Final Act, Scene 1 Jhelom fighting pits. Ascher spun to his left, his bokken held tight against his back. There was a loud clack as his opponent's blade was deflected. Ashcer contined the spin, and brought the point of his wooden kryss up quickly, aiming for the back of his opponent's head. The other man recovered his balance, though, and was able to bring his bokken around just in time. Ascher's blade missed its mark, but still connected with the back of his opponent's neck. The man cursed, and switched hands as his right shouldter went suddenly numb. And then the two men were apart, circling each other slowly once more, both moving to their right. His opponent's right arm was stunned, and he kept flexing the fingers of that hand, trying to work the feeling back into them. Ascher struck. He launched a quick combinattion of slashing and stabbing attacks. His opponent was hard pressed to keep up. Then, Ascher feinted towards his left, and then re-firected the slash into a sudden, sharply angled thrust at the man's side. His opponent's sward was held high, and he had an odd smile on his face. Ascher's bokken struck solidly, and the man grunted hard. Ascher heard bone pop as at least two ribs gave way. Then, his opponent struck. He cut down, hard, with his wooden Katana. There was a flash of light, and Ascher felt the world spin. He had time before the blackness closed around him to wonder to himself half-heartedly whether he was going to die after all. Then, there was nothing. **************** Luthain of Brae, grunted, and stumbled sideways. He coughed a loud, painful cough and instantly tasted blood on the back of his tongue. He turned his head and spat at the short, rail then woman who came ambling towards him, rolls of bandages already spinning in her hands. The healer pulled up short, frowned at him, and spat back. Then she turned and went to tend to the Watchman, whose head was already swelling, and looking rather bad. Luthain grunted, "All you had to do was pay for my ale, you fool." He turned and walked to a rough table where the seconds stood. One of them started to speak, but Luthain growled and there was silence as he downed a mug of thick brown ale in three gulps. Jhelom was hot, and the dueling pit was near unbearable, sunk as it was in the middle of the city with no shade to cool it. He turned back, and saw the healer crushing some herbs and rubbing them into the bandages, chanting as she did so. Sweat was suddenly dripping off her neck, though she had seemed comfortable just a moment before. She had scars on the backs of her hands that Luthain recognized. She had worked on the ships and on the docks......and, at some point, she'd worked for the pirates that sale out of hidden coves along the coast of Occlo. He wondered about that but didn't mention it. He didn't want to interrupt her. After all, if there was one thing that pirate healers are good at, it's treating battle injuries. Already the swelling along the side of the Watchman's head was receding. There was still a nasty bruise there, but his breathing had evened out at least. After a few more moments of wrapping, and chanting, the healer sat back on her heals, exhausted. She unstoppered a bottle of amber liquid, and helped the Watchman, who was now semi-conscious, drink the whole think in small, sputtering sips. Luthain grunted again, and turned back to the two witnesses. "There, it's settled," He said. The man who had stood for the watchman shook his head slowly, "I don't think so," He said, "That hit Lord Kraw landed. It would have killed you. You had no right to strike him like that." Luthain noticed the man's hand was moving toward the hilt of his weapon, and he sighed, which caused him to cough more blood, which he spat to the side, "Aye, it would have if we'd been using steel. It might do the job yet, we'll see. But, the fact is, it wouldn't have killed me quick. I would have had time to make sure I did the job on him before I went." "The duel was to last blood," The man grated, his voice strained, "Not to the death." "What do you think last blood is, fool?" Luthain barked, and coughed again. Black flecks danced briefly in frotn of his eyes, but he blinked them away, "In a fight like that, well, if it had been steel he'd be dead. And I would follow him shortly. I doubt that would matter much to him....but it would mean a great deal to me. Last blood. I drew it. We both bled it." The man's hand stopped moving. For a long, tense moment, he stared at Luthain with his jaw clenched. At one point his fingers actually twitched, but finally, slowly, he put his am back by his side. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and nodded once. Just then, the healer stepped up wiping her brow with a short length of bandage, "He'll live. Much harder, though, and I would have been pulling him back from the other side. He's fully recovered." "Oh, thank the fates," Luthain breathed, and he meant it. The last thing he needed was to kill the Watchman in a wrong-headed duel over the price of a spilled mug of ale and a bad night at dice. Luthain coughed and sank to one knee as his left side suddenly felt like it was about to rip itself open. The healer sighed and rolled her eyes, "Fool man takes two broken ribs and apunctured lung and things he can walk through the pain, Fool men make fool shades, they do say in the old ways." She stood with both hands on her hips, her head cocked slightly to the side. Her dark auburn hair was tied back in a tight bun, showing off her slim neck and shoulders. Luthain grunted and tried not to laugh. "Knife me, kiss me, or heal me, girl," Luthain growled, "I'm thirstly." She walked up and slapped him across the face hard, then leaned down and pecked him on his stinging cheek, "There's for you and your mouth. Now, can I heal you before you drown in your own blood, your Lordshp?" Luthain grinned and nodded, "Heal away, darlin." The healer began chanting even before she reached him, and Luthain could already feel a tingling numbness in his left side. She was a powerful healer, and good at what she was doing. She winked at him as she knelt by his side, and Luthain couldn't help but grin. She was pretty, too." ***************************************** Ascher was first aware of a flickering light. He tried to blink, but his eyes wouldn't work right. After a moment, though, everything faded to black. Then, the light returned, but clearer this time. Ascher blinked, and it worked. SLowly the blurry flichering in front of him resolved into a cracking fire on a stone hearth. Ascher blinked again. There were no stone hearths in the dueling pits of Jhelom. Ascher tried to stand up only to find that he was already standing. Funny, he didn't remember getting up off the ground. He looked down, and frownd at deeply polished wood so brown it seemed almost black. "Sit down," A woman's voice said from behind him, and Ascher winced. He knew that voice. Ascher looked up to find himself staring at Fate, seated in front of him, back three-fourths of the way to the fire. There was another comfortable looking chair with its back to him. Ascher had noticed neither the first time he'd seen the hearth, and it made his head hurt. He sat anyway. "Just what do you think you are doing?" Fate asked, even before his body had settled into the chair, "Do you think this is some kind of sheep stuffing, goat kissing game?" Ascher blinked. He had seen her irritated, frustrated, surprised, and even terrified. This was the first time, in all of the long and dusty years of his collective memories, had he ever seen Fate angry. Now she was furious. Ascher shrugged, and said somewhat sheepishly, "He challenged me to a duel. I couldn't say no." "School children. Simple, snot-nosed school children!!!" Fate cried, lifting her face to the rough-beemed celing overhead. Ascher blinked at the celing. He hadn't noticed that before either. When he dropped his eyes, he found he was looking directly into Fate's eyes, and he felt himself blush suddenly, and unexpectedly. Fate growled, "Thank the Fates that you are going to be okay. The healer working today just happened to be one of the most skilled in all of the city. You are welcome, as is your thick-brained friend over there." Ascher laughed in spite of himself, and blushed again, which made him even angrier, "He's not my friend. Didn't you hear me? He challenged me to a duel." "Yes," Fate snapped, her fist coming down suddenly on the arm of her chair. Her eyes suddenly caught the firelight and glowed briefly and intense greenish-gold. Ascher was suddenly frightened, "Yes, I heard. He challenged you. Now, you think about what your honor is worth if you fail in your task the next time someone challenges you in a tavern brawl. And think about what I said when you wake up. I meant every word." The walls began to fade to black. Ascher tried to make a reply, but suddenly he found that his mouth wouldn't work. If it had, he would have cursed as the blackness folded over him again. And then, the nothing was back. ************************************************************ End scene.
Zeddar stood on one of the small, square tables near the center of the tavern. The common room was packed, but it was so quiet that he could hear the swish of the serving maids skirts as they moved through the crowd refilling drinks and gathering empty mugs. Most of the faces staring up at him were grinning and breathless from dancing to the tunes he'd tapped out on his drum and his tamborine. But now, when their hearts were thumping, and their blood was hot....now was the time to strike. So, Zeddar pulled from the case on his back a fine crafted harp. The wood was ancient and so dark it was almost black, inlaid with fine silver workings and strung with silver strings so thin they looked like spider webs dancing in the light of the lamps and candles. He plucked a few slow, rising chords, and the crowd gasped. The sound was so soft, so clear that it made the ears ache for more. After a few rolling melodies, Zeddar began to speak, his voice heavy and resonating. "Long ago, across the Shadow Mountains, where the desert sands and the sea breezes mingle and the paths from North, South, and East cross, there was a place that I called home. It stood on what some call the Forever Plains.....Some call the field of Doradoorn..... Some call the Ethereal Marches...... Though even those names have long faded from time and memory. To me, it was called Silvervale." Zeddar plucked a run along his harp, his fingers dancing and teasing out a light and airy tune that lifted the spirit like birds singing in spring. A few eyes widened at the mention of the town, and more than one patron elbowed their neighbor in anticipation. The legend of Silvervale was still alive in Minoc, even if most believed it nothing more than a tale to tell children as they lay down to sleep. "It was a simple place," Zeddar continued, letting the harp drift once more into the background, "But a place of beauty and grace. All were welcome there. I saw vampires sit with paladins and share a glass of wine. A warlock sat with me and discussed our feud which stretched back three generations. The Keepers of the Watch guarded the peace, and all were safe within the halls of Silvervale. "But, as a candle draws a moth to its flame, so the light of Silvervale drew darkness to it," Zeddar strummed a dark set of chords on his harp, and the crowd took a collective step back, "The orcs came first, with their clubs and their axes. They tried to burn us out. But we prevailed. And then came the ettins and the ogres, trolls from the mountains, and whole herds of dire wolves running in their midst. Still we prevailed. Gazers, harpies, and all manner of beasts poured from the mouth of Covetous, set on sweeping away the peace of Silvervale. Yet, we prevailed." There were tears in a few eyes, and on more than one cheek now, and the crowd leaned in towards Zeddar, hungry for what happened next. "But the deepest darkness grows from within," Zedar said, his voice barely a whisper above his harp, "We were betrayed. A member of our High Council turned and welcome the darkness, and with it came our undoing. The undead rose among us. Hordes of skeletons, wraiths, spectres, and ghouls came on the winds driven by the whips and chants of Liches and Liche Lords driving them. In their midst rode Dreadlords, turned Mages and Wizards who cast death about them as a farmer casts rye in the spring." The crowd held its breath now, hovering on the edge of its seat. "The towers burned, the Hall of Mystics was broken, the Sanctuary was defiled. All seemed lost. Then, the First Wizard, eldest of the Council of Mystics, was captured. The General of the Army of Darkness, the Necromancer who pulled the strings the Liches and Liche Lords danced to, had the Wizard brought to him as a trophy, still alive. He thought to use the Wizard. To turn him and to break the spirit of Silvervale with his turning. "But the Wizard had other plans. In the last moments of sanity, before the agony of his torture consumed him and changed him, the Wizard unleashed a powerful spell..... a deep and ancient magic that even the Necromancer had not known. The power required the one who unleashed it to give everything to the spell....It was the ultimate sacrifice." Zeddar stilled his harp strings with the palm of his hand and whispered into the silence, "In a blinding flash, the Wizard died with a smile on his face. For he knew, with his death, he would save the ones he loved." Zeddar let his words hang in the air, but didn't continue. A few of the patrons frowned, then more. Finally, someone towards the back shouted, "But what about the Necromancer? Was he destroyed? What about Silvervale?" Zeddar smiled and plucked softly at his harp again, "The Necromancer was banished and dispelled.... his energy scattered to the winds, but he was not destroyed. Can one destroy death? No, he was not destroyed, but as near as can be. Some say he still stalks the shadows of the world today.... waiting..... biding his time...... gathering his strength..... And, as for Silvervale....." Zeddar smiled and slipped his harp back into its case, "Silvervale rebuilt. It stood for another passing of the ages.... but, as all things of man eventually do, it fell, and crumbled to dust. But that is a tale for another time." Zeddar slung his harp case back onto his back, and hopped down from the table. The crowd erupted in cheers and the rattle of mugs thumping on tables was nearly deafening. More ale and wine than he could drink in a month was offered to him, and he partook of probably more than his fair share. His performance was done for the time being, though, and he enjoyed himself. A bard's life was not always easy.... but it was not always difficult either. Hours later, most of the crowd had either left or passed out. Zeddar sat alone at a table, idy spinning a chess piece on its side, a half-empty mug of ale in front of him. Suddenly a woman slipped into the seat across from him, and Zeddar sat up. He blinked, and after a bit of effort, focused his eyes on her face. She had startlingly green eyes, and she was beautiful. Zeddar grinned. The woman scowled. "Is this what you plan to do?" She asked as if adressing a petulant child, "Soak your days in ale and wine, spinning tales of glory gone by?" "These people love my tails," Zeddar said, and chuckled, "They love my tail. My tales.... my tells? They love something. And that's what is good to love when they love it." Zeddar reached for the ale, but the woman knocked the mug from the table, sending it spinning end over end. "Hey!" Zeddar called, reaching feebly after it. The woman brought her hand down hard on the table, hard enough that it should have woken ever person in the tavern. Zeddar blinked again, and looked around. Time seemed suddenly to be frozen. The mug the woman had knocked over was hovering in mid air a few feet away, ale still spilling from it. The flames in the huge stone hearth along the wall stood frozen in their dance. Zeddar swallowed hard, and looked back into the eyes of Fate. "Now that I have your attention," Fate said, her voice sharp as a needle, "I have a message for you. Dry yourself out and put yourself together. The Darkness is on the move once more, and like it or not, you still have a part to play. You chose sides a long time ago, and that's not a choice you get to unmake. Do I make myself clear?" Zeddar nodded feebly. "Good. Now," Fate reached into a pouch hanging around her neck that Zeddar hadn't noticed before. She drew out a thin vial of fine crystal. Inside was a liquid that was almost clear, but not quite, and tinged slightly blue. She handed it to him, "Keep this safe, no matter what the cost." "What is it?" Zeddar asked, when he'd found his voice again. Fate took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her expression softened, and something akin to sorrow danced behind her green eyes. Finally she said, "There is a power in tears shed in love for another. Power to heal.... power to mend. That is what is in that vial." Zeddar looked at it, turning it in the odd light cast by a still fire, "And who were these tears shed for?" He asked, somewhat dreamily. Fate sighed, deep and heavy, the pain and sorrow in her eyes clear now, "They were shed for you, First Wizard," She whispered. Zeddar's head snapped immediately up, but he found himself alone at the table as his mug clattered noisily to the floor. For a long time, he sat, and stared at the vial in his hands as the light from the fire cast dancing shadows on the tavern walls around him.
Luthain pulled the door to the tower open slowly, carefully. The interior was well-lit and comfortably decorated. Rich, even. He eyed the stacks of gold on several tables and his fingers twitched in spite of himself. With enormous effort, he managed not to stare at the pile of platinum coins. There was bigger business at hand, and he hade best be to it. The Wizard had told him to come as he needed, and that he would always find sanctuary here. Still, even these friendly walls seemed to press in on him like a weight. He took a deep breath, and felt a sharp pain in his side. The healer had done her work well, but he would need some days yet before his fight with the Watchman was behind him. Luthain grinned when he thought about the fight, and the look in the Watchman's eyes as his sword struck home. Last blood indeed. Now the Watchman was far to the north, following a trail that he hoped would lead him to the Servant's lair. Luthain had been sent to Moonglow to book passage to Dagger Island. Rumors of an undead army massing in the dark halls of Deceit had him troubled. But first, there was a matter to attend to here, in Paws. He'd already spoken to Dorian Andrael, the silky smooth Merchant at the Siren's Call, and if anyone could dig out information from unlikely sources, it was him. The man seemed so small, so frail....yet there was iron in his bones. He'd proven that more than once. Even with all of his resources, though, Dorian had not been able to find his quarry. So, Luthain had no choice but to turn to the Wizard. Even as he eased his horse carefully up the stairs, Luthain heard his Grammy's voice in his ears, "Boy, don't miss with dem witches, seers, and wizards. They'll tie you and twist you in knots fore you know what hand you in." Luthain shuddered. Right now, he had no choice. He reached into his pack and drew out a small, leather bound book and a pen. He scratched out a hasty message, tucked the book into a box at the base of the second floor stairs, and turned to go. As an after thought, Luthain slipped a small blue stone that a dsert gypsy woman had given him for saving her donkey from a giant scorpion. He frownd as he did, unsure of why, but it seemed to feel right. Once outside, Luthain breathed a bit easier, if not deeper. After all, his ribs still ached. He turned his horse south instead of north, when he left. Everyone in the tavern had heard him tell the Watchman he would book passage from Moonglow, so Moonglow is where they would be waiting for him. Luthain dug his heels into his horse's flanks and rode south instead, straight for the walls of Trinsic.
