am.”
A hint of sadness, a heap of resigned determination.
“I joined with you because we seek a common goal: the end of the Dark Hand.”
“It is time for us to figure out how to trust each other, our work will only get more dangerous.”
“I need to know, from you, why you wanted those… Dwarves… to live and escape.”
Ca’armine does not like being caged, he discovers. On reflection, he realizes, neither does he prefer being ambushed. Or, violating the sanctity of the Collegium, which he can’t help but respect and even fear. He muses, “I can forgive myself for drawing my weapons when the enemy attacked, since they were in earnest about killing us. But I am doubtful the Collegium will overlook the transgression.
He paces. Back and forth in the cell, stepping around his companions, watchful. He has not been traveling with them long, but he feels sure they will not harm him nor help themselves without aiding him too. However, he is learning that they are not infallible.
“Who is?” he chides himself. But he realizes, in his longing to join a group, to take up the cause and make meaning out of the exile in which he found himself, he unwittingly created in his mind, a vision of these heroes (surely they deserve that title!) as larger-than-life.
“They are powerful, certainly, but they do make mistakes.” He thinks about the nonchalance with which Alexis led the stopover at the Collegium today. “Rask didn’t even put on armor! As if he could blend in with the crowd. As if any of us could!” He shakes his head.
He is loathe to tell Alexis, or any of the group, what they should or should not do… but at the same time they would be wise to emulate his long habit of stealth and concealment. “What do we stand to gain, boarding in the gaudy manor of their friend the thief? Why are we operating in Suthron at all? I long to strike a blow at the Dark Hand, but it seems we are easily manipulated, by anyone who tells us we are getting closer to finding them. We are in truth pursuing the agendas of others, more interested in gold than in justice.”
I reach the top of a steep incline, and look out over the valley ahead. The pack mule is loping along at the end of a long lead rope, and I twitch it out of habit. In front of us the trail turns right, and goes steeply downhill into a copse of live oaks that obscure its next turn. However, well down the mountain, I can see where the path comes back out of the forest, and rejoins another path at the edge of a stream. That junction is about a thousand feet down, and probable a mile and a half away, as the crow would fly. It’s going to be a steep traverse.
As the mule catches up to me I look back the way we’ve come. Though the past few miles have been steep, the path wound its way up a very broad hogsback before this, much less steep but more exposed. I can see the path along that ridge, but it dips below my sight and follows a creek into a different valley. That was was the kingdom of Aegir, where I lost my faith. Ahead is the kingdom of Southron, where I hope to find it.
I have been traveling for weeks now, following a rumor that is sometimes whispered, sometimes silent—about a band of righteous redeemers who have harried the Raidensblud and the Dark Hand, who have consecrated evil places and driven out black-hearted men.
The rumor is that they are seeking my supreme foe, Bandesingh—and they, like me, will sacrifice everything to bring justice to him for the countless atrocities he, and his minions, have committed.
It’s just past midday and fortunately the sun is behind clouds, but it is still possible that I will be seen from one of the many far-off vantage points with a prospect upon this high point. My mule and I start the descent down into the cool shadows of the trees, keeping a relaxed pace. The crossroads I saw, may well be the furthest we make it tonight.
Raiden, hear my prayer—that I may indeed find this band of heroes, that they may include me in their ranks, that we might, together, expose the Raidensblud for the traitors they have become. A chill goes through me, as it always does when I make this prayer. I know that Raiden hears me, but does he approve? Turning my back on the Raidensblud, after my initiation, was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, and it still pricks my conscience, even though in my mind I know this to have been right action. Breaking oaths is wrong, is it not? Even when the oath is to someone—or to the divine order—that only pretends to be righteous?
For months, after learning the duplicity of my order, I kept still and silent hoping that some additional information would contextualize the truths I had beheld, and help me to understand and assimilate those facts, with the divinity and purity that my order espouses.
But it was not to be. How could I have been hesitant? Seeing my fellow priests and acolytes, sacrifice a child on our altar, in a secret ceremony to honor, not Raiden, but a darker and unnamed god. Hearing them talk about the decision to sanctify the king and use his sanctity to fuel the Raidensblud’s choke-hold on Aegir. Witnessing with my own eyes, the master clerics of my order tattooed with corrupt symbols and repudiations of the true god Raiden. They should not have let me see, but they did. They should not have let me hear, but they did. They should not have let me run, but they—all but Kennic—did let me run, and they should have known better than to think they would catch me once I was outside the friary. I am too wise for that.
Kennic. I blow my breath out of my mouth, not from weariness for now that the path is downhill, I am walking easily, but instead as a learned behavior, something I do whenever the death of my friend comes into my mind. He tried to stop me, first in the friary when I was gathering my short sword and shield, then again at the gate when he realized that my ruse—telling him I was not leaving, of course not, but merely backing up Frollor on his third night shift in a row—was unlikely to be true (Frollor being injured and recuperating in the infirmary after all).
He had stood in front of me, blocking the cobblestone path that led around a last bend and gave out on the small courtyard surrounding the curtain wall’s camouflaged ranger door.
“Ca’armine, you can’t leave,” he said to me, his hands facing me, palms out. “Raiden’s command is for all his loyal soldiers to stay here tonight, to prepare for the coming sortie of the elves, to ready themselves to rally to Aegir’s banners. They will kill you if they see you outside the gates!”
Kennic was not wrong, they would at least try to kill me, if I were seen on the road. The guards on the towers guarding the main gate, would use their crossbows or even the ballista, if they were to see me and my laden donkey sneaking out through the spy gate.
They would send a chase squad after me. They would not want a consecrated priest—not even an acolyte anymore!—striding out into the dangers of the outlands, loaded down with all his possessions. Even at my relatively inexperienced stature I knew many secrets, and the lies told to make others believe.
Kennic would not hear reason. I sensed that his motive was selfish, yes, but not evil—he did not want to be associated (as he would have been) with a cellmate who had abandoned the post and the Order. He needed to stop me, though I am sure he knew that it was not possible. He stood in the road and I advanced on him, dropping the donkey’s rope.
Kennic had studied the martial path, as I had when I first arrived at the Temple of Raiden’s Blood. But where I had branched out into wilderness training, he had stayed focused on soldiering. He hefted his halberd, and pointed its cruel spike in my direction.
“Don’t make me hurt you Ca’armine. I have the watch tonight, the inner gate watch, and it is my job to stop deserters one way or another.” He spun his halberd in his hand, so that the sharp blade was now at the 3 o’clock position. A backswing from his right hand would bring that blade into slicing position, but so far he had not raised the weapon to a fighting stance.
“I cannot remain here, Kennic.” I said simply. “You have not seen what I have seen, nor heard what I have had to hear. I envy you my friend; I wish things had gone much differently. However, now that I am enlightened, I cannot ignore the evil heart of our order. I must depart. You could join me Kennic, but you cannot stop me.”
My hands were open at my sides, no weapon in either—offering no resistance other than my words. He stared at me in disbelief. “Still you go on about corruption in the Raidensblud? How can you say things like that! The light of Raiden shine upon you, as it shines upon me and all of the Raidensblud. Let it shine on you, and in you, and purge the taint of your sorry soul.” His eyes flicked to something over my right shoulder. I spun to follow his eyes, and saw Harbang, the acolyte, coming up the path behind me. He was carrying a mace in his right hand, and looked afraid. I was outflanked.
I shudder again, unable to stop myself from remembering the carnage that ensued. As I saw Harbang, I heard the slap of the halberd’s haft as it changed position in Kennic’s hands, and my training took over. I swept my short sword out of its scabbard and off of my right hip, at the same time as I drew my longsword with my right hand, from over my right shoulder. The acolyte startled, and I whirled without looking, launching backward from my left foot, spinning as I did so, both swords out full. Kennic had tried to close the gap when he saw me turn to face the approaching acolyte, and he had swiftly moved to engage me. However, he was no match for my swords. He used his halberd to deflect the long sword, but it was a wild swing that left him undefended, and my short sword followed through, slicing through his throat as I continued turning, and ducked my own rebounding blade.
His hands, no longer holding his weapon, clasped the gaping wound in his throat as he gurgled, and crumpled to the ground. My movement continued, bringing me all the way back around to face the acolyte again. I brought my two blades back together across my body, and saw the fear in the acolyte’s face. He turned to flee, and I decided that my best chance to escape undetected was still this present moment. I grabbed the mule’s lead rope, and hurried to Kennic’s unmoving form. I dragged him into a shadowy alcove by the rear entrance of the Snapping Crab tavern, where a stack of empty barrels would keep him from being discovered for at least a few minutes. I sheathed my swords and the donkey and I resumed our progress toward the spy gate.
I looked down at my Raidensblud cloak, unmarred by the sudden violence I’d just wrought. When I looked up again I had reached the gate, where Subrack was on guard. He saw me coming and stood up from the rock where he was perched during the long night shift.
“Ca’armine, what are you doing here? You know it’s too late to leave the fort, by this gate or any other! What are you doing with a laden mule at this time of night?”
“I have orders, Subrack. After consecration, Father Blythe asked me to take a message, I’m to be on the road 8 days. Heading east.” I pulled a piece of parchment out of my robe, and handed it to him. There was nothing on it, but it did the trick of drawing his attention and his hands. As he looked at the parchment and flipped it over to look for the orders, it was merely a twitch of the arm to bring up my studded mail glove and strike him behind the ear, a hard blow. I am very strong and Subrack, not hearty—he went down hard. I quickly pulled down on the counter-weighted rope to retract the spy gate’s spiked portcullis, and took the rope with me as I led the mule past the threshold. Once through the gate I lowered the portcullis, and tossed the rope back to rest close to Subrack’s motionless body. At least I did not have to kill that one!
From the spy gate, I followed the path, which eventually led back toward the main gate. Obscured as it was, by a hedgerow, I could not be seen from the walls nor by anyone other than perhaps a beast of the forest, come down at night to scavenge food from the scraps routinely thrown out over the city wall. I left the road and went behind the hedge, hard against the cliff-face that formed the rear of the citadel. The mule and I kept close to that rock wall as we worked our way past the thick hedge. The ground went sharply downhill, and I followed that, eventually making my way to the edge of the forest. The trees had been cut down , between the hedgerow and the cliff, to prevent someone like me from doing exactly what I was doing now—sneaking out a largely unmonitored gate, in the middle of the night under a dark, moonless sky. The mule and I stayed close to the hedge, rather than staying to the cliff-face, even as both plunged down into a ravine. Moving slowly so as to not catch the eyes of the guard on the tower, and keeping myself hidden against the hedge, I made my way down the slope and eventually came to a small waterfall, where the cut trees began to give way again to saplings and, close enough, to tall trees. The mule was not fond of the steep, rough terrain, but at least it was forest duff and not dry, packed dirt.
We walked in the stream for a time, more than a mile, to throw off pursuers. I started out of the streambed on the side closest to the fortress, then doubled back into the stream and, half a mile further, exited the stream going the other direction, taking care not to leave a trace as I did so (and clearing mule tracks behind me with a switch), I went into the forest at the base of the cliff.
I did not stop my progress throughout the night and well into the morning, though fatigue was making me fear I had forgotten something crucial, and my mule was done walking for the night. Finally, some 10 wooded miles from the castle, I tethered the mule close to a gorse bush, and let him browse there while I wriggled under a pile of leaves and duff.
The ruse worked; mid-day I was awakened by searchers but they were well to the east, having been lured by my misstatement to the spy gate guard, and by the false trail I set for them to follow. I waited until they had moved off in that direction, then the mule and I began again, moving West Northwest, a direction I followed for the next two days before turning south, and heading due south through the afternoon and evening, putting more and more distance between myself, and the fortress.
I knew that once the Tavern opened they would find Kennic’s body, and all would be lost! If only I could have brought myself to kill the guard as well… but he was no threat to me, and by Raiden he was not evil. “Nor was Kennic,” my conscience told me, but I was not so sure. He had already been told, as I had, that Raiden’s mysterious plans sometimes required one to do something that at least seemed, to be inconsistent with Generous Raiden’s Divine Guidance, to help the poor and sick, to shield the world of men from tyranny. He had presumably done that thing, since he was not sneaking around the fortress at night. His soul, I told myself, had already begun the shift to evil.
That was three years ago. Not a day goes by, I think to myself, that I do not consider poor Kennic, my friend, whose death became a necessary prelude to my quest for the true light of Raiden. Many times I had prayed over that moment, and though I can find no alternative path, my soul feels disquieted by what seems like an unnatural act—killing a friend who stood in my way, who would not listen (though I tried!) to my concerns that the Raidensblud was not who they pretended to be. What would be Raiden’s judgment? Disobedience to the leaders of my Order could, at least in my mind, be forgiven and set aside, once their true nature was known to me beyond any shadow of a doubt. But killing someone who, though perhaps following evil, was not, himself, an evil man? Can any person be reduced to the ends they serve, and the masters they follow?
I roamed, I trained, I prayed, and when there was an opportunity, I helped. I helped townspeople to rid themselves of mercenaries who had camped in their forests and stolen from the town. I helped travelling bands who had been waylaid by brigands. All the while, Raiden still smiled upon me, and granted me to learn and grow in my spellcraft, and in my woodscraft. I grew stronger, wiser, and greater in my endurance. Mighty as I felt, the day I left the fortress to fend for myself in Raiden’s wild land, I now felt much, much stronger and more sure. I longed to take the fight to my foes, if only I could determine how best to do so.
Then, just half a year ago, I was in a tavern one evening, dressed in a woodsman’s cloak and staying a night in the inn to stay out of the rain. At a gambling table nearby, a braggart—flush with wine and with the winnings of two or three hands—was recounting an incredible tale of a mercenary band who wanted nothing more than to destroy King Aedelfred and ruin the Raidensblud. Nobody at the table was willing to believe his stories, and they mocked him, but that only made him more insistent. He said he had seen them with his own eyes, and they had asked him, scrawny little creature that he was, to come with them to Southron to meet their lord.
“Play dice or talk, you choose,” said one of the gamblers, cooly, “but if you won’t shut your gob I’m done with this game.” The braggart got back to playing, and lost three rounds in a row right after. But as he was gathering up what was left of his money, he couldn’t help but say, “you fellows think you know everything but you do not. King Aedelfred is an imposter, these fighters were saying, and they are going to expose him. He’s not even the king!” With that he headed for the door, and the bouncers were quick to pass him along and out into the night.
Wherever I went after that, I listened a little harder and asked enough questions, that people would tell me the rumors they had heard, as well. All the information I gathered, pointed to a Southroni connection who provided shelter to these heroes when they were not actively engaged in contending with the Dark Hand… or the Raidensblud, if they could even be said to be distinct entities any longer. Word was that they had not been that way in many months.
With those words in my ears, and no fresher intelligence about their whereabouts, I turned my mule towards the long road to Southron, to find these heroes or their Southroni comrade. One man, even a righteous man, can only do so much against the great tide of evil the Raidensblud have brought to Aegir. But with a team, one might do much, much more.
The night before the Crimson Calling enters Sutheron.
“Tonight I stand before you not just as Alexis Laelius, renowned treasure hunter and lore seeker, but as a son returning to his beloved home city, a place where the echoes of my family’s leather working craft still resonate through the cobblestone streets.”
“As I prepare to walk those familiar avenues, I can’t help but feel a rush of memories. Memories of my father, tirelessly crafting fine leather goods with hands weathered by time and toil, trying to instill in me the value of hard work and dedication. Memories of my mother, whose gentle spirit and unwavering support guided me through the darkest of tombs and the most treacherous of pits. And let us not forget my dear younger brother, who shares in our family legacy, ensuring that our craft endures through the ages.”
“But there is another figure, a mentor whose wisdom illuminated my path like a torch in the darkness. Publius Helvius Laeca, sage of our city, whose passion for humanity’s past glories and the pursuit of lost artifacts ignited a flame within my soul that has burned ever brighter with each discovery, each adventure.”
“I am reminded of the rich tapestry of history that weaves through the very fabric of our city. A city where old meets new, where the craftsmanship of antiquity mingles with the innovations of tomorrow. Yet, amidst this juxtaposition, there lies a challenge, a challenge to uphold the standards of excellence set by our forefathers, to preserve the legacy of our ancestors, and to safeguard the treasures of our past for generations yet to come.”
“For too long have we allowed the shadows of mediocrity to cloud our vision, to tarnish the splendor of our… heritage. But fear not, for I return not only as a prodigal son but as a champion of our city’s greatness, a defender of its legacy.”
“Together, we shall embark on a new quest, a quest to free humanity from the shackles of those who would enslave us and send us into the dark. The path ahead will be full of peril, and though the challenges may seem insurmountable, I know that the Crimson Calling is up to the task!”
“So let us raise our voices in triumph, let us march forward with heads held high, for we are the heirs of a legacy forged in the fires of history, and together, we shall write the next chapter of our not just our city’s tale, but the tale of humanity once-sundered, being stitched back together. And remember, as we journey forth into the unknown, we do so not as mere mortals, but as guardians of humanity’s past, present, and future.”
“To glory, to adventure, to the enduring spirit of humanity!”