Of the Living and the Dead

[Tamha]

Previous Posts: Variations of Research and Questions in Faith

Darcy slid to the floor behind the counter she'd taken over at Unstoppable Forces. On the shelf to her right sat molding pieces she used to make full plate armor and heavy shields. On the one she was leaning against, a few pots of random dyes, and collapsed crafting dummies: one for human males, one for human females.

She carefully clenched and released her hands, trying to work out some of the sharp pains that came with too much smithing. Her arms and back were sore as well. The power she still carried let her make the pains subside for a time, but she really needed to lay the hammer aside at least for a few days if she wanted to really heal.

She thought about a realization she'd had a year and a half earlier: adventures in Sundren did not respect death. She did not recall who she'd been speaking with at the time, but she'd admitted to whoever it had been that the possibility of Myrkul's return might be a good thing, that perhaps those that failed to respect death under Kelemvor would learn to respect it through the fear Myrkul would impose.

Somehow, though, it seemed she was wrong. Death was not feared, it was not respected. Her god was dead now, if she died then she would be subjected to whatever special and terrible fate awaited all Kelemvorites at Myrkul's unmerciful hand. Everyone else, though, seemed to continue on as they ever did before.

She slipped the hidden holy symbol out from under her armor and held it before her eyes. The skeletal arm holding scales hung from the same cord it always had, though now she had to hide it. She should hide herself, as well, but she just couldn't do it. She didn't want to leave the valley again, and she would not lay down her hammer. So her name was out there, and if the wrong person with a long enough memory saw it, she could find herself dead quickly. For her, there would be no coming back.

[Tamha]

The Nightmare

It was happening again. She felt the sudden loss of Kelemvor, as keenly now as when it first happened. She saw his form crumple, not as he came to be with the robes and silver hair and death mask, but as she remembered him: a god in the form of a man with raven-black hair in the guise of a warrior, a soldier not completely unlike herself.

The black robed skeleton rose up from behind Kelemvor Lyonsbane's fallen body. His skull clattered at her, and she knew Myrkul was laughing as he swung his scythe at her.

As her bleeding body fell back, she was caught in an iron vice-grip by a great black hand. It squeezed her, breaking her in so many places, and green light radiated out from her - or the hand - and blinded her.

Darcy woke up, bolting up into a sitting position on the bed. She looked over, and like so many mornings when she woke from this particular nightmare, she saw she was alone.

She still didn't know what the dream meant, exactly, or why she was still having it. Maybe she would keep having it until Kelemvor was returned to his place, or, more likely, until the Myrkulites and Banites killed her. Whatever the nightmare meant, it always left her feeling chilled and strangely wary of using the power left to her.

[Tamha]

Stupid Stereotyping

She was fuming again. One annoying woman normally wouldn't be enough to irritate her so, but she was kind of touchy about this particular subject. For one thing, she preferred dark colored armor, but more importantly, she worked damned hard to make her armor the most attractive, striking, and in cases like Lucky's armor, the most intimidating armor she could manage. She designed the armor to strike fear into the hearts of those damnable orcs, not so that she and her customers would be summarily dismissed as Banites.

Of course, the fact the woman wasn't even bright enough to keep such outrageous accusations to herself was just further proof of the arrogance of adventurers. Perhaps it was wrong of her to do so, since it was exactly what the Black Hand wants, but Darcy was terrified by idea that Banites might be hanging out at the Second Wind. Again, though, her next death would be quite final, and were she found out by the Black Hand or the Cult of Myrkul... no, now it was the Church of Myrkul. With the death of Kelemvor and most of her brethren dead or converted, Darcy was now the cultist, who would swiftly be facing her own death should she be discovered.

It would be much too easy for them to find her out, too. The vampires Lilene and Isolde both knew her as a Favored of Kelemvor. Clive might know her, or he might not, she never faced him directly and there were around twenty other people with her when they all stormed the Citadel to rescue Amilynn.

Suddenly, Darcy collapsed to her knees. Her chest burned, and it was hard to breathe. She fought to clear her mind, to ease her breathing, and to push back the festering hatred that had swelled up in her. She was wrong, and she knew it. Ever since Kelemvor's death, she's been easier to irritate, faster to anger, and more willing to hate. Her fear rose up, mixing with the inexplicable hatred, and she choked on it.

She whispered a prayer to her dead god, and was able to get up from the floor of her inn room. The hatred and the fear were still there, but they let her go for now, and she was breathing again. She worried briefly about the power of her internal strife, and wondered what she would do when her prayers didn't free her anymore.