The Winding Stream

[roguethree]

"Dain. Dain. Dain!"
He heard the familiar voice begging for his attention. Well, half-heard it; the world beyond that window seemed so much better, and in an hour or so he'd be out there, just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.

"Dain. Dain. For the love of the gods, pay attention, you vacant little boy..."
What was this? Ah, right.
"Ad hominem."
"What? No, we're studying arithmetic, not logic!"
"No. Vacant little boy. Ad hominem. If you want me to listen, give me a reason, not a fallacy."
He closed his eyes as the open hand slapped against the back of his head. The tutor never struck hard; if he did, it'd cost him his job, and Dain knew it. Everyday, it was the same game. Tutor tries to teach. Dain tries to get Tutor to kill himself. He was staring out the window again.
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"Dain. Dain. Dain, you worthless, weak-kneed, lily-gutted piece of land-trash! Git yer lazy arse upstairs! All hands on deck, even ye're pretty 'uns, ya' fancy-headed fool!"
He snapped awake and found his bed on the opposite wall it had started. The boat lurched again, and he slid halfway across the room before skidding to a halt. He rolled out of the bunk, stumbling awkwardly against the ship's careening list, his thoughts a fuzzy wash as the boatswain barked at him. He shoved open the hatch that led to the deck, stepping out into the driving storm courtesy of Umberlee's foul mood.

"Really." He sighed quietly and stepped out into the pelting rain, making his wobbly way to the captain at the helm of the ship.

[roguethree]

"And what is it you're good at?"

He snapped his gaze up from the fire to the young woman, fully taking her measure for the first time. Impeccably well-kept, but more...natural. He took quick stock of the gathering around the fire; four others, each more outlandish than the last, save for the young woman. They were talking just fine without him before. He smiled. It was polite.

"I'm not really sure, yet."

"He's a cutpurse," one offered.
"Probably," another agreed.

They shared a laugh. He did, too. The conversation moved on, and he was glad for it. He fixed his gaze upon the crackling flames again and lost himself to his own thoughts. This new land was supposed to be dangerous but full of opportunity. He'd seen neither, yet, but it had only been a few days.

"These things take time, son."
His father's voiced echoed in his mind, almost chiding him.
"It's six days of ox dung and feathers, and one day of papers and progress." Father's old formula for success. He looked around the fire, noting all the ox dung and feathers, and then the progress.
"It's not so different," he told himself. That, maybe, scared him more than anything.

[roguethree]

"Did Caspar not tell you? We have silver weapons to send back with you for your temple. Wait just a moment."

The robed woman clapped her hands, and one of her attendants left and returned with an armful of silver-made weapons; Dain fitted them to himself as best he could. He took a look at his unlikely companions: Alandrian, a wizened man gifted in healing; Radda, an elven mage, and Jeshama, some sort of winged woman. He smiled inwardly at the absurdity of it all. Three days ago, he didn't have a plan. Today, he was an initiate in the Triumvirate, transporting silver weapons to fight vampires with a cast of companions as colorful as they come. They struck out on to the road, intent on returning to the city from the Gate of the Sunderer.
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"Smoke!" the winged woman cried. Black plumes rose up over the hills, and they raced down the path to discover the source. As they rounded a bend, they saw black-garbed men picking over spilled chests and slain, charred commonfolk. The brigands saw them as they approached, and they abandoned their looting as they drew steel.

"Ah, my weapons," a more finely dressed figure addressed the companions. "You'll leave them with us."

"You will stand down," Dain began, "You are under arrest for arson and murder, on several counts." His voice didn't shake. He surprised himself. Laughter rose up among the brigands.

"Really," the well-dressed bandit replied, "we'd planned on killing you, anyway, so this works. Gentlemen..." the bandits fell about them, perhaps a dozen against the four of them. They were poorly trained, though, and the four companions had little trouble dispatching them, though the central figure was nowhere to be found.

Dain moved to the wagon, surveying the carnage, while Alandrian, the healer, moved opposite, searching for survivors. A dull thud caught Dain's attention. As he turned, he saw Alandrian face-down in the earth. Dain's expression turned quizzical, but as he moved toward Alandrian's still form, the finely-dressed brigand appeared as though from no where, assaulting him furiously. Dain, blade still drawn from the recent battle, managed an awkward stab at the surprising assailant. The well-garbed bandit deftly turned aside the awkward lunge, managing a cocky grin as Dain looked at him stupidly, his face a confounded mask of shock and despair. The rogue slammed the hilt of his blade into the back of Dain's skull, and Dain's world went black.
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"It is no matter. We will develop a plan, and you two will personally retrieve the weapons." Adjudicator Caspar's voice echoed throughout the chamber. "You did well today, initiates."

"Hollow praise," Dain thought. He nodded thanks, but his gaze remained on the floor as he and Alandrian trudged to the bunks.

[roguethree]

He cradled the instrument as one might a child, resting its neck in the crook of his arm while his other hand supported the body. He hadn't held a mandolin in seven years, since his last lesson with his esteemed tutor, Gregoire Aglion.
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"Seet up stchraight, Dain. Chin up, relax your wreests, bend your fingairs."

Dain smirked as he obeyed the tutor's instructions, his eyes rolling as the eccentric foreigner continued to bark instructions.

"Maintenant, you vill play zees vun again, mais avec...feeling. Begin."

Dain began, his fingers deftly crawling over the strings of the instrument, accurately plucking each note. He wore a discontented frown as he played, his eyes glazed with boredom.

"Non! Non, non, non!" Gregoire exclaimed. "Zut! Do you not know vhat you play, etudiant? You cannot just plaaaay zhe notes, Dain. You must," he paused for emphasis, "fais la musique!

Dain tilted his head back, regarding the ceiling with a questioning glare.
----------------------------
They had a habit of finding each other, so he was only mildly surprised as she gingerly made her way down the steps to his pool-side perch. He fixed her with a welcoming grin as she approached.

"I did not know you played," Priya began, gesturing toward the mandolin he had set against the cliff face.

Dain's grin widened in return. "A surprise for you, for once." He tilted his head to one side, then, raising a brow. "Do you play an instrument?"

"I was taught to play many instruments," she replied, lowering herself to the ground beside him.

"Aye?" He reached behind himself and grasped the mandolin by the neck, extending the instrument toward her. "Indulge me?"

The poised Sunite smiled graciously, inclining her head as she gently accepted the instrument. "Of course."

She sat up on her heels, placing the base of the instrument on the ground. One hand supported the mandolin by its neck, the other settled over the strings of the instrument. Without great fanfare, she began.

She played with hypnotic rhythm, using only a few notes, but gliding between them effortlessly. Her slender fingers pulled at the strings expertly, frequently varying the tempo of the song from a frantic, panicked gait to a slow, pensive meander.

Dain closed his lids over his light blue eyes, intoxicated by the strange melody. They snapped open as she finished suddenly, a final, comforting note tugging at his chest.
---------------------------------
"Vhen you understand zhe music, it vill touch you, Dain. You vhil feeeel it inside, pulling at your soul." Gregoire was insistent. Dain was disinterested.

"Maintenant, again, Dain. Avec feeling, Dain. Fais la musique!"

Dain stared flatly at the tutor, a brow arched skeptically.

[roguethree]

Dain's booted feet echoed off the cold stone of the torchlit hallway. The quiet murmur of mumbled prayers slowly wound through the temple, and Dain's eyes were set ahead, peering into the warm gloom. He paused, reaching the end of the hallway, and he regarded the door pensively. Slowly, he reached for the handle, turning it deliberately; the heavy portal creaked open, and much brighter light forced him to squint.

"Dain, finally," one of Torm's Lionhearts remarked, "we'll teach you to move in that armor, yet. Grab a stick."

Dain found a discarded training sword; it was heavy, carved of wood and in the shape of a longsword, the weapon he had to learn to use. He stepped on to the sparring floor, the Lionheart already awaiting him, though he bore no armor or shield.

"Don't you want to gear up...?" Dain asked hesitantly, a brow reaching for the ceiling.

"No, no," the Lionheart chuckled. "Trust me, you won't hurt me; I've seen your swordplay, Tornbrook. We've a bit of work ahead of us." With that he winked, and the first blow took the breath from Dain's lungs. The novice paladin dropped to his knees, and he steadied himself with the sparring stick.

"Aye," he wheezed. "...aye."

[roguethree]

He shoved open the barn door, a slight limp in his gait as he stepped past it into the quiet darkness. Gore spattered his inspiring blue armor and still dripped from a battle axe that hung at his belt. Inside, the deafening commotion of frightened animals slowly melted away into annoyed baying. A gorgeous young woman, her hair coiled about her head and her lips barely rouged, followed just behind, her robes somehow untouched by the mess of ichor, though some blood - not her own - stained her knuckles.

"Y-you're out," the farmer stammered, "...my stock?!"

"Aye," the wearied paladin began, "the wolves are slain, your stock largely untouched."

"Yes, they're all safe, thanks to Dain," the beauteous woman added, a proud smile taking her lips.

"We managed it," the warrior corrected, finally standing firmly as he inhaled the crisp night air.

"I'm here to help," a hollow voice echoed within a helmet. From behind the farmer, a tall, thin man stepped forward. Armor covered him head to toe, but he moved and spoke with an ancient grace. "It is unsafe; the girl must come with me. Look at me, dear."

She tilted her head quizzically at the newcomer, her brow furrowed with caution and anxiety at his insistence. She thought, "How strange a request, now that the danger has passed," and then she thought nothing at all. Her eyes found his enchanting gaze, and she knew nothing, save obedience. The armored man beckoned her to follow, and soundlessly she did.

Dain's booted feet echoed off the hard earth of the Sundarian Crossroads, and he skidded to a halt in front of the armored stranger.

"You've done something to her!" he exclaimed. "She is not herself!"

"Of course not," the armored man's voice betrayed the smirk that grew within his helmet. "She is mine."

"I disagree!" The would-be hero drew steel as the other figure began chanting, his hands glowing with dark power. He finished a prayer for destruction, and a malevolent darkness sprang from his hands. As the encroaching gloom met the oncoming Paladin, its impenetrable blackness faded, its power dissipated against the virtuous warrior's zeal.

Still, the dark energies were great, and the young warrior shouted through the pain that wracked his body as he brought his sword to bear. He stroked three, four times at the armored man, and he swore he heard amused laughter slithering out of the man's mask.

The armored figure chanted again, and again he sent terrible magics into the warrior's body. The awful red glow again dimmed as it neared the Paladin, but the power that remained was more than sufficient. The young warrior hadn't the breath to scream in pain as the air was taken from his lungs. His ribs cracked, wounds opened in his flesh that no blade had cut, and quickly - very quickly - his world grew dark. He laid in the middle of the road, a silent, twisted mess of agony.

The armored figure sighed in annoyance, his limbs still crackling with terrible power. "Come, dear. We mustn't delay."

She followed him, her eyes hollow, her mind numb, and strode past the crumpled savior without a second thought.
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He awoke in his temple, a host of Ilmatarii praying over him. His armor and affects sat neatly in a corner. His wounds were gone...he must have been wounded to be in the infirmary. He slowly regained his senses, though his mind remained in a murky haze.

"What..." he ran a hand through his tousled blond locks, "...why am I here?"

The clerics only offered resigned shrugs. "The kindness of a traveler, as best we can tell."

[roguethree]

"The light is dead herulk!"

Dain shoved his sword into the chest of the crazed templar, a brilliant white light bursting through its back as the blade tore through unnaturally sustained flesh, silencing the demonic prayers of the possessed soul. About him, the space was clear, and he turned to observe his companions finishing their own opponents with righteous violence.

Demon-women and the ruined bodies of corrupted men lay about the decrepit temple to the Morninglord, their holy symbols marred and decayed in a mockery of the god that no longer held residence there. The companions - five strong from the Arbiter's Alliance - dripped with ichor and gore, an unpleasant circumstance of their holy errand. Despite it all, the paladin found himself smiling.
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"Purpose? Well, I bring love and companionship to whomever I can, however I can. I find no greater joy. But you ask me, and I would ask you the same."

Her soft words climbed into his ear and nestled there, but he found himself frowning despite their sweetness.

"Purpose..." he faltered, "...I don't know, I guess. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be about." He hadn't had to consider a purpose through most of his life, his future a forgone conclusion of arranged marriage and high society.

She patted his arm reassuringly. "I'm sure you'll find your way. You're very talented, and a good sort."
-----------------------------
Time had placed him on the paladin's path, and now he served Tyr, the Even-Handed, a zealous warrior in pursuit of mercy and justice. He brought the Maimed God's wrath into his next stroke, the demon screaming in hellish agony as the divine blade tore into its fiber. It fell to the earth, its skin still smoking from the heavenly intrusion.

His smile grew. He had the tools to protect those in need, to mete out justice to those deserving, and reassuring pats were giving way to lingering glances and brief caresses. He turned his smile to his companions, and it melted away into a panicked frown. The Ilmatari paladin lay on the defiled floor, her wounds grievous, her breathing shallow. He slid down to his knees and held her head in his lap as the priestess of the Joyous One whispered hurried prayers, her potent healing energies slowly reviving the woman.

Dain gasped in tremendous relief as her eyes fluttered open, and he stared down into them before she yet had focus. He tore his gaze away, his own vision glazing as purpose again melted to uncertainty.

[roguethree]

White, frothy foam surged against the sharp crags and jagged rocks at the base of the Lighthouse's plateau. A shrill wind whistled through the heights, sending the young paladin's cloak billowing about him, a fluttering shadow dancing about the moon as it hovered just above the horizon. His eyes sought the stars. Certain stars. His thoughtful, glimmering orbs found them, then, twinkling playfully in the cerulean sky. His imagination gave them life, and flames engulfed them and gave them shape, resurrecting a triumphant phoenix: Cassima.
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"You know this one?" His left hand behind his head, offering a meager pillow against the dock, his right hand gestured vaguely to the sky. The proper young woman, seated with posture at his right, smiled softly and obliged.

"No, it is unfamiliar to me." Always she bore a soft smile, kind and inviting.

"That one's Cassima...my favorite, I think, for the story behind it."

"Oh? I do enjoy a story, now and then." She folded her hands into her lap, attentive.

He laughed quietly, and he slid his right hand under his head, joining the left. "Cassima was a woman...beautiful, kind, compassionate to a fault...and loathed for it. A few poisoned tongues turned the ears of a mob, and they saw her tied to a stake to burn as a witch."

The poised young woman still smiled softly, her dark, lustrous eyes intent on his features as he spoke.

"As the flames consumed her, a kind goddess...varying depending on who tells the story..." he grinned at that, "...took pity on the woman and transformed her into a glorious phoenix that soared up into the stars and still rests there, even now."

"Hn," she considered quietly, as she would, her serenity unbroken whilst her keen mind picked through the tale. "And why have you chosen this one?"

The young man shifted just a bit, the golden sunburst about his pupils seeming to shine a bit more brightly as his gaze yet rested on the star-wrought phoenix. "It's encouraging. No matter how you're seen, how you're thought to be...someone who matters will always know the truth of it, and that will save you."

Her smile widened ever so slightly, perhaps betraying a hint of admiration. "That is...a good way to see it."
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His eyes stung from the unblinking reflection, and he shut them tightly several times, fortifying them against the harsh wind that whipped about the lighthouse and rocked the Port's many vessels to sleep. His spirit again soared from his body.
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It was unlike her to be so disheveled, leaves and mud clinging to her frayed dress, her hands stained with muck and blood, and even her ever-present smile quivered with a startling humanity. Silent tears stung her cheeks as she bowed her head before him, though her voice resonated a quiet calm that did not fit her state.

"I nearly gave up, but...but if you can yet see me, I have strength."

His gentle touch lifted her chin, and he found her gaze, his own eyes glistening as he spoke the whispered promise.

"Always, I can see you."

He felt her reach for him without reaching, and his heart seemed to stop in his chest as her breath splashed gently against his mouth. He let his sight darken and joined his lips with hers in a brief, rapturous embrace.
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His eyes stung again, though now from the dawn's brilliance as the sun began a new day in Sundren. Shouts from the city below shook him from his reverie, and he blinked away tears that grew to challenge the sharp light that poured over the plateau. A faint smile grew upon his lips, and he turned from his perch, convicted steps setting him back on the road to Sundren City.

[roguethree]

Wrath, Ascendant

"Why don't you relax?" Mara Brinsbane eyed him playfully as he stood vigilant over the commons outside the Second Wind, his left hand ever upon the hilt of the sword that hung dutifully at his left hip, its gilded scabbard reflecting the distant fire light.

"Relax..." he mused.
------------------------------
He staggered back into the walls of Mirakus Post, dragging the tip of his brilliant sword along the ground as blood still streamed down its groove, drawing a thin line in the earth as wearied steps carried him back to the scene of the near catastrophe.
His own armor was torn, rent asunder by hundreds of blades, arrows, claws, and fangs. Whole chunks of the plate were missing, revealing the soft flesh beneath that still poured out precious life blood. His face was coated in a red spattering, as though a mad painter had used his features as a canvas. His hair clung to his head, a viscuous, crimson gel making it hold shape. The companions had all fallen, save for the Sunite who at that moment was bearing the slain toward civilization. Even as her wearied steps took her from that unholy ground, the paladin's own path took him back into that defiled outpost.

The rising earth of Mirakus was strewn with blood, bones, and still-twitching limbs of all manner of fell undead. Human heads, their expressions frozen in hatred and fear, dotted the ground here and there, stark contrast to the rotted flesh that clung to the landscape. Six of them had stormed the outpost at Wrath's urging, and one yet remained. Bloodied, wearied, beyond exhaustion, soaked in the life fluids of himself, his allies, and his enemies.

He fell to his knees, catching himself with his free hand and bracing himself with his sword. He used it as a crutch, pushing against it to rise up, then bearing his weight down on its hilt, driving the blade down into the earth. He groaned at even this meager effort, and he slumped over the holy sword, its resilient iron keeping his body upright.

A soft, yellow light sparked over his heart. It flickered, expired, but a second light jolted to life in the hilt of the sword. It wavered, its energies struggling to take hold in the wretched environs of the Post, but it did not falter. The light in the paladin's chest sputtered again, and it took root, glowing with a soft luminance in complement to its companion atop the sword. The lights grew in intensity as the haggard knight leaned over his sword, his eyes closed in weariness as he fought to take breaths. They grew, and grew, their essences now a single yellow brilliance.

The light flared, and suddenly the whole of the post was illuminated as though by the sun. Comets of divine radiance fell from the sky, disappearing into the earth as their righteous light flowed into the corruption that had made the dead rise again in the grounds around the Post. At the center of the brilliance, a wounded paladin leaned on his sword, holy energies flowing from his body into his stoic blade that stood sentry over the decrepit land. Shadows melted away. Undead flesh and bone turned to ash and scattered to the winds, and the land was at rest.

"Astinus," the knight uttered, a croaking whisper. Only moments passed, and a regal white steed, unblemished and brilliant, galloped into the Post, reining itself in at the paladin's side. With a hand on the horse's bridle, the Warden of Wrath pulled himself to his feet, the other pulling his righteous blade from the earth as he stood. Soon, he was mounted atop the warhorse, bent over the steed's powerful neck as it began to trot the many miles that would return them to the city.
---------------------------
The paladin half-smiled, albeit briefly, and shook his head before drawing the symbols in the air and murmuring the blessings that would make him aware of any of the undead that approached his roads.

"Someday, maybe." He turned from the fire and took to the road, purposeful steps bearing him into the darkness.

[roguethree]

History Is Told by the Victor

"So wheres we gonna fin' the 'pires?"

The paladin looked down at the source of the question, a muscular hin covered head to toe in armor and weaponry. The plate mail was covered in gashes, scratches, dents, and dried blood with bits of hair and flesh stuck into it. Topping the masterpiece was the skull of a giant, reptilian-looking beast. It was charred and streaked crimson with yet more blood, and the halfling had carved it to suit his head, with eye sockets in just the right place. The thing was enchanted, too, allowing the well-armed hin to amplify his shouts many times over, when he felt like it.

He stood in stark contrast to the dingy halfling. His own armor was deep blue, trimmed with gold, and impeccably kept. A fine, silken cape hung from his neck and billowed behind him as he walked, seeming to catch the faintest of breezes. He bore three swords, one at either hip and one resting across his back. The scabbard of the one at his left was gilded with gold, pearls, and an expertly cut emerald, and the hilt of the blade that rested there was ornate, carved with runes inlaid in platinum. Whereas the halfling's face was covered by the crusty skull of some fell beast, the paladin's countenance shone clearly and without blemish. They walked the roads near the Second Wind, that night, that odd pair.

"It's hard to say, Xaayne." In truth, the paladin seldom found a vampire when he was looking for one, but he patrolled the roads most nights for the rare chance he might meet his prey. An infrequent reminder that Wrath walked in the darkness helped to keep the bloodsuckers at bay, many nights.

They walked on, nearing the Crossroads. Xaayne's tiny legs beat the ground furiously as he often exceeded his taller companion's pace, his poorly kept armor groaning and screeching with each rapid step. They paused at the commonly kept fire, and the paladin turned his gaze out over the farmland, relying on his divine senses to alert him if something wicked approached.

"I's a plan...issa good one, too," the halfling began, leaning on his silvered axe, the axe he'd chosen for this particular venture.

"Go on." Dain was half-listening, his eyes frequently returning to the farmer's home and the spot where he'd seen agents of the Black Hand materialize so many times before. He'd already drawn his sword, its brilliance lighting his way through many midnights.

"Well, ya's know 'ow 'em Red Wizzas blow'd up the mount'n 'at we's come through...ya's know, ta gets here? Well, I's thinkin', them 'pires is got their 'ouse up in the mount'ns. Seems like 'em Red Wizzas could blows it up, ya know?" The halfling reached up and adjusted his fearsome helmet, making it seem as though a little lizard-demon were speaking.

"I suppose, Xaayne," the paladin obliged him.

" 'Course, I's gotta betta' plan. Involves launchin' me, so's it's a betta plan..."

Dain's gaze suddenly shot to the homestead, his eyes narrowing. He felt it: the presence of undead, and he stepped across the ditch separating the farmer's land from the road, his righteous urging carrying on a collision course with whatever lay ahead.

"Knigh'-fella?" Xaayne bounded after him, hoisting his axe over his shoulder.

Barely illuminated by the moonlight stood a familiar figure. A tall, thin man, covered head to toe in wicked-looking armor halted his steps, his face covered in a full helmet that masked his features, save for eyes that seemed to glow with malice and power. Dain had felt this one's aura before.

"What do you want?" The dark-armored man's voice slithered out of his helmet, the tone even, if not annoyed.

"These roads aren't yours to walk," Dain replied, just as evenly, and he pointed at the intruder with his holy blade, emphasizing the point.

"Says who?"

"Says the Warden of Wrath."

"Never met him."

"Oh, is me," Xaayne interjected, waving with his axe, "I's the Wrath-fella."

"You're both in my way," the vampire sighed, his boredom apparent, "I could kill both of you quite easily. I suggest you move."

"And I suggest you return to your coffin. You can go of your own accord or as a fine mist, begging for a favorable wind. Make your choice." The Paladin widened his stance, his sword now angled with clear intent.

The vampire laughed darkly, his voice echoing ominously from the confines of his helm. "You can not begin to comprehend my power! Bane!" He called for the Tyrant, and his body surged with dark energies. The area around them seemed to darken, but the paladin and the hin charged, meeting the terrible foe with heroic abandon.

The paladin's blade shone brilliantly, and more than once it found a home in the unholy flesh of the Banite. The Banite's blade, though, struck with greater fervor, each stroke battering the knight and spilling precious lifeblood. All about them, the halfling ball of muscle swung this way and that, his silvered axe bouncing harmlessly off of the vampire's wards.

Dain grew desperate, and he raised his sword overhead for what would be a vicious, two-handed blow. He did not account for the incredible celerity of his opponent; the Banite abandoned his shield and shot his hand out, catching the paladin by the throat and lifting him from the ground as easily as one might lift a pail of water. The paladin grasped at his own throat, vainly trying to free himself from the vampire's tremendous grip, even as his breath began to leave him.

Clive chuckled in mild amusement and stowed his blade. He pulled off his helmet and cast it aside, then reaching for a sinister dagger lurking in his belt. He held it up for the paladin to see, waving it in front of his eyes as a hateful grin curved his lips. The vampire took a moment to glance down at the hin still fruitlessly hacking away at his wards, then looked back to the zealous knight and shrugged as if to say, "What can you do?" He plunged the dagger into Dain's side, and blood immediately spewed from the paladin's lips.

His eyes went wide with pain, but he had no breath to cry out. He felt his life ebbing away, and his vision narrowed to near blackness; the only visible thing was the sneering, amused Banite, who even then slowly twisted the dagger within the wound, relishing the paladin's agony.

The paladin's eyes narrowed suddenly, and one of Clive's eyebrows shot skyward as he regarded the knight in some curiousity. Dain's eyes glowed, then, a brilliant, burning yellow, and he dropped his sword, the hand shooting out to catch the vampire by the throat. The Banite started, then laughed openly, gently shaking the paladin as he did.

"You fool, I do not breathe."

The Warden half-smiled, an odd little grin as the hand that clutched Clive's throat began to glow with the same yellow brilliance that streamed from his eyes. In an instant, a terrific yellow flash engulfed Clive, and in an instant, darkness again overtook the Crossroads. Where Clive had stood, a barely discernible mist gently wafted out into the night. The paladin lay on the ground, his side pouring out far too much blood, and his world went dark.

Xaayne scratched his head and shrugged. He again hoisted his axe over his shoulder and grabbed the paladin by the ankle, starting the long walk back back to the city as the paladin's still form grated against the hardened earth of the road.

"If 'pire-fella died, an knigh'-fella died...tha' makes me the bes' 'pire-choppa! Whoo! Xaayne killt the 'pire!" And he marched off into the night, a wide smile splayed beneath that vicious bone helmet.

[roguethree]

Wrath, Implacable

She slithered through the shadows in hilly nooks that surrounded the commons outside the Second Wind Inn, her black, fitted leathers gliding soundlessly through the tall grasses as she spied her target. There he was, again, that fool of a paladin, standing in the open, laying claim to the night; her night.

Oh, the arrogance of it all. He and his special sword, pretending to ward the rest of the mortals against evil, playing at the savior. She reminded herself not to hiss at the absurdity of it all. It would be over soon enough; the Warden, slain, and his sword, lost. She slid her dagger from the sheath behind her shapely thigh; its blade was wicked and still bore the sickly purple taint of poison. Good. Dawn was but moments away, and that zealous moron would let his guard down soon enough. She crept forward, slowly at first, and soon broke into a silent sprint, her path in line with the paladin's back.
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Dain allowed himself a little grin, his chest deflating with an airy breath. The night passed without incident and in the most pleasurable company imaginable; his dearest Sunite, the esteemed Priya Sera, had taken a hiatus from scholarship at the University to see him. To see him. His fair, blue eyes glistened with apparent adoration as he laced his fingers with hers, admiring her natural glow as the first rays of dawn broke over the distant horizon. She smiled up at him in return, dark, lustrous eyes binding his gaze, and the paladin reveled in that small moment, the weight on his burdened heart easing for a handful of precious seconds. His lips parted to form speech, but only a sudden, pained gasp came forth.
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The dark-clad vampire congratulated herself with a wicked grin as her blade expertly found a seam in the Warden's thick armor, her dagger driving into his side, all the way to the hilt. There were perhaps ten others around the commons, now eying her with shocked gasps as she spilled the lifeblood of the Triad's champion. Let them watch the hero die. He'd be defenseless, now; she'd trained for long years in the arts of paralyzing with a blade. He'd had no chance to move, to defend himself; she knew she struck truly, that his nerves would fail him. It was a curious thing, then, when she went to retract her dagger for another stroke and found her wrist held fast.
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The agent of Wrath stared down at the hapless vampire, his left hand having shot across his body to seize the thing's wrist. His eyes burned with righteous fire even as the creature's widened in surprise, in sudden anxiousness. His right hand reached up over his shoulder, drawing forth a gleaming silvered sword that shone brilliantly in the dawn's earliest rays.

"Abomination," he growled, and heavenly flame burst forth, wreathing the sword in divine radiance. He slammed his elbow into the gaping mouth of the assassin, two, three times until it released the dagger still embedded in his side. The Warden released the thing's wrist, and as it staggered away, he stroked with his burning blade, tearing through the vampire's leathers and searing the undead flesh that lay beneath.
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She staggered back and clutched her belly where the paladin had struck. "How?!" Her mind raced in panic. She had been an unseen, had stroked perfectly. Still, the bastard in the gleaming armor came on, and she dove into the shadows, melting away from sight. Her dagger still rested in his flesh; surely its poison would do its work soon. She crawled through the tall grasses around the commons, diving from rock to tree to whatever she could find to provide cover. The morning sky began to brighten, and soon, she would turn to ash beneath the sun's brilliance. She cursed the misfortune but unshouldered her bow, bringing a poison-tipped arrow to its string.

"Blood for the Blood God," she whispered, "damn your soul."
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The paladin rocked forward as an arrow ripped into his shoulder, but he steadied himself, whirling to see the familiar assassin some twenty paces away, quickly working to nock another arrow. He tore after her, his armor clanking in quiet, well-oiled protest to the sudden movement. He brought his silvered sword to bear, his eyes now flaring brilliantly as he channeled the Even-Handed's justice into his next stroke.
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She knew she'd missed as soon as she let the arrow fly; it would sail hopelessly wide, and she'd need to defend herself with naught but her hands. She faltered as the paladin lurched to his side, taking the arrow in his left arm. He didn't slow in the least, and in a breath, he'd be upon her.
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Her carriage was off; she'd miss, he knew, so he leaned toward her error. He winced in gratitude as the arrow sunk into his armor, barely breaching his skin; it wouldn't do to have someone else shot on his account. He rapidly approached the vampire now, and she crouched to meet his onslaught. He brought his sword overhead, as though to chop downward from a high guard. As he'd hoped, the vampire raised its posture, preparing to sidestep the vertical strike.
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"Clumsy fool," she allowed herself a brief smile at the fool paladin's obvious attack. He would miss grandly, and she'd move about him, behind him, to a delicious angle at his neck. She neatly stepped to her left and grabbed his right shoulder, preparing to use him as leverage to vault on to his back, to tear at his exposed flesh, but she felt a strange burning in her breast. She looked down and saw the hilt of a sword pressed against her breasts, and she realized it, now, in her near memories; the man had bent his knees at the last moment and followed her movement, his new angle placing his sword in line with the center of her torso.

She knew it was over, her unlife at its end, but she snarled anyway, baring her wicked fangs that had drained so many of life before this moment. A searing pain shot through her jaw as the paladin's gauntleted fist crashed into her mouth, and a few paces away, she spied one of her fangs resting in the dusty earth. A more delicate hand rested on her shoulder, then, and she craned her neck to see a radiantly beautiful, red-haired woman in gold armor standing there with a serene smile. The favored of Sune.
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"Sune's blessings upon you," the woman quipped, and divine energies poured through her hand, instantly reducing the vampire to ash as the sun completed its dawn ascent.

The paladin tugged out the dagger, then, and regarded it briefly. "Poison," he mused, eying the purplish tint, and he shrugged and threw the blade into the fire as he rejoined the others at the commons, some having armed themselves, some shocked at the encounter. He dropped his right hand to the wound in his side; a soft yellow light glowed there, and his flesh healed and shone as if no wound had ever breached there. He moved back to the dark-haired Sunite, the beauteous Priya, and she met him with a soft smile. The day would yet be fine.

[roguethree]

Wrath, Educated, Part I

"Do you hate me?"

"What?"

"Do you hate me?"

"I...no. No."

The teenager's tear-stung eyes rested on the rust-colored floor. He sat in a crude chair, his hands at either side, his head hung low in shame. Along the walls were instruments of torture: whips, nails, thin rods of wood, pliers, and other elements with which to creatively inflict anguish. Before him stood a stern figure, a middle-aged man of early-grayed hair with a thin build and a shrewd, hawk-like gaze. He looked disdainfully over the boy.

"You are yet weak."

"...no, I'm -..."

The boy's reply was cut short as a fist collided with the narrow bone of the boy's cheek. He lurched to the side, straining for balance, unwilling to fall from the chair, to escape the assault against the blood-stained floor.

"Do you hate me?"

"N...no."

The sickening sound of flesh and bone impacting flesh and bone echoed briefly to the high ceiling of the darkened room, and chair legs grated a few inches along the floor, uncovering trails of the floor's stone previously hidden below caked flakes of blood and sweat.

"You're embarrassing."

"You're a coward."

The familiar fist again darted in, but it was stopped by a raised forearm, the boy glaring defiantly through red, glistening eyes, his lips swollen and oozing blood. The older man smiled, his very white teeth shining in the meager light of the chamber.

"You feel that, boy? That burning in the pit of your stomach? That's power. That's hate."

"Someday...some...someone's going to hit you back."

"I pray everyday that that someone is you, boy." The gray-headed man murmured dark blessings, and he passed his hand over the boy's features. The bruised child turned away at the touch, his eyes squinting and teeth clenching against the encroaching hand, and he whimpered as the familiar energies washed over him, healing the recent bruises and lacerations, leaving no trace of the hard lesson.

"I'm returning to the city tonight. Some of my associates have encountered...difficulties...so we'll be reorganizing some things. We're still going to Waterdeep in two months' time."

The boy - hardly a boy at seventeen - nodded in silence, rising from the crude chair. He removed his blood-stained shirt, revealing the thorough network of scarring across his back: lessons that hadn't been magically healed.

"We were sparring again, aye, boy?"

"Of course. Mother will be overjoyed at the attention you offer in your demanding schedule." He threw his ruined shirt into the corner of the chamber and pushed through the door that separated the foul place from the stairs that led to the surface, to the lighted place, the charade.
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"Sir Tornbrook? Sir Tornbrook.

"Hn?" The paladin blinked a few times, clearing the haze of memory as he took note of the Ilmatari standing before him, a leaflet in hand. "What's this?"

"A release of men and medicines to tend the Legion at the Stand."

"Oh, aye. That." The Adjudicator found his pen and signed the parchment, again reclining in his chair and glazing introspective.

"Sir Tornbrook?"

"Hn?"

"Something troubles you, Sir Tornbrook? Perhaps Ilmater's blessings can bring comfort."

"Gratitude, but no. I'm only remembering things."

"Things, Sir?"

"Aye. Things."

[roguethree]

Wrath, Focused

It beckons me from my sleep.

Its gilded hilt reflects the light of the few torches that line my room's walls. The soft luminescence it casts flicks against my eyelids, and I have no choice but to rouse as I find myself less and less deaf to its subtle whisperings to my consciousness.

There it rests, upright and against the wall, near the wardrobe, as I left it. It stands silent sentry as I try to find rest, but its will, its impulse, is ever present. It asks me to take it in hand, to once again set forth and deliver wrath to the wicked. It asks me to do my god's work with prejudice.

I sit up, my head still awash in the aftermath of the intense magical healing I needed after the last bout. Clive grows bolder, and his hatred wasn't tempered in the slightest from his last, punctuated defeat. He returned the next night with allies. I'm told we fought desperately, but he was the victor. I wonder how long my mortal body can take this punishment. Against a foe that turns to mist when defeated and reforms no worse for the wear, a foe that does not age, I wonder how long I can be the rock that breaks the wave before I shatter...

As long as I have to. Until breath fails me. The Just God guides my hand, and I must be tireless in this struggle.

The sword tugs at my thoughts again. My eyes fall upon it, its artful hilt, it's gilded scabbard. There's the irony. The emerald. The pearls. The ornament given me by the one who feels my wounds more keenly than I, the one who cares not for my sword or my righteousness, but for me. This bed is empty without her. Her goddess has called her; I could never deny such a command. It tastes bitter. Perhaps at this moment, she warms another's bed, to satisfy her goddess. Here I lie, jealous and chilled, my company a wrathful blade that begs use.

And where is my soul? I regret the absence of a lover even as I'm called to pierce a thousand wretched hearts. Selfish. The sword and its scabbard are in my hands, now. I don't remember crossing the chamber to collect it. I sit on the edge of my bed, half-naked, my pensive gaze not really seeing the weapon in my lap. That emerald, those pearls, ask me to lay down, to sleep.

This sword is strange. It's no more formidable a weapon than I can enchant with the blessings of my god, but it reveals itself, in crisis. It has restored life. It has purged the taint of the undead from miles of foul earth. It has reduced the fellest undead to ash. I've never commanded it to do such. I ask. Sometimes it answers.

That ornament asks me to go to sleep. It asks me to stay my hand for a day, for a night. It asks me to remember my humanity, to seek comfort. It entices me, its request agreeable. The emerald catches the torchlight, and I see it for what it is.

It would stay my hand. Who will stand against the evil, if not me? It asks me to seek comfort. Who will protect, if not me? It asks me to rest. Who, then, will be tireless? It appeals to my humanity.

I reject it. Pearls scatter along the floor as I rip the ornament free of the blade. The emerald is set aside on the nearby nightstand, its glimmer diminished beneath the low-burning lamp. I grasp the blade's hilt, and I feel it, the fire in the pit of my stomach. It burns into my chest, and I feel it behind my eyes. It sustains me. I am convicted. I will master this sword and bring its full power to bear. I am ready.

I am Wrath.

[roguethree]

Wrath, Renaming

Ironic. Less than a day after I give myself over to my mission, to the sacred task, the sword shatters against the flesh of the man I have hunted tirelessly for these months. The sword broken, the necromancer then hurls himself upon a mundane blade to spite me, to spill his tainted blood over the sacred floor of my sacred temple.

I am relieved of the mantle of Warden, tasked with finding another to take up that cause. Who can I ask to bear that burden? Who is capable of performing the duties? Who will honor the opportunity? Who do I dare ask to set him or herself aside in service to the state? Will it not weigh against their soul, as it did mine? Will it not strain their friendships? If they love, will it not dim their heart's flame?

I am to find one who can do the things that I will not, who can be the executioner when I would only, will only judge. I'm to find an unfortunate soul that will be the new Warden of Wrath, who will punish the agents of evil and chaos with thorough prejudice. Who do I dare ask? The heroes I respect and expect could perform this role...can I ask them to make this sacrifice?

I must. Even as I regret the sacrifices someone will have to make, I myself step further down that path. As the weight of the task grows greater, I must find one to share the burden. Who, I wonder, will shoulder this load? Who, I wonder, can walk beside me on this narrow road that seldom allows room for any but to walk behind?

[roguethree]

Wrath, Educated, Part II

Embrace the pain. It drives the weakness from your body. You are a Blackmantle. Act like it!

I awaken from my fitful rest, the words still echoing in my consciousness. I dream often of home...what home was...when I don't dream of her. I sit up, and my scars stretch as I roll my shoulders forward. I hazard a glance to my left. Half the bed is yet made, undisturbed, as it has been for some time. Was I a fool before? Am I now?

I swing my legs off of the bed, and my bare feet find the floor. The wood is cold, and I shiver as I look into the cracks between the boards. I see blackness.

I reach for the nightstand drawer and slide it open. A score of pearls roll about inside, sounding like muted marbles as they carom against each other and finally come to a rest at the base of the emerald...the floor is slanted, I note. The emerald's in my hand, now, though I don't remember reaching for it.

I'm aware of the ache in my breast, and I clutch the gem tightly as I steady my agonized breaths. I close my eyes, and I see her writhing beneath some faceless lover, a calm smile on her lips as...

The gem falls from my hand, back into its drawer, and I mesh my hands into my hair, tugging at the roots as I grit my teeth against this torture, this ever-present reminder of who I'm not, of who she's not...

I know who I'm supposed to be.

It is unfinished, like me. It has a purpose, like me. It is ever ready to do its duty. When called, it answers. It protects. It judges. It punishes.

Half of the bed is yet made, undisturbed. I sought to be weak, there, to take refuge from this part of me, to lay and be held. I can not afford such weakness. Not anymore.

Not for now.