Blood Ties: Journal of Sylvain Enoic

[Sypthe]

Custom commission from artist: Ashley de Jong - Doucette

Part 1.

Dodge left, hook – connect, pull back.

Each of my motions is automatic, the result of over a decade of rigorous combat training. Nothing can distract me.

Weave right, feint, arm up to block and strike right. Gut-punch, winded.

For the first time, I begin feeling like I may win today. Jean Alossier, better known as ‘the Brute’, has never lost a fist-fight. A lumbering giant with wide shoulders, he gives a sluggish impression. But he controls each punch with enormous finesse, and is in better control of his body than most dancers.

Duck down, uppercut. A miss, don’t think about it, continue on. Sidestep. Kidney punch. Why isn’t he slowing down?

I watch my friend and colleague turn, his steel gauntlets catch the sun’s rays for a moment. From experience, I know that one solid hit from those fists will mean the end of the fight.

Jump back, feint dropping defenses. Lure him in….

“ENOIC!”

What was that?
I turn, stupidly. Jean seizes his opportunity.

Stars explode – spinning.

When I open my eyes, I look up into the faces of Jean and ‘Fly’ Bogdan, my weapon’s instructor. The latter man makes up for his lack of manners and faith with sheer skill. It is rumored that there is no weapon in all of Faerûn that he does not know how to wield. I’ve once seem him throw a chakram as if he were throwing a playing card onto a table. It cut through the solid wooden neck of the practice dummy.

I can’t hear the words, my ears are ringing. By the color on master Bogdan’s cheeks, I can tell he’s displeased. Slowly, his voice drifts into my consciousness. I crawl to my feet.

“Tymora’s Tits, ye farking no-good piece o’ shite, what tha’ shite are ye doin’ listenin’ to farkin’ people hollerin’ yer farking name while yer fightin’?!” he almost screamed in Sylvain’s ear. “Don’t ye farkin’ think that yer enemies’ll farkin’ know yer name? Shit, boy, ye might ‘s well drop yerself on yer own farking sword an’ spare the world tha’ farkin’ effort! Now go an’ report to the Boss!”

I’m used to it by now. I never did figure out what set most of my teachers so against me, but it seemed that I gained no ounce of the leeway my peers got. When they made a mistake, they would be punished by a simple few laps around the temple. Were I to make a similar mistake, I would be training with the longsword for an entire night. And Gods help me if the lack of sleep made me fall asleep the next day during the endless lectures on the tenets of our Faith. You learn to keep your mouth shut quickly, that way.

I nod and bring my hand to the side of my face in salute. Military salutes – Bogdan never lost his appreciation of those. His finger trembles with rage as he points to the exit of the training ground. “MOVE, BOY!” he snarls. Every joint aches, but I find myself jogging to the high priest’s chambers. “The Boss” he is called. Of course, never to his face.
I knock on the door.

Whether my heart is still racing from the training, the jogging here or the nervosity I can’t tell. When the cataracts formed on his eyes, our temple did not pity him. To go blind; we all considered it a gift of the Even Handed Himself. He never spoke on it. But the murky, misty blue eyes that remained in the sockets have the uncomfortable ability to seem like they penetrate not only your brain and lay bare every shameful thought you have ever had, but also your very soul.

I step into the room, and clasp my hands behind my back as taught. Back straight, chin up, eyes vacant. Focus inward, Sylvain, retain your calm.

“Sylvain Enoic, squire, age twenty. Local to our fine city of Arabel. Weapon of choice: longsword” the priest lists, from memory as far as I can tell.

Since when does he even know me?

[Sypthe]

Music: Theatre of Tragedy - ...a distance there is

Part 2:

“Wait, you’re what? Leaving?!”

Tyr’s eyes, she’s beautiful.

“For WHERE?! Show me the papers!”

She knows I can’t, the scroll case is sealed.

“Sylvain! The least you can do is talk to me!”

She fumes, her golden curls dancing about her face with every angry flick of her head. I don’t think I can speak, my voice might not hold.

“Say something!”

The hand lands flat on my chestplate. I’m in armor. Our goodbye won’t even have an embrace between our two bodies. She will be holding the paladin, not the squire.

“Tell them you can’t. Sylvain, you have to tell them you can’t!”

I can, and I will.

[Sypthe]

“Rain and Vampires, welcome to Sundren. “

I’m standing in pitch darkness. I cannot see – I feel for my blade, but it is not there. To my right, the mists part and reveal a grizzly scene: a raided caravan. Bodies are scattered around me, pools of blood are slowly coagulating.

I see myself, wandering from body to body and administering the last rites.

“May you find more justice in death than you did in life. Redemption in death.”

The words drown out all the surrounding noises. It’s my own voice – how bizarre. I remember what happened: an artifact had been sent by caravan, but it’d been raided. We retrieved the artifact, did we not? Had I not stood toe-to-toe with a demon straight from the Nine Hells, with sir Tornbrook by my side?

Had it not exploded? Then why am I here again?

I wander on, through the tunnel of darkness, until a window comes into view.



I look through it.

Her raven hair flows about her as she spins around her axis, her arm extended. In her hand, she has an enormous blade. Her spinning momentum is unbroken as it cleaves through an Ogre’s abdomen. His guts spill out, and spray her with gore. She pays no attention to it, and turns to the next. A dodge to the left – a feint, well-executed, and then its head rolls to the ground.

Alandriel Ward, a warrioress as fierce as one could find. She is rushing ahead, running around. To my shame, I realize she is ensuring no Ogres can come up at my side. Even larger is my embarrassment when I see myself in this phantom vision – I am clumsily holding off a single Ogre, lacking every bit of the grace she exhibits. I realize that without her; yes, I would have fallen.

She turns her head as we walk, conversing: “I would argue against something that I disagreed with. Passionately. Especially if I thought you were not being true to yourself, and were instead letting someone else’s opinion sway you.”

My response echoes through the caves: “And if I acted against your opinion, regardless?”

There’s a brief pause as her eyes scan the caves ahead: “I…I understand hard duty. I might not be as close to you afterwards. But I would not hate you, because I understand. Ruling is a dirty, complicated business”.

We are interrupted by another band of Ogres. They storm at us – I distract only two, while Alandriel swiftly dispatches the others.

As I clean my blade, I continue the conversation; we fight so much together that a battle does not even interfere with our talks any longer: “Not as close can be as harsh as not being friends at all” I say, and add softly “Few of us take a vow of chastity. It ends up coming natural.”

The woman chuckles, I can barely make out her silhouette in the darkness, then replies: “I suppose. You’d be lucky to find even one.”
I sigh, softly: “It’s hard to love a woman when you know you might have to take her head, one day”.

Then there it is, as I knew from memory that it would be. An enormous two-headed creature. It speaks to us. My phantom body moves to the side, capturing its attention so my companion can attack it in the back. The plan succeeds, but we are forced into a retreat despite our initial advantage: we turn and run, but I trip. The creature raises its club, and I can see my skull cracking.

It loses interest and wanders off. Had I been a better warrior, we’d not have fallen that day. Each droplet of her blood is an indirect testament of my incapability. There is no guilt; after all, I tried. There is no shame; after all, I gave the beast a fight. Yet the sadness remains.

I wander on through this dark tunnel of which I do not understand the origins. A door, crafted from plain wood.



I push down the handle, and swing it open. My lips move as if outside of my control, curving into a smile.

She motions animatedly as she talks, blonde hair bouncing up and down with each swift motion. She turns: “Is your "calling" a tragic tale then...? The march of strapping, optimistic and kind hearted young lads towards the inevitable grim reality of duty and suffering?” she asks, as she settles back into the sofa of the Sundren Comfort Inn.

I remember this conversation well.

My response comes softly, my eyes taking in the sights of the young woman – Spirit of Joy, I’ve dubbed her. It suits her.

“It seems that way. It certainly seems that way if you look at my seniors. But -- I don't know, Bri. I suppose I hope I'll be different. Hope, not think.”

As ever, a waterfall of the pleasant sound of her voices fills the room.

“You know, I think I met one of your seniors on the street the other day, but I didn't know it at the time. Mister...Dain, I think? Apparently he's really famous or something. But he just looked like...a lonely man...with a lot on his mind. He was very short - not ill-tempered but - Dain is what he said his name was, yes.”

I ask her to tell me everything about the man – curious as I am to know about the man whom I am about to serve under.

“He had these blue eyes...with the oddest little flecks of gold in them. They would have been beautiful...if they weren't so hardened... with a gaze like he could cut a hole in you with his eyes. I remember he wore a circlet...grand looking blue and black armor. Quiet and gruff. Answered my questions, if vaguely, withholding as much as he could...”

She lets the sentence linger in the air. I did not have the patience to wait it out, I had to know more.

“What did he say? Did he do anything? What questions did you ask?”

She furrows her brow, thinking hard:
“He...never tried to initiate anything back...or make small talk. Well, I just thought he was any other man on the city street at the time...gave a friendly greeting...asked him if he was out shopping... he had been at the bank you see, saying he was making a deposit to spend later for medicines for whoever needed them. I asked him where he was from...and he told me Neverwinter... but that his reasons for coming were private. And... that the reasons for his leaving were private...and...well...actually that was his answer to most of my questions, if he answered at all...is that it was personal.”

I give her a brief nod, and squeeze her arm lightly: “Thank you”.

Her cheerful smile drops for but a moment: “Sorry I can't tell you more about him. Why's it so important to you, about some quiet, gruff old paladin, anyways?”

It is strange to watch myself speak as such, and act as such. Is this what a paladin looks like?

“I'm to serve under him. According to these orders, at least. “
Briana quips, but her eyes are not smiling along: “I think you should ask for a transfer...are you allowed to do that?”

I didn’t notice, then – but I do now. Back then, I only laughed, and shook my head.

“Afraid not“

Briana’s smile had not returned to her eyes. How had I missed it, back then?

“Then you promise me you don't let him get to you... ...it wouldn't be good for you, Sylvain - ending up like that.”

I laughed, and sent a wink in her direction: “Maybe I'll have a little heroine to save me if I ever get threatened by such a dour outlook.”

Only then did the Spirit of Joy smile again, proudly: “Hah! You can count on it!”

I move away from the door, to continue my journey through this strange place where memories reveal themselves. Where am I? The fog – is it turning red?



It is, and my heartbeat is speeding up. The fog is all around me, crimson like fresh blood. A sharp, stabbing pain surges through my chest, and I wake up, gasping for air.

A dream. It was only a dream.