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The full-plated figure in a tattered red cloak stalked through the threshold, and those that normally would have given a cheerful wave instead shrank back a little, uncertain, from her body language. Something was different; something was wrong. They did not ask, and she did not seem to be in a mood to tell.
She disregarded her normal greeting for Aelyis, her nod to Antioch and her evening peek in the door of sir Caspar's combined office and armory. Her boots, blackened and scored, carried her straight through the sanctuary towards the Hall of Valor, and the women's quarters.
The neophytes in the ring were, of course, too busy getting their ribs thumped to pay any attention as she opened the door adjacent to the Tormites' Hall; too absorbed in their drill to hear the door slam shut. Sir Balthazar noted, and frowned, but his mind was too occupied to stay fixed on a minor discrepancy from one of the many clerics who lodged at the temple.
She made it to the bed, half-sitting and half-collapsing onto the wooden framework; it groaned with the weight of her armor and body, but held. Her face fell forward into her armored gauntlets.
Even from Tyr, is there no justice?
How could he allow this to happen to such a loyal servant?
Minutes; the swordsman had said. He had been subjected to negative energy, the pure magic of death, for minutes on end. She had tasted a few seconds before, and it had nearly undone her; she had seen those slain by it come back to life still screaming from the memory of the pain alone.
...minutes.
Gods.
The second fire trap had been well-hidden; Kai's hand was on the door when the entire world exploded. The elemental warding spell she'd woven around herself had not been nearly enough. Inside her armor, the padding burned; the armor itself melted and fused in places to her flesh.
It still was. She had not stopped fighting. As soon as the weakness had passed from her limbs upon her awakening, she had thrown herself into the fray again, and again after that. Andrenaline, and the righteous fury of Torm, had kept her going.
What had they accomplished? What of the sword they had sought to retrieve, to send back to the temple in Neverwinter with the remains of a hero a hundred times greater than she?
Gone. Lost. And nothing to be done. Nothing...
Of all feelings, helplessness was the worst.
She unstrapped her bracer and tugged on it, eliciting a spike of pain from her forearm. It was not worth minding. Relentless, she tugged, and again; finally, the bracer ripped free. Her arm bled openly from where a patch of her skin had come off with it, and blisters remained that had not been touched by the healing spells. She touched two fingers to the skin; it wove back together, and the blisters subsumed into nothing.
The memory of the pain remained.
Would the memory of his pain persist, also? Would he carry those horrifying minutes with him into the afterlife?
Impassive, she began to remove the rest of her armor, roughly shoving each piece underneath her bed. There was more pain, more tearing, but she barely felt it. She was back at the docks, hearing Commander Nightwind comment on the chance that something bad would now happen.
...it did. Against just deserts, it did.
What else remains, if a life of such character and faith meets with such an end? How much more do I deserve the torment that the-- blackened, twisted, spawn of a Baalor's thighbone put him through?
At length, she found herself sprawled out on the bed, her bare back pressed into the woolen blanket. Dried blood from healed wounds scuffed in an odd manner as she spread out, eyes drifting shut. There was the memory of more pain, though no wounds bled; for the life of her, she could not remember healing them.
She fell into sleep almost instantly, but it brought little rest.
She disregarded her normal greeting for Aelyis, her nod to Antioch and her evening peek in the door of sir Caspar's combined office and armory. Her boots, blackened and scored, carried her straight through the sanctuary towards the Hall of Valor, and the women's quarters.
The neophytes in the ring were, of course, too busy getting their ribs thumped to pay any attention as she opened the door adjacent to the Tormites' Hall; too absorbed in their drill to hear the door slam shut. Sir Balthazar noted, and frowned, but his mind was too occupied to stay fixed on a minor discrepancy from one of the many clerics who lodged at the temple.
She made it to the bed, half-sitting and half-collapsing onto the wooden framework; it groaned with the weight of her armor and body, but held. Her face fell forward into her armored gauntlets.
Even from Tyr, is there no justice?
How could he allow this to happen to such a loyal servant?
Minutes; the swordsman had said. He had been subjected to negative energy, the pure magic of death, for minutes on end. She had tasted a few seconds before, and it had nearly undone her; she had seen those slain by it come back to life still screaming from the memory of the pain alone.
...minutes.
Gods.
The second fire trap had been well-hidden; Kai's hand was on the door when the entire world exploded. The elemental warding spell she'd woven around herself had not been nearly enough. Inside her armor, the padding burned; the armor itself melted and fused in places to her flesh.
It still was. She had not stopped fighting. As soon as the weakness had passed from her limbs upon her awakening, she had thrown herself into the fray again, and again after that. Andrenaline, and the righteous fury of Torm, had kept her going.
What had they accomplished? What of the sword they had sought to retrieve, to send back to the temple in Neverwinter with the remains of a hero a hundred times greater than she?
Gone. Lost. And nothing to be done. Nothing...
Of all feelings, helplessness was the worst.
She unstrapped her bracer and tugged on it, eliciting a spike of pain from her forearm. It was not worth minding. Relentless, she tugged, and again; finally, the bracer ripped free. Her arm bled openly from where a patch of her skin had come off with it, and blisters remained that had not been touched by the healing spells. She touched two fingers to the skin; it wove back together, and the blisters subsumed into nothing.
The memory of the pain remained.
Would the memory of his pain persist, also? Would he carry those horrifying minutes with him into the afterlife?
Impassive, she began to remove the rest of her armor, roughly shoving each piece underneath her bed. There was more pain, more tearing, but she barely felt it. She was back at the docks, hearing Commander Nightwind comment on the chance that something bad would now happen.
...it did. Against just deserts, it did.
What else remains, if a life of such character and faith meets with such an end? How much more do I deserve the torment that the-- blackened, twisted, spawn of a Baalor's thighbone put him through?
At length, she found herself sprawled out on the bed, her bare back pressed into the woolen blanket. Dried blood from healed wounds scuffed in an odd manner as she spread out, eyes drifting shut. There was the memory of more pain, though no wounds bled; for the life of her, she could not remember healing them.
She fell into sleep almost instantly, but it brought little rest.