Welcome to Egede
Following the heart-stopping encounter with the sky whale, and the near-death experiences of Casiina and Zenith, the party found themselves drawing closer to a bustling port. The Mermaid’s Tears, their spectral ship, cut through the cerulean waves with an ethereal grace, its ghostly hull glinting in the sunlight.
As they neared the harbor, they noticed a smaller vessel, a simple fishing boat, rowing out towards them. At its helm was an older man, his skin weathered by the sun and sea, his hair and beard as white as the frothy crests of the waves. His attire was that of a seasoned sailor, worn and faded from countless voyages. He was accompanied by a small crew, their faces etched with lines of apprehension.
“Hail!” he called out, his voice rough as old rope. “Kill your sails and drop anchor.” His command echoed across the water, but his eyes darted nervously back to the shoreline, as if expecting some looming threat.
Casiina, with her childlike innocence, cocked her head to one side in confusion. “Kill the sails? Why would we harm Canvas and…” she began, her words trailing off as she looked at the billowing sails above them.
Captain Adney, the spectral captain of the Mermaid’s Tears, interrupted her, his voice as cold and deep as the ocean depths. “Aye, lass,” he said, his ghostly figure shimmering in the sunlight, “He means we’ll just fold ’em.”
The crew sprang into action, the phantom sailors pulling on ropes and hoisting up the sails. The ship groaned as it slowed, the sails folding in on themselves like giant wings. The anchor splashed into the water, sending ripples across the surface.
As the Mermaid’s Tears came to a halt, the party watched the approaching boat with wary eyes, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons. They had faced countless dangers before, and although the old sailor didn’t seem threatening, they knew better than to let their guard down.
The man in the boat hollered back at them, his voice carrying a note of stern warning. “I’ll have you know, we don’t take kindly to your sort docking here. You may be fine folks, but we’ve no wish to harbor a ghost ship, especially one that looks like it’s been freshly dredged from a lake bed.” His gaze lingered on the battered hull of the Mermaid’s Tears, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Zenith, the pacifist gargoyle, turned to one of the spectral sailors. “Is this what humans refer to as prejudice?” he asked, his voice rumbling softly. The phantom sailor only nodded in silent affirmation, his ethereal form flickering momentarily.
Casiina piped up again, her voice filled with childish curiosity, “You’re right, we ARE fine people and we DID come from a lake! How did you guess? And do you have any sweets? I like sweets!” The last bit was added with an eager glint in her eyes.
“That may be all well and good,” the stranger retorted, “but you can’t bring that ship into port.”
Casiina tilted her head, her wings fluttering in thought before she replied, “If we can’t take our boat, can we take yours?” The stranger looked taken aback by her audacious request, his weathered face betraying a moment of confusion. Yet, he didn’t seem entirely opposed to the idea.
Jagen, the Fetchling Cleric, watched the man closely, studying his behavior. There was something peculiar about him. His eyes darted around nervously, his hands constantly fidgeting with the hem of his sailor’s jacket. It was as if he wanted to communicate something but was too apprehensive to voice it.
Casiina blinked her large, innocent eyes at the man, trying to make a good impression. “We dealt with the Red Duchess,” she said, her voice carrying a note of pride. “We had to. They were pirates and they were on the sea.”
The stranger seemed taken aback. “The Red Duchess?” he echoed, his eyes widening slightly. “She was heading to Skywatch. Must’ve lost her way in these treacherous waters.” His gaze softened momentarily as he looked at them again. “Not your captain, but YOU may come ashore if you wish.”
Just then, Zenith interjected, his deep voice echoing across the water. “It would mean a great deal to us if you allowed our ship to stay here,” he said, his stone-like features displaying an unusual gentleness. “We’ve been through a lot, nearly lost our lives. I’d like for us to rest here.”
Casiina, ever the curious one, interrupted. “Do you not like non-humans?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“It’s not me, but perhaps others,” the stranger admitted, his tone resigned. Then, after a moment of contemplation, he added, “Fine! You have one hour to sell your goods. Just one hour. Let’s get back to the dock.”
With that, he turned his boat around, leading the Mermaid’s Tears towards the port. As they approached, the party could feel the weight of numerous uncomfortable glares from the townsfolk. The spectral Captain Adney, seemingly oblivious to the unease, began unloading the goods he had for sale.
As the party prepared to disembark, they knew their hour-long sojourn in this town would be an interesting one.
As the spectral form of Captain Adney maneuvered the Mermaid’s Tears towards the bustling docks, the city of Egede revealed itself. Positioned on the Lake of Mists and Veils, it was a sight that commanded attention. Once a beacon of hope during the Mendevian Crusades, it now carried the weight of its past along with an uncertain future.
The cargo, a collection of tools and sundry equipment, was quickly unloaded, and Resi, the Nagaji Magus, addressed the ghostly captain. “We will find buyers for these items, Captain,” he said, his voice echoing off the water. “We could use some of the gold for much-needed repairs.”
Captain Adney’s response was a soft chuckle that rippled through the air. “Just be careful,” he warned, his spectral eyes gleaming with a mix of mirth and concern. “Egede may seem calm, but the currents run deep.”
With a final wave, the captain began to pull away from the dock, the ship disappearing into the mist. “Fair winds, Captain!” Casiina called after him, her voice carrying across the water. Resi joined in with a hearty, albeit poorly imitated, “Good luck out there, Arrrghhh!” The captain responded with a warm smile and a wave, leaving the party standing at the edge of Egede.
The city itself was a living testament to the passage of time. Its cobbled streets bore the scars of countless battles, and its buildings, though worn and weary, stood defiant against the ravages of time. The scent of the sea permeated everything, mingling with the aroma of fresh bread from the bakeries and the metallic tang of the blacksmith’s forge.
The inhabitants of Egede were a hardy lot, their eyes reflecting a mix of suspicion and resilience. They moved with a wariness that spoke of the city’s troubled past, their actions hinting at a deep-seated mistrust of strangers. Yet, beneath this veneer of suspicion, there was a spark of hope, a determination to survive and thrive against all odds.
As they ventured deeper into the city, the party could feel the weight of Egede’s history bearing down on them. The city, once a stronghold of crusaders, was now a place of intrigue and uncertainty, its future as unpredictable as the winds of the Lake of Mists and Veils.
In the heart of Egede, Casiina and Resi set out on a mission to find an apothecary. The city was alive with activity, vendors hawking their wares, children running between stalls, the smell of fresh bread and spices filling the air. Varg and Ekos trailed behind them, their eyes taking in the sights and sounds of the city, observing every nook and cranny.
Meanwhile, Jagen had his own mission. He wandered through the city streets, searching for an inn called Iomedae’s Arm. Rumor had it that the inn was run by a former Mendevian Crusader, a dwarf with a reputation as solid as the stone walls of the city itself.
Zenith, true to his nature, had taken up with Sakuachi and her clan, wandering the city in search of information. Every snippet of conversation, every rumor and whisper, was a piece of the puzzle they were trying to solve.
Jagen eventually found Iomedae’s Arm, its sign a flexing arm carved from wood. As he pushed open the door, the warm glow of the hearth greeted him. Behind the counter stood a grizzled dwarf, his skin marked by countless battles, one eye gleaming gold, the other silver. A long scar ran down his face, ending at his chin, and his hands bore the speckled marks of age.
Jagen reached into his pouch, pulling out his holy symbol. The dwarf’s eyes flickered with recognition as he pulled on a silver chain around his neck, revealing an identical symbol. For a moment, they stood there, two warriors bound by a shared faith, each carrying the weight of their pasts.
With a nod of acknowledgment, Jagen introduced himself to the dwarf. “I am Jagen, a follower of Nocticula,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the dimly lit inn.
The dwarf grunted in response, his gold and silver eyes appraising the Fetchling cleric. “Name’s Gar,” he said, extending a rough hand towards Jagen. “What brings you to Egede?”
Jagen sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly under the weight of his journey. “We are weary from our travels and in need of rest,” he admitted. “We also have goods to sell.”
Gar studied him for a moment longer before breaking out into a broad grin. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, lad!” he declared. “I can provide you with a room, clean and comfortable. And as for your goods, I know a few folks who might be interested.”
Jagen looked at him, surprise evident in his eyes. “How much would that cost us?” he asked, reaching for his coin pouch.
Gar waved him off, his grin never wavering. “For you and your companions? It’s on the house!” he announced, much to Jagen’s astonishment. “Consider it a gesture of goodwill.”
Jagen was overwhelmed with gratitude. “Thank you, Gar,” he said sincerely. “Your kindness is greatly appreciated.”
As he turned to leave, Gar called after him. “Just one thing, lad,” he said, his tone suddenly serious. “Keep an eye out for the Committee of Moral Rectitude. They’re a snooty bunch, always sticking their noses where they don’t belong.”
Jagen turned back to him, his brow furrowed in confusion. “And how do you know this?” he asked, curiosity piqued.
Gar chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Because, lad,” he said, winking at Jagen, “I’m one of them.”
With that revelation hanging in the air, Jagen left Iomedae’s Arm, his mind filled with questions and his heart filled with a newfound resolve. He knew he had to find his companions and share what he had learned. Egede was proving to be more complex than they had anticipated, but they were ready to navigate its intricacies, together.
In the shadowy corners of an apothecary shop, Casiina and Resi found themselves face-to-face with Becca, a stern woman of advancing years.
Her silver-gray hair was tightly wound into a bun, a reflection perhaps of her no-nonsense demeanor. Her presence filled the small space, a match for the pungent aroma of medicinal herbs that hung in the air.
The shop was a cornucopia of esoteric curiosities; jars of dried plants, vials of colorful liquids, and odd trinkets cluttered the shelves, each item a testament to Becca’s years of experience in the trade.
With a sigh, Resi began to unveil the party’s loot. The collection was as eclectic as their adventures had been: pieces of armor bearing the scars of battle, weapons worn from use, and other less identifiable trinkets. Each item whispered tales of their journey, the victories won and losses suffered.
Becca’s gaze swept over the assortment with practiced indifference. “There’s a transaction fee for each item,” she said, her voice as dry as the herbs hanging from the rafters. “And a surcharge for battle-worn items.”
Resi bit back a retort. He was well aware they were being swindled, but he was weary from their travels and more than willing to lighten his load, even at a cost.
Meanwhile, Casiina was engrossed in a collection of alchemical formulae, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Oblivious to Becca’s overcharging, she selected a few scrolls and handed over the gold without a second thought.
With a nonchalant gesture, Becca produced a promissory note. “You can collect your 225 gold at any bank,” she said, her voice echoing in the silence of the shop.
As they stepped outside, the city noises washing over them, Resi couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret. But they had accomplished their mission and lightened their burden.
Zenith and Sakuachi wandered through the winding streets of Egede, their footsteps echoing off the cobblestones.
Accompanying them were Sakuachi’s clan mates, a group who moved with a grace that belied their appearance. In the backdrop of the bustling city, they felt an unwelcome sensation – the prickling awareness of being watched.
“Notice our shadow?” Zenith asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, but his senses were attuned to the figure moving in sync with them, halting when they halted, walking when they walked, and constantly scribbling notes.
Sakuachi, her eyes darting to the lurking figure and back to Zenith, nodded subtly. “I see them,” she said, her voice steady despite the situation. “But let them be.”
There was a hint of caution in her tone, enough to make Zenith glance at her in surprise. But the look in her eyes stopped him from questioning her further.
As they continued their walk, the atmosphere around them grew tense. The locals seemed to sense their unease, their cheerful chatter slowly dying down as they cast wary glances towards the mysterious figure trailing them. Shopkeepers hurriedly ushered their customers inside, while children stopped their games to huddle close to their mothers.
The stranger’s presence was like a storm cloud over a sunny day, casting a pall of apprehension over the otherwise bustling city. It was then that Sakuachi decided it was time to regroup.
“We should head back to the others,” she suggested, her voice barely audible over the murmur of the crowd. There was no argument from Zenith or the others.
The motley crew of adventurers, each bearing the weight of their unique histories and shared perils, reconvened at the inn. Their arrival in Egede had been anything but welcoming. A surly man had greeted them at their ship, his disdain palpable. The innkeeper, a gruff dwarf, had cryptically warned them of a ‘committee,’ an ominous note to their already tense situation. To add to their woes, they’d been fleeced by a local shopkeeper and followed by a mysterious figure scribbling notes.
Their bodies were weary, their spirits frayed. It had been an age since they’d last rested, their bodies still carrying the scars from their encounter at The Naga and the Mermaid’s Tears. Jagen, his holy energy depleted, craved the solace of sleep to reconnect with his divine patron, Nocticula. Resi, the Nagaji Magus, was wounded and felt the drain of his expended mystical energy. Their resilience was being tested, yet they stood resolute.
Suddenly, a voice echoed through the courtyard of the inn, shattering the quietude. “Sinners, Fiends,” it called, “come out and stand trial.
In the name of Iomedae, come prove your innocence.”
The party exchanged bemused glances. They had faced numerous trials and tribulations since their arrival, but none quite as absurd as this. Zenith, the stoic Gargoyle Fighter, gave a low chuckle. “We’ve done nothing wrong,” he stated, his voice echoing the group’s collective sentiment.
The voice outside persisted. “Come out or we will come in,” it threatened. A palpable tension filled the air. It was then that Resi suggested they retreat to their room, his voice barely above a whisper.
Without a word, they rose from their seats, leaving behind half-empty mugs of ale and the warmth of the hearth. The door to their room closed behind them, muffling the persistent calls from outside.
In the confines of their room the adventurers found themselves at odds with an unseen enemy. Varg Moonclaw, a man of blended lineage and primal power, peered through the window, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. His voice, a low growl, echoed through the room, “By what authority?”
“The committee of moral rectitude,” came the reply. His gaze fell upon the familiar figure of the dwarf innkeeper, dragging a chest across the courtyard. He was flanked by Mendevian crusaders, their zealous fervor palpable even from this distance. The air outside seemed to shiver under the weight of their righteous indignation.
In the room, Casiina, the transformed Fairy Dragon, flitted about nervously, her delicate wings stirring up dust. She aided in barricading the door, her small form belying her strength. Resi Lanka, the Nagaji Magus, added his might to the effort, his usual calm demeanor replaced by a steely determination. “We have done nothing wrong,” he declared, his voice ringing with conviction. “And if we come out, you won’t like what happens next.”
Jagen Koyan, the Fetchling Cleric, seethed quietly in the corner. Betrayal was a bitter pill to swallow, especially coming from the dwarf who’d offered them sanctuary. This act of treachery was an affront to Nocticula, the goddess he served. He gripped the hilt of his gun, his knuckles whitening as his fury surged.
Zenith, the stone-skinned gargoyle, observed the chaos with an unreadable expression. His pacifist nature warred with the need to protect his companions. He glanced at the barricaded door, then back at his friends. Despite the tension, a sense of camaraderie filled the room. They were cornered, but not defeated.
Jagen stood, his anger simmering beneath the surface. “This is not the righteous path you claim to tread,” he spat, his voice resonating in the tense silence of the room. “Your actions are a perversion of faith, a betrayal of trust!”
Resi’s gaze flicked towards Casiina, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Casiina, fancy starting a fire?” His words hung heavy in the air, the implication clear.
With a nod, Casiina darted towards the roof, her wings leaving a trail of ethereal light in their wake. With a torch in hand, she set about her task, the first embers catching onto the dry wooden beams, their glow casting eerie shadows across her delicate features.
Resi remained in the room, his posture relaxed yet alert, ready for whatever came next. Zenith, on the other hand, took it upon himself to evacuate the inn, his stone form moving with surprising speed as he ushered the occupants out.
Downstairs, Varg and Jagen were met with a sight that sent chills down their spine. A host of Mendevian crusaders stood before them, their faces masked by an unwavering resolve. Among them was Gar, the dwarven innkeeper, his betrayal etched into their memories. But what truly struck fear into their hearts was the creature that lurked in the chest that Gar had been dragging – the Living Evil.
A monstrous entity, its form seemed to shift and twist, a writhing mass of dark energy.
Its eyes, if one could call them that, were voids of despair, radiating an aura of malevolence that was almost palpable. The sight of the creature was enough to freeze the bravest warrior in their tracks, its mere presence a testament to the unnatural and the profane.
With a roar of defiance, Jagen was the first to act. His anger towards the treacherous dwarf was a palpable force, fueling his resolve. With a swift incantation, he hurled a curse of fear towards the dwarf. The innkeeper merely smirked, seemingly unfazed by the cleric’s wrath.
The Mendevian crusaders descended upon Jagen in a flurry of motion. The clatter of their heavy armor filled the air as they advanced, their swords glinting menacingly under the dim light. They surrounded him, their blades swinging in a deadly dance. Jagen parried and dodged, his body moving with a grace that belied his clerical robes. Despite the relentless onslaught, he stood his ground, refusing to be brought down.
From above, Resi leapt into the fray, landing deftly in front of the Living Evil. Gar attempted to demoralize him, his words filled with scorn. “You think you can defeat this creature?” he sneered. Resi simply laughed, looking up at the dwarf with a defiant glint in his eyes. “We’ll see about that,” he retorted.
With a swift motion, Resi summoned a flame spell, his Gada pulsating with the fiery energy. He struck the Living Evil, the force of his attack causing the monster to recoil. The flames danced along its form, searing the darkness that enveloped it.
From above, Casiina descended like a storm, her wings slicing through the smoke-filled air. With a swift flick of her wrist, she scattered crystal-like caltrops amidst the crusaders. The sudden onslaught caught them off guard, their formation disrupted as they tried to avoid the shimmering obstacles underfoot. An expression of surprise crossed their faces, quickly replaced by grim determination.
Seizing the moment of confusion, Varg charged at Gar. The dwarf’s eyes widened in surprise as the burly fighter closed in on him. With a swift sweep of his foot, Varg sent Gar sprawling on the ground. The dwarf spluttered indignantly, his face red with anger and humiliation. “You’ll pay for this!” he growled, struggling to regain his footing.
Inside the inn, Zenith was a whirlwind of action. His stone form moved with surprising agility as he navigated through the smoke and flames, rescuing civilians from the fiery chaos. However, even as he worked tirelessly to save lives, he could hear the battle raging outside. His allies were outnumbered and outmatched. He knew he needed to join them, yet his duty to protect the innocent kept him inside the burning inn.
The situation was dire. The adventurers were fighting against all odds, their lives hanging by a thread. Yet, they refused to surrender, their spirits unbroken despite the adversity.
Resi, the Nagaji Magus, stood tall in the face of the Living Evil.
His Gada crackled with fiery energy, a beacon in the darkness. With a roar, he lunged at the monstrosity, his weapon leaving a trail of flames. The creature recoiled, a dark appendage lashing out in retaliation, but Resi was quicker. He sidestepped the attack, his weapon crashing down once more. “You will not prevail!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the chaos.
In the midst of the crusaders, Jagen fought valiantly. His body bore the marks of their swords, but he was far from defeated. In one hand, he held a firearm, its shots ringing out in the cacophony of battle. In the other, he wielded his spells, a shield against the relentless onslaught. “Nocticula, guide my hand,” he prayed, his words punctuated by the discharge of his gun.
From the sidelines, Casiina was a whirlwind of mischief. Her blow darts whizzed through the air, each tipped with a different concoction. One moment, a crusader would be choking on a cloud of noxious fumes, the next, they would be wincing as their armor sizzled with acid. “Try and catch me!” she taunted, her laughter ringing out over the battlefield.
Just then, Zenith emerged from the inn. His stone form was a stark contrast against the flames, his eyes widening at the sight of his companions. Without a moment’s hesitation, he charged into the fray, his fists landing a powerful blow on the nearest crusader. “Stand down, or face my wrath!” he warned, his voice booming across the battlefield.
Meanwhile, Varg and Gar were locked in their own dance of conflict. Each time Gar tried to rise, Varg would sweep his legs out from under him, a smirk on his face. In between, he would strike with his hatchet, the blade singing as it sliced through the air. Gar retaliated with his bastard sword, but Varg was always one step ahead. “You’re going to have to do better than that, dwarf!” he taunted, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
The tide of the battle began to shift, turning against the Gatewalkers. Resi, the stalwart Nagaji Magus, faltered under the relentless onslaught of the Living Evil. His scales sizzled and smoked under the creature’s corrosive touch, the pain etched on his face. He fought valiantly, but the accumulated wounds from earlier fights and the current assault finally took its toll. With a final roar of defiance, he crumbled to the ground, defeated.
Varg, too, fell victim to the creature’s wrath. A momentary distraction caused by his ongoing duel with the dwarf was all it took. The Living Evil lashed out, its dark appendage striking Varg down with a force that left him sprawled on the earth, unconscious.
Jagen lay on the ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His body was littered with cuts and bruises, each one a testament to his fierce fight against the crusaders. His eyes were glazed over, the light in them dimming. But Zenith refused to let him go. “Not today, Jagen,” he rumbled, his hand glowing with divine energy as he healed the fallen cleric. Jagen gasped, his eyes snapping open as life returned to him.
Despite their wounds, the crusaders stood firm, their fanatical resolve unwavering. Yet, they were not unscathed. Casiina’s relentless barrage of blow darts had left them reeling. They stumbled and coughed, their bodies reacting violently to the various toxins coursing through their veins. “Not so tough now, are you?” Casiina taunted, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
With quicksilver speed, she concocted a healing elixir, her nimble fingers working deftly despite the chaos around her. She darted towards Resi, cramming the potion down his throat. The effect was immediate. Resi’s eyes flew open, his body jolting back to life.
With a swift motion, Casiina darted towards the fallen Varg. Her wings shimmered in the twilight, casting a myriad of colors as she moved. In her hands, she held another elixir, its contents glowing with life-giving energy. With one fluid motion, she uncorked the vial and poured it down Varg’s throat.
Varg’s eyes snapped open, a low growl rumbling in his chest. His fingers curled around his weapons, his teeth gritted in determination. “Not…done yet,” he rasped, pushing himself upright.
At the same time, Resi broke free from the Living Evil’s grasp. His Gada swung in a wide arc, its fiery energy leaving a trail of brilliant sparks in the air. The weapon crashed down on the creature, the force of the blow causing the ground to tremble. A triumphant roar escaped Resi’s lips as he struck, his voice echoing in the tumultuous battlefield.
Jagen, his strength renewed, took aim at Gar. His firearm discharged with a deafening bang, the bullet ripping through Gar’s shoulder and painting the ground beneath him in crimson. The dwarf staggered, dropping to his knees in agony.
Zenith strode forward, his stone form towering over the wounded dwarf. Raising his claw, he delivered the final blow. “For those you have wronged, meet your end!” Zenith declared, his voice resounding across the battlefield.
But the Living Evil was not yet defeated. Its dark appendage lashed out, striking Varg once more. The blow sent him sprawling, his vision blurring as pain washed over him. He could hear the clash of steel and the cries of his companions, but they were growing fainter.
As darkness threatened to consume him, Varg clung onto the fading memories of his life, his spirit refusing to surrender.
As Varg’s consciousness teetered on the edge of darkness, memories flooded his mind. The past and present intermingled, creating a vivid tapestry of his life as a Gatewalker.
Varg belonged to the Guild of Wonders, a prestigious organization that operated within the grand city of Absalom. As an assassin, he was the unseen hand that maintained balance and order. Each assignment he carried out was a thread woven into the fabric of the city’s survival, each life taken a necessary sacrifice for the greater good.
His unwavering conviction in his duty had been tested once when he was assigned to eliminate a man named Thoren. Thoren was a jovial tavern owner who had a knack for storytelling and made the best ale in all of Absalom. His establishment was a refuge for Varg after long, grueling assignments. Despite their friendly interactions, Varg had never let himself grow too attached. He knew better than to allow personal feelings to interfere with his duty.
The day he received the order, Varg felt no hesitation, no remorse. He remembered the way Thoren’s eyes widened in surprise as he revealed his true identity, the betrayal etching itself onto his face. But Varg did not waver. “I’m sorry, Thoren,” he had said, his voice devoid of emotion. “This is bigger than both of us.” With a swift, clean strike, Thoren’s life was extinguished, and Varg left the tavern, leaving behind a part of his humanity.
As he lay on the battlefield, Varg knew he would not shed a tear for Thoren or for any of his targets. He was a servant of a cause much larger than himself, a silent guardian who operated in the shadows. His loyalty was to the Guild of Wonders, to Absalom, to the order they maintained.
And as his life flashed before his eyes, Varg clung to that conviction. He was an assassin, a Gatewalker, and he would face whatever came next with the same stoicism he had always shown.
As the past unfurled before Varg’s fading consciousness, a recent memory surged to the forefront.
He was back in the grand halls of the Guild of Wonders, standing before a mage draped in ceremonial robes. The mage’s voice echoed in his mind, a sonorous whisper that painted a vivid image.
“Your target is unlike any you’ve faced before,” the mage had said, his eyes glowing with an arcane light. “He is not of this world, but from beyond the Gate. Tall and formidable, his form as sturdy as steel – no, as unyielding as stone.”
Varg could almost feel the cool touch of the stone figure, the rough texture under his fingers. His mind’s eye filled with the image of a candy cane striped scarf wrapped around the creature’s neck, a stark contrast to the dark, stony exterior.
“A gargoyle,” the mage continued, his voice taking on a solemn tone. “His name is Zenith. Remember it well, for he is your next assignment.”
The memory faded, replaced by the harsh reality of the battlefield. Varg lay there, his life teetering on the precipice, his duty clear. Despite the pain racking his body, despite the darkness encroaching at the edges of his vision, a spark ignited within him. Duty. Honor. The Guild. Absalom. His every kill had been for them, and this would be no different.
As his world began to dim, one thought resonated in his mind, echoing over the chaotic symphony of battle – Zenith. His mission was not yet complete, his story not yet ended. He was Varg, the Guild’s assassin, and he would fulfill his duty or die trying.
As Varg’s life force ebbed away, his senses were filled with the cacophony of battle. The clash of steel against steel, the cries of his comrades, the guttural growls of the Living Evil they fought against. His vision blurred, his body weakened, but his mind remained steadfast on his task.
He could still hear Zenith’s footfalls, heavy and unyielding, as the gargoyle moved to strike down the dwarf. A pang of regret washed over him – not for the impending death of the dwarf, but for the fact that he was too weak to carry out his assignment.
But then, something within him stirred. An inner force he’d been suppressing for months, a primal power that clawed at his consciousness. The Troll. Its strength surged through him, intoxicating in its intensity. He felt its power coursing through his veins, seeping into every fiber of his being.
In the throes of death, Varg surrendered to the beast that lurked within his soul. He welcomed the Troll’s primal energy, a savage power that surged like a roaring river, flooding his veins with untamed ferocity. His arm morphed before his eyes, muscles bloating in a grotesque display of raw, unhinged strength. His skin hardened into an impenetrable carapace, mirroring the relentless resilience of the monster inside him.
Summoning every ounce of willpower he had left, Varg launched his monstrous limb towards the last known location of Zenith. His arm sliced through the air, cleaving it apart with a whistling sound that echoed across the battlefield. It found its mark, connecting with a solid entity that buckled under the sheer force of the blow.
A smile of pure, ruthless satisfaction curled upon Varg’s lips, a silent testament to his undying resolve. He drew in his final breath, tasting the bitter-sweet tang of victory laced with the impending specter of death. As he exhaled, his body finally gave in to the ravages of battle, collapsing onto the blood-soaked earth. His last thought was one of fulfillment – his duty completed, his mission accomplished.
In the cruel twist of fate, Varg’s brutal onslaught did not find its intended target. Instead, his beastly blow struck the Living Evil, a monstrous entity that staggered under the impact, its malevolent form wavering like a shadow caught in the wind. The unexpected assault opened a window of opportunity for Zenith, who seized the moment to land the deathblow.
His comrades would immortalize him as a paragon of bravery, a selfless warrior who offered his life in the name of their protection. Yet, unbeknownst to them, Varg’s objective had been far from heroic. He had plotted to assassinate Zenith amidst the chaos, a dark secret they remained blissfully ignorant of even as they mourned his loss.
For now, Varg lay motionless on the battlefield, his duty accomplished in an unforeseen manner. His tale may have been abruptly truncated, but his memory would live on, cherished and celebrated by those who had fought shoulder to shoulder with him. His legacy, though steeped in secrecy and unfulfilled intentions, would echo through the ages.
