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The half-orc steps out of the caravan and stretches, taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air. The ground was still damp from the overnight thundershowers, with his heavy steps squishing the wet grass. Half squinting from the rising sun, he gazed up at the entrance to the Gate.
Sundren.
The word has been echoing repeatedly in his head over the past months, with increasing frequency. At first he wasn't sure if it was a name of a prophet, a sacred relic, or some other riddle his Lord has given him. He still remembers clearly the first time that word entered his world - the night he was with Melissa Maggen. That sweet, young woman, full of potential. The next in line for her father's political empire. Her warmth and wisdom were in full display, when she invited the half-orc to her birthday celebrations. Ah, how quickly one's fortunes can change in the span of an evening ... a thought that must've been racing through Melissa's mind as she lied naked, strapped helplessly in her own basement, staring at the blade held high over her chest by the very same half-orc she had befriended. He plunged the blade deep into -
Sundren.
The word rang in his head, and he jerked ever so slightly, missing Melissa's heart by a fraction. The pain was no less than if he had been on target, as evidenced by her scream, but he frowned in disappointment. The perfectly planned theater was ruined. Who dares to interrupt his delivery of this woman into death? He spent the next weeks hunting the meaning of the word. No amount of dying librarians begging for their lives were able to help. It was getting stronger, more frequent, more relentless.
Sundren.
Alas, he found his answer in Waterdeep, listening to a bard's tale of Mundus. Not only that, but tales of a certain Quintus reached the half-orc's ears. It became clear then what the word meant.
Sundren.
He refocused back onto the Gate standing before him. A guard is standing just beyond, tapping his foot as if impatient with how slow all the caravans are going through. The half-orc turned to give the caravan leader he traveled with a small pouch of coins. The half-orc paused a moment to examine the man's face - blissful ignorance. That will soon change once he realizes his daughter is dead and tied to a tree not thirty steps from where they stood.
Sundren.
Without a word, the half-orc turns and enters the Gate. He has arrived.
Sundren.
The word has been echoing repeatedly in his head over the past months, with increasing frequency. At first he wasn't sure if it was a name of a prophet, a sacred relic, or some other riddle his Lord has given him. He still remembers clearly the first time that word entered his world - the night he was with Melissa Maggen. That sweet, young woman, full of potential. The next in line for her father's political empire. Her warmth and wisdom were in full display, when she invited the half-orc to her birthday celebrations. Ah, how quickly one's fortunes can change in the span of an evening ... a thought that must've been racing through Melissa's mind as she lied naked, strapped helplessly in her own basement, staring at the blade held high over her chest by the very same half-orc she had befriended. He plunged the blade deep into -
Sundren.
The word rang in his head, and he jerked ever so slightly, missing Melissa's heart by a fraction. The pain was no less than if he had been on target, as evidenced by her scream, but he frowned in disappointment. The perfectly planned theater was ruined. Who dares to interrupt his delivery of this woman into death? He spent the next weeks hunting the meaning of the word. No amount of dying librarians begging for their lives were able to help. It was getting stronger, more frequent, more relentless.
Sundren.
Alas, he found his answer in Waterdeep, listening to a bard's tale of Mundus. Not only that, but tales of a certain Quintus reached the half-orc's ears. It became clear then what the word meant.
Sundren.
He refocused back onto the Gate standing before him. A guard is standing just beyond, tapping his foot as if impatient with how slow all the caravans are going through. The half-orc turned to give the caravan leader he traveled with a small pouch of coins. The half-orc paused a moment to examine the man's face - blissful ignorance. That will soon change once he realizes his daughter is dead and tied to a tree not thirty steps from where they stood.
Sundren.
Without a word, the half-orc turns and enters the Gate. He has arrived.