The Bone Lord's Daughter (feat. roguethree)

[prismaticcrow]

((The following is a collaborative writing effort with roguethree's Dain Tornbrook. Special thanks go out to him for his contribution to this little story, as well as his editing talents. Other players are free to roleplay that they witnessed this exchange, or heard about it later, though they are not permitted to interrupt or deviate from what is presented below.))

[prismaticcrow]

The sun had finally set, though the beautiful aurora of color that heralded sunset was splashed across the sky. Night was falling quickly, twilight fading into endless black. Stars began to twinkle high in the sky, appearing as if by magic, one after the other.

Iosolde stared up into this beautiful display. The air was chill and a gentle breeze blew, though the thin pale woman did not shiver. Indeed, she felt nothing at all. She stood in a simple black sleeveless dress made of a thin partially diaphanous material. A gauzy black sash was tied to her waste and she wore a simple necklace made of twine, a small copper pendant resting between her modest chest. She wore no shoes, her bare feet dirty from a brief walk to her destination. She stared up into that simple fading sky with striking sapphire eyes that did not blink, eyes that almost glowed in the dark. As the moon poked through the thinning clouds, it's light illuminated her, her skin shimmering almost blue in its pale radiance. Any who chanced upon her would think her a lost waif, separated in the growing dark. They would be fatally mistaken.

The crack of a whip and the brief whinnie of a horse drew her gaze from the starry night sky, turning her focus to the scene before her. She stood at the tail end of a line of caravans, halted in the road just a few hundred feet outside the Exigo Trading Post. One of the caravans at the head of the line had been stopped and searched for contraband, the mercenaries who guarded the entrance nervous in the light of recent Luskan terrorist attacks. As such, a line of eight wagons were stranded behind the luckless caravan, and were impatiently waiting their turn in the muddy road as night fell, eager to get within the safe and inviting confines of the Trading Post. Horses complained at the delay along with their teamster masters. Children from traveling folk had long since disembarked the wagons containing their families and ran about the chaotic scene, under horses and between legs, much to the consternation of merchants and parents alike.

Iosolde watched all of this with a passive, expressionless face. Her eyes darted here and there as she took in the scene. No one seemed to be paying much attention to her yet as she stood at the end of the wagon line. That was when she heard the faint giggle. She looked down towards one of the wagons and noted a little girl there, partially hidden behind one of the wagon's wheels, staring back her with a faint merry little grin. She giggled again when she was noticed and hid her face. Iosolde stared back at the child, her gaze never blinking. She was struck then by a momentary pang, the faintest hint of some long forgotten feeling of empathy. Of a time when the sight of such a pretty and innocent little girl giggling and hiding from her would make her smile, make her forget herself for a brief moment, lost in a simple joy. She felt none of this now, though she longed to; longed to remember what it felt like to feel those small pangs of conscience. She only remembered trying and failing to stand with these people. She only remembered their scorn and their fear. Without a word or flicker of expression, she looked away from the child.

She started forward, her feet sinking softly in the muddy road still wet from the recent rainfall. She did not even enjoy the simple sensation of the soft earth oozing around her feet, between her toes. Her mind was singularly focused now. She passed one wagon, then the next. People began to notice her now, for it was impossible not to stand out, looking the way she did, amidst this rabble of dirty and tired merchants. Curious stares first, at this pale beauty. A sharp intake of breath, a quickening of the heart. She pressed onward, walking amidst the crowd, paying no heed to the stares she was now bringing. They had not yet truly understood what she was, or what she aimed to do, yet her very presence commanded attention, sent a chill down their spines, drew their eyes to her own shinning reflective ones. By the time she passed the fifth wagon, people were talking. Furtive glances and hushed tones surrounded her. She could hear everything they were saying, but she heeded none of it.

At the sixth wagon she stopped, for its cart was mostly empty, carrying only a few large rugs rolled tightly into one side. The driver was not on the wagon; likely he was one of the merchants standing about now staring at her with intent and fearful looks. With a light motion she hopped onto the bed of the cart and turned to face the largest concentration of people. Conversation and ceased and everyone was staring at her now. Faces filled with naked fear, a thunderous chorus of rapid heartbeats echoed dully in her ears. Several took shelter behind others, behind wagons or horses. A single donkey was reigned to the cart she stood upon, it's ears flattened back and its teeth showing in nervous fear. Everyone was afraid. Everyone knew. No declarations were necessary. No overt shows of power. No grand gestures. They just knew. They knew precisely what she was. They did not know why she was here amongst them, and that frightened them.

Looking out over them, she raised her chin, a defiant gesture, daring one of them to step forward and confront her. None did. Without interruption she began to speak, her voice loud, her tone clear, perhaps arrogant.

[prismaticcrow]

"I am a Myrkulite." She began. "Most of you know what that is, know that Myrkul is a dead God, and that He possesses a cult here in your land, one tied to an organization that seeks your domination. But how much do you truly know about this dead God of the Dead? What does he mean to you? What does he bring?"

"Myrkul is the Dark Reaper, the Shepherd of the Dead and Departed, The Guide of those lost beyond the Veil. He is the God of the Dead. He is not the God of Death. Myrkul works no slaughter, no violence, no death. Myrkul is not a God of murder, or vice, or vileness. He does not poisoned your minds, steal your hearts, or ruin your lives. He does not bring you pain or torment. He is not a God of Death. He is a God of the Dead."

"He is the patient, the coldly calculating observer, the one who demands that all things must come to an end. He is the coldest and most impartial of judges. He cannot be swayed by any word or deed. From the lowliest commoner to the most nobly born, all are judged equally beneath his gaze. All planes are leveled before him. None can escape him because none can escape death. The end comes for all of us, even creatures such as I. Nothing can escape the slow and inevitable decay of existence. Nothing."

"Some would call Myrkul evil, call him cruel, and these are not lies. Myrkul's vengeance is cold and powerful, his retribution fitting. But what stirs his ire? The truth, surprisingly, is that little does. He is eternally patient and sees with a gaze that is long in foresight, and tempered in hindsight. Little truly catches him off guard. All plots, all ploys are exposed to Him who is timeless. His cruelty and wrath are not for simple people such as you. His vengeance is for those who wrong him or his church, His faithful. For those who try and deny their journey into the dark beyond. Who exist beyond his finality. The irony of my own existence coupled with my faith is not lost on me." She smirks faintly when she says this.

"But I have a purpose in spreading this word and so I am yet here still. And what of Kelemvor you might say? Why recognize this old God and his old cruel ways when you already have your Judge? Let me tell you about Kelemvor."

"Kelemvor is an usurper, a false claimant. He is an opportunist who seized power in the absence of the true God of Death during the Time of Troubles, when the Gods were made flesh and mortal and walked the land. He is too fresh, too new, too mortal to understand the mysteries of his position. Kelemvor treats Death like a simple equation, an uninteresting passing. He treats it with a singular uncaring, like a bland bureaucratic activity. He preserves no mystery, no wonder, no dread."

"Myrkul demands fear and respect of death. This is a good thing. Death should be feared, should be respected, for in that fear a greater appreciation of life, of the time you have left is born. How can you truly appreciate your precious short lives when you are content in knowing how you will fare in the afterlife? How can you truly appreciate the story of your life when you already know the ending? Myrkul preserves the mystery, the wonder, the awe of the Afterlife. He does not want you to know what fate awaits you because to know precisely how the End occurs devalues the meaning of death, the meaning of finality. Even worse, knowing the rules gives those in positions of power the ability to find loopholes in those very rules, advantages that they might exploit to live beyond their means, possibly at the expense of others. This is not the correct way. This is not how death should be."

"Myrkul does not revel in death and destruction. Myrkul does not murder needlessly. Though He is a part of this organization of fiends, he is also apart from them. They are allies of convenience only, used to help him return. Myrkul is not like Bane or Colibrus. Bane seeks to dominate you. Colibrus demands your blood. Myrkul? He merely asks for respect and mystery of the afterlife. To know your place in the cycle of life, and know that you, like everything else in this world, has a beginning and an ending. Bane is your enemy. Colibrus is your enemy. Myrkul is not. He cares nothing for your plights as equally as he cares nothing for the efforts of your enemies. As ever, he is impartial and eternal. The fairest of judges."

"And what of the killers you may have heard about? What of the priests of Myrkul that have been seen causing murder and death? Priest of Myrkul who cause chaos and death are misguided and dangerous and deserving of your scorn and attack. The truly faithful are nonviolent shepherds of the dead who only return the violence offered to them or their faithful."

"Myrkul is not your enemy. Truly he is little to you at all. Do not resist his coming, for their is no reason to resist. He will not destroy your crops, or burn your homes, or kill your families. He is no more cruel that you are, you who would seek cruel vengeance against those who would bring harm to your loved ones. When he was still alive, it has even been noted that he has been seen at funerals, standing quietly and respectfully aside, offering mute respect to the departed and reminding all in attendance that everything must end. When he is foiled by others, he has been known to release them and call off pursuit, viewing their efforts with an almost wry detachment and curious respect."

"Myrkul is coming. I can feel Him stirring even know, slowly coming to wakefulness and awareness. I can feel the unease in the air as Kelemvor realizes that his days a false patriarch of the Realm of the Dead is coming to an end. He knows that he will be done, that his time as regent is past and that the true Lord of the Dead is coming home. Do not struggle against it. Do not fight it. There is no reason to do so. There is no danger here from this circle. Myrkul will come and you will all be the same. You will all be alive and happy and content in your short lives until your end comes in its natural glory. And He will be there to greet you in the Afterlife, and judge you as you should be. You will not know how it will be done, as it should be. But you can be content and satisfied in one thing: that He will be fair. He has always been fair to those who live their lives well. Live as you believe you should, and there will be nothing to fear, but death itself."

She stops here, staring out over the crowd of people. There were no cheers, no clapping, no nodding or smiling. They stood stock still, eyes wide with fear and with uncertainty. There was no grand consensus that she was right. None proclaimed their faith had changed. None moved to stand with her. And yet she could tell that somehow her words and reached them, had some manner of effect on them. The seeds of doubt had been planted. It would have to be enough for now. There was no more to be said to these people. Only coming actions would bring realization and epiphany. For now, she had to be patient.

The silence was broken by the faint scrape of metal and the jingling of chains. It was distant at first, slowly growing ever louder and coming in an even cadence. The heavy tread of booted feet, the jangle of heavy armor. Something dark glinted in the back of the crowd. Black metal reflecting the light of the moon. Those near the back turned their heads and froze. Even from her vantage point atop the cart she could not yet see who was coming, but in heart of hearts she knew who it was.

The crowd began to move apart. Merchants, commoners, and children alike parted as a single figure strode evenly from the back of their ranks, slicing the crowd like a black glittering knife. He came forward slowly, deliberately, each step trembling his armor in that metal cadence. A cape of rich silk, as black as midnight, flowed behind him like the wings of a dark angel. A cowl encompassed much of his face, but his features were unmistakable. His strong jutting chin, his cold blue eyes, the halo of blonde closely cut hair that was barely visible beyond the cowl. The Adjudicator of Wrath had come. Iosolde stared balefully down at him from her perch.

[prismaticcrow]

The parted crowd closed behind him as he moved through the stunned silence, like water calming behind a ripple in a serene pool, and as he strode forward, those he passed near grew resolute and defiant. Fear melted from their features, replaced with a stoic confidence resting in the dark-armored figure that now strode to their front. The rhythmic jostle of well-oiled armor came to a stop mere paces from the perched vampiress, neither the strong chin lifting nor the hood receding to acknowledge the creature. The newcomer was silent for some time; an occasionally gusting breeze stirred the tall grasses that lined the road.

“Such lies,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, “are well-suited to an ally of the Tyrant.” He lifted his gaze, and his hood fell back, revealing the noble visage of the foremost of the Triad’s holy knights. His azure gaze shone brilliantly, challenging the moonlight for dominance, and the golden sunburst about his pupils flared with righteous zeal as his eyes fixed on the Myrkulite. As he spoke, he grew in volume, his voice reaching to the edges of the gathering.

“You would have these people fear death when you, yourself, feast on their blood to sustain your wretched existence. You would have these people accept you when you throw your lot in with them: tyrants who would put them in chains, rob them of their liberty, and govern them without mercy.”

The paladin boldly turned his back on the vampire, looking out over the throng and now speaking with a fiery passion.

“We are only as good as the company we keep. This undertaker would have you welcome it with open arms as it sharpens the murderer’s knife! The Myrkulites have thrown their lot in with the Black Hand, the same who slaughter your friends, unleash undead hordes across the Valley, and wish to shackle you with injustice and tyranny! The Myrkulites want to shepherd the dead . . . the dead who are slain by their terrorist and thug allies in the Black Hand.”

The warrior spun, facing the vampiress with an extended, accusing finger.

“There is no room in this Valley for your dead god, your dead faith, or your undead friends. Wrath is here, and where it walks, these people need not fear you or your lies.”

Many in the audience shouted their agreement, pumping their fists into the air and glaring defiantly at the vampiress. The paladin flashed his holy blade from its scabbard, and as the golden light of divine energies crawled along its length, his left hand, began to glow with white light. The warrior’s eyes glistened with deadly promise, and the muffled din of support grew into an excited chorus of common men and women shouting blasphemies against the Lord of Bones and encouragement to the Judicator of Wrath.

The ephemeral creature recognized the gathering energies for what they were, and she glared coldly at the intruding knight. Her lips suddenly turn upward into a smirk.

“Then let it begin, Wrath.“ She says with a haughty chuckle, fading into mist and slithered out into the night, away from the fickle crowd.

The caravan erupted into joyous cheers. Men and women shook the paladin’s hands and slapped him on his shoulders as he made his way back through their ranks, where his gleaming white war horse awaited. They were bolstered, courageous, undaunted.

On the outskirts of the caravan, where the paladin’s presence and words had not reached quite so well, some families wondered. They stared nervously into the night, clutching the hems of their clothes in apprehension…wondering…

((End. For now....))