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<blockquote data-quote="Jon Potter" data-source="post: 4998069" data-attributes="member: 2323"><p><strong>[PLAIN][Realms #495] The Way things are Meant to Be[/PLAIN]</strong></p><p></p><p>The passage of time seemed strange to Maleko as he relived his past, but the elf recalled spending three days as a prisoner of the bandits. During that time, he himself was not treated poorly, though he had not remembered the whack on the head before so perhaps some small things were subject to change. That thought brought renewed visions of Glaltariand and Maleko's inability again to prevent his steward's death. And though none of his other comrades were killed outright, they were beaten just for the brigands' amusement. None suffered much beyond a few bumps and bruises, but it was horrible to have to watch and listen as his trusted employees were abused to satisfy their captors' unwholesome bloodlust. Maleko knew that they wanted to keep him looking good until they could exchange him for their ransom; they needed him alive and uninjured if they were to collect his father's gold.</p><p></p><p>He knew from experience that these brigands would never see one single noble of the ransom they demanded,but he did not betray his knowledge of events, and instead played most things the same as he had before. He mostly kept his mouth closed and his eyes and ears opened, listening and looking for any weakness. He counted 16 different men, all human and from their accents he could tell they were all from Hillsburg. Banditry had been on the rise of late thanks to the recent disputes over (of all things) trade. The local economy suffered as the cost of moving goods along the caravan routes climbed, but Maleko knew that things would get far worse in years to come. He also knew when the Janissary patrol would come to rescue him and recalled that was when and where he first met Del as well as Ledare.</p><p></p><p>He knew these things because they had already come to pass.</p><p></p><p>The difference this time was that he wanted revenge. He knew that the man who had slit Glaltariand's throat would hang from the gallows and rot, but that wasn't enough. It never had been. Maleko wanted to make him suffer. Killing the man himself would make him feel better, he supposed, easing the crushing guilt for a friend twice-slain because of Maleko. Things had not happened differently even though he acted differently and he wondered if he could change what happened or whether it was set and only minor details would change. Regardless, he went through his repertoire of spells to be ready if the chance for action presented itself. He thought of what had happened at the time of the rescue, considering the events as they had happened carefully and poring over the memories in minute detail. He had been talking, he remembered, with the head bandit regarding the food or lack there of his men were getting. When Maleko called him over, the man, named Declan, had gone to the fire to get a piece of meat. With the bit of pork slapping at the end of his fork, Declan had come over to taunt Maleko.</p><p></p><p>"The sooner yer rich old man coughs up the gold, the sooner your pretty little ass goes free," Declan had sneered, waving the meat in Maleko's face. "Then you can free your worthless guards. Easiest caravan we have ever taken, Points." He then raised his hand, probably to swat his captive, but Maleko recalled that as soon as Declan made a gesture towards him with his hand, an arrow had struck him through his forearm and the camp was then stormed by Janissaries. </p><p></p><p>Several rangers hired by the Maltalias had easily tracked the brigands to their campsite and led the Janissaries straight to them. The Hound was one of the finest trackers in all the Realms and he was a friend of the Maltalia company. The rangers had approached with stealth, silencing the guards and allowing the Janissaries to get close enough without being discoverd for the raid. It was an excellent plan his father had contrived with the Janissaries. </p><p></p><p>Maleko knew that Glaltariand's head being sent to his father had enraged the man rather than filling his heart with fear as the bandits had hoped. Given the thirst for blood these bandits displayed, the patriarch questioned whether his son would be returned alive even if he paid. Most bandits in the past century that his father had worked the business had asked only for a moderate ransom and sent a note with adequate proof, usually a ring or seal taken from the leader of the caravan. Amaril Maltalia had always felt is was only the poor trying to feed their families, and the brigands only took the valuables and later released the prisoners. This time however was cold blooded murder. Killing a family friend was not something Maleko's father had taken lightly.</p><p></p><p>And the Maltalias enjoyed some measure of influence within Barnacus. Certainly the name, Maltalia Lanneralanna, was enough to draw a squad of Janissaries from the King.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Ledare stood up at once, and Morier saw her hand go to her hip, where her sword would have hung had she brought one with her into the Grove. Behind her, Feln rose up, his bulk dwarfing the half-elf. Thick cables of muscle rippled beneath his hide as he judged this new Morier, warily. The Not-Morier's gaze flicked to them and a smirk touched his lips.</p><p></p><p>"Don't try it, Feln," he growled. "You're no match for me and I'm not above killing you if I must. I've had to make a lot of tough choices since the last time you and I saw one another and too much depends on my success for me to be squeamish about old friends."</p><p></p><p>Morier's stomach knotted at his doppleganger's words. Whether it was the words themselves or the unnatural sound of hearing his own voice speak them, he couldn't tell. He had been so sure that he could act here without repercussion, and it instantly set in that he may have made a critical error... but then again, he may not have. This might be another part of yet another test. The lines between reality and fantasy had been blurred to indistinction recently. Either way, it appeared now as though he may have no choice but to meet this corollary of his decision head-on.</p><p></p><p>He turned to face himself and stared hard into not-quite-his-own turbulent grey eyes set in a smouldering stare. There seemed to be nothing of substance behind them, he held no particular skill at sensing that, it was just a feeling. Eyes that lacked a soul, or maybe just eyes that lacked his soul. The two stared at one another for a long while, each trying to read the other, trying to see past the eyes into what dwelled beyond.</p><p></p><p>Stunned, Ledare and Feln could do little more than watch in disbelief.</p><p></p><p>A strong gust of wind blew across both of their faces and the Not-Morier didn't waver while the real Morier squinted hard to avoid losing his duplicate's gaze. It was then that he first sensed the question worming its way into his mind. He pushed hard against it and busied himself searching again for something behind the stormy orbs that stared back at him. Again the question flashed, more urgently this time. He wondered if the lifeless eyes staring back at him had noticed and steeled himself to avoid giving his thoughts away.</p><p></p><p>The dream had come on more than one occasion. Although he may not have been fully aware of it at the time, the pattern was making itself evident now, and he felt foolish for not having seen it. It had come the night after Feln first died, growing in intensity when Ledare was killed. and then Lela, and Karak and Ixin, and finally, the most vivid and troubling of them all had come on the astral plane, after both Huzair and Shamalin had been taken. And now a vaguely-familiar version of it was playing itself out in front of him.</p><p></p><p>The eyes looked different here though; it was not like peering into his own eyes as he had in the dream so many times before, but instead these were darker eyes, sinister and stormlike that seemed to be holding nothing but rage. In all of the other encounters he had simply stood, voiceless and imposing, but this time he spoke. Slung across his back though, as it had been every time, was Ravager.</p><p></p><p>In each successive dream, the menacing non-Morier seemed to be looking at his very real counterpart with greater impatience, and although nothing had ever been said, he knew that there would eventually come the confrontation between them. And he feared it more than any beast or transformed, grotesque, demon that Aphyx could throw at him.</p><p></p><p>As bizarre as the circumstances felt, there was suddenly something about the situation here in the Cavern of the Self that seemed a lot less like vagary than reality.</p><p></p><p>"Are you ready?" rang the voice in his head. It was his own to be sure, but he couldn't tell where the thought had come from. "Why are you afraid? What does he have that you don't?" More questions, and Morier was growing increasingly aware that an answer would have to come. Maybe this was the goal of the cavern, maybe this was what the Buommans knew when he stepped through the doorway.</p><p></p><p>"It should be an even fight, shouldn't it?" came the voice again, this time with a menacing edge, as though it was intended more as a challenge than a request for an answer.</p><p></p><p>And then it came, not as a trickling stream of water from a rainspout, but as a tidal wave crashing over him at once. What if the Morier in front of him, the one who had set the wheels of this showdown in motion long ago, had wrung every bit of potential from within himself? What if he posessed the spark that had ignited his Eldritch abilitites and had fanned those flames to a roaring fire? Morier didn't fear losing an epic, hard fought battle between two powerful warriors, he feared total annihilation by one that should have been an equal. Morier knew that he had spent so much time adrift, rudderless and wandering, that he had let his own fire die down out of malaise. Confronting his own untapped potential was as horrifying a fear as he could imagine, and now it stood before him.</p><p></p><p>"Ah, so it seems you have answers," he managed to say through lips gone dry and papery with anxiety. "What have I ruined?"</p><p></p><p>"I'm not here to answer your questions," the Not-Morier sneered. "I'm here to stop you from dooming thousands."</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>"Run!" the halfling yelled as he took off along the docks. Following the curve of the seawall toward the Haladar Shipyards Vade disappeared almost as suddenly as he had appeared out of the barrel leaving Del to confer with his alter ego in private.</p><p></p><p>Del did not watch him go, keeping his eyes fixed on his doppelganger He studied the man carefully; looking for any other noticeable differences between them, fairly certain that this was some trick of the mind.</p><p></p><p>If it was, however, it was a damned thorough one. The double was correct in every detail. His beard was grown in a bit more than Del usually let his go, but otherwise, it was himself as he might look dressed in heavy black armor.</p><p></p><p>"If I die in battle with you," Del mused, his head reeling a little at the absurdity of that, "then I won't end up boarding that ship."</p><p></p><p>"But I will," the Not-Del said simply. "According to Huzair that's the important part. It must be one of us, not Vade. Events must play out as they were intended."</p><p></p><p>"But Vade and I never really connected or discussed the possibility of stowing on board the Lunamer the first time," Del countered. "So history has already been altered to some degree."</p><p></p><p>"But not to a sufficient degree to change the future," his double shot back. "I don't understand half of what Huzair tells me since he got the <em>Headband of Othmus</em>, but he was very clear that events must play out as they were intended."</p><p></p><p>"I'm sure you must know that I've never been one to do a thing simply because someone tells me to do it," Del replied. "Even if the one telling me is me." His double scowled, growling in his throat in a most un-Del-like fashion.</p><p></p><p>"Don't be so damned stubborn! This is a flashpoint, Del. If events change here too radically, then everything will come unravelled!" his simulacrum said to him. He struggled for a moment and then began to explain. "Look, time is like a river. Vade was always hiding in that barrel, the first time we just crept silently passed and never met him. Interacting with him as you have is like throwing a pebble into the river of time; it doesn't change much. Having him stow away on the Lumaner in our place is like dropping a boulder; it will have catastrophic consequences on the future."</p><p></p><p>"We were meant to board that ship. Not Vade. We were meant to meet Omar Lagasse. Not Vade," he said. "He's meant for a Byric prison in less than a half a year. If things turn out differently..." His voice trailed off and he looked down at his hand which still rested on his sword's pommel.</p><p></p><p>"As much as I'd like things to turn out differently, I have sworn an oath," the Not-Del explained gravely. "If you will not board the Lumaner then I am to slay you and take your place. The choice is yours."</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Jon Potter, post: 4998069, member: 2323"] [b][PLAIN][Realms #495] The Way things are Meant to Be[/PLAIN][/b] The passage of time seemed strange to Maleko as he relived his past, but the elf recalled spending three days as a prisoner of the bandits. During that time, he himself was not treated poorly, though he had not remembered the whack on the head before so perhaps some small things were subject to change. That thought brought renewed visions of Glaltariand and Maleko's inability again to prevent his steward's death. And though none of his other comrades were killed outright, they were beaten just for the brigands' amusement. None suffered much beyond a few bumps and bruises, but it was horrible to have to watch and listen as his trusted employees were abused to satisfy their captors' unwholesome bloodlust. Maleko knew that they wanted to keep him looking good until they could exchange him for their ransom; they needed him alive and uninjured if they were to collect his father's gold. He knew from experience that these brigands would never see one single noble of the ransom they demanded,but he did not betray his knowledge of events, and instead played most things the same as he had before. He mostly kept his mouth closed and his eyes and ears opened, listening and looking for any weakness. He counted 16 different men, all human and from their accents he could tell they were all from Hillsburg. Banditry had been on the rise of late thanks to the recent disputes over (of all things) trade. The local economy suffered as the cost of moving goods along the caravan routes climbed, but Maleko knew that things would get far worse in years to come. He also knew when the Janissary patrol would come to rescue him and recalled that was when and where he first met Del as well as Ledare. He knew these things because they had already come to pass. The difference this time was that he wanted revenge. He knew that the man who had slit Glaltariand's throat would hang from the gallows and rot, but that wasn't enough. It never had been. Maleko wanted to make him suffer. Killing the man himself would make him feel better, he supposed, easing the crushing guilt for a friend twice-slain because of Maleko. Things had not happened differently even though he acted differently and he wondered if he could change what happened or whether it was set and only minor details would change. Regardless, he went through his repertoire of spells to be ready if the chance for action presented itself. He thought of what had happened at the time of the rescue, considering the events as they had happened carefully and poring over the memories in minute detail. He had been talking, he remembered, with the head bandit regarding the food or lack there of his men were getting. When Maleko called him over, the man, named Declan, had gone to the fire to get a piece of meat. With the bit of pork slapping at the end of his fork, Declan had come over to taunt Maleko. "The sooner yer rich old man coughs up the gold, the sooner your pretty little ass goes free," Declan had sneered, waving the meat in Maleko's face. "Then you can free your worthless guards. Easiest caravan we have ever taken, Points." He then raised his hand, probably to swat his captive, but Maleko recalled that as soon as Declan made a gesture towards him with his hand, an arrow had struck him through his forearm and the camp was then stormed by Janissaries. Several rangers hired by the Maltalias had easily tracked the brigands to their campsite and led the Janissaries straight to them. The Hound was one of the finest trackers in all the Realms and he was a friend of the Maltalia company. The rangers had approached with stealth, silencing the guards and allowing the Janissaries to get close enough without being discoverd for the raid. It was an excellent plan his father had contrived with the Janissaries. Maleko knew that Glaltariand's head being sent to his father had enraged the man rather than filling his heart with fear as the bandits had hoped. Given the thirst for blood these bandits displayed, the patriarch questioned whether his son would be returned alive even if he paid. Most bandits in the past century that his father had worked the business had asked only for a moderate ransom and sent a note with adequate proof, usually a ring or seal taken from the leader of the caravan. Amaril Maltalia had always felt is was only the poor trying to feed their families, and the brigands only took the valuables and later released the prisoners. This time however was cold blooded murder. Killing a family friend was not something Maleko's father had taken lightly. And the Maltalias enjoyed some measure of influence within Barnacus. Certainly the name, Maltalia Lanneralanna, was enough to draw a squad of Janissaries from the King. Ledare stood up at once, and Morier saw her hand go to her hip, where her sword would have hung had she brought one with her into the Grove. Behind her, Feln rose up, his bulk dwarfing the half-elf. Thick cables of muscle rippled beneath his hide as he judged this new Morier, warily. The Not-Morier's gaze flicked to them and a smirk touched his lips. "Don't try it, Feln," he growled. "You're no match for me and I'm not above killing you if I must. I've had to make a lot of tough choices since the last time you and I saw one another and too much depends on my success for me to be squeamish about old friends." Morier's stomach knotted at his doppleganger's words. Whether it was the words themselves or the unnatural sound of hearing his own voice speak them, he couldn't tell. He had been so sure that he could act here without repercussion, and it instantly set in that he may have made a critical error... but then again, he may not have. This might be another part of yet another test. The lines between reality and fantasy had been blurred to indistinction recently. Either way, it appeared now as though he may have no choice but to meet this corollary of his decision head-on. He turned to face himself and stared hard into not-quite-his-own turbulent grey eyes set in a smouldering stare. There seemed to be nothing of substance behind them, he held no particular skill at sensing that, it was just a feeling. Eyes that lacked a soul, or maybe just eyes that lacked his soul. The two stared at one another for a long while, each trying to read the other, trying to see past the eyes into what dwelled beyond. Stunned, Ledare and Feln could do little more than watch in disbelief. A strong gust of wind blew across both of their faces and the Not-Morier didn't waver while the real Morier squinted hard to avoid losing his duplicate's gaze. It was then that he first sensed the question worming its way into his mind. He pushed hard against it and busied himself searching again for something behind the stormy orbs that stared back at him. Again the question flashed, more urgently this time. He wondered if the lifeless eyes staring back at him had noticed and steeled himself to avoid giving his thoughts away. The dream had come on more than one occasion. Although he may not have been fully aware of it at the time, the pattern was making itself evident now, and he felt foolish for not having seen it. It had come the night after Feln first died, growing in intensity when Ledare was killed. and then Lela, and Karak and Ixin, and finally, the most vivid and troubling of them all had come on the astral plane, after both Huzair and Shamalin had been taken. And now a vaguely-familiar version of it was playing itself out in front of him. The eyes looked different here though; it was not like peering into his own eyes as he had in the dream so many times before, but instead these were darker eyes, sinister and stormlike that seemed to be holding nothing but rage. In all of the other encounters he had simply stood, voiceless and imposing, but this time he spoke. Slung across his back though, as it had been every time, was Ravager. In each successive dream, the menacing non-Morier seemed to be looking at his very real counterpart with greater impatience, and although nothing had ever been said, he knew that there would eventually come the confrontation between them. And he feared it more than any beast or transformed, grotesque, demon that Aphyx could throw at him. As bizarre as the circumstances felt, there was suddenly something about the situation here in the Cavern of the Self that seemed a lot less like vagary than reality. "Are you ready?" rang the voice in his head. It was his own to be sure, but he couldn't tell where the thought had come from. "Why are you afraid? What does he have that you don't?" More questions, and Morier was growing increasingly aware that an answer would have to come. Maybe this was the goal of the cavern, maybe this was what the Buommans knew when he stepped through the doorway. "It should be an even fight, shouldn't it?" came the voice again, this time with a menacing edge, as though it was intended more as a challenge than a request for an answer. And then it came, not as a trickling stream of water from a rainspout, but as a tidal wave crashing over him at once. What if the Morier in front of him, the one who had set the wheels of this showdown in motion long ago, had wrung every bit of potential from within himself? What if he posessed the spark that had ignited his Eldritch abilitites and had fanned those flames to a roaring fire? Morier didn't fear losing an epic, hard fought battle between two powerful warriors, he feared total annihilation by one that should have been an equal. Morier knew that he had spent so much time adrift, rudderless and wandering, that he had let his own fire die down out of malaise. Confronting his own untapped potential was as horrifying a fear as he could imagine, and now it stood before him. "Ah, so it seems you have answers," he managed to say through lips gone dry and papery with anxiety. "What have I ruined?" "I'm not here to answer your questions," the Not-Morier sneered. "I'm here to stop you from dooming thousands." "Run!" the halfling yelled as he took off along the docks. Following the curve of the seawall toward the Haladar Shipyards Vade disappeared almost as suddenly as he had appeared out of the barrel leaving Del to confer with his alter ego in private. Del did not watch him go, keeping his eyes fixed on his doppelganger He studied the man carefully; looking for any other noticeable differences between them, fairly certain that this was some trick of the mind. If it was, however, it was a damned thorough one. The double was correct in every detail. His beard was grown in a bit more than Del usually let his go, but otherwise, it was himself as he might look dressed in heavy black armor. "If I die in battle with you," Del mused, his head reeling a little at the absurdity of that, "then I won't end up boarding that ship." "But I will," the Not-Del said simply. "According to Huzair that's the important part. It must be one of us, not Vade. Events must play out as they were intended." "But Vade and I never really connected or discussed the possibility of stowing on board the Lunamer the first time," Del countered. "So history has already been altered to some degree." "But not to a sufficient degree to change the future," his double shot back. "I don't understand half of what Huzair tells me since he got the [i]Headband of Othmus[/i], but he was very clear that events must play out as they were intended." "I'm sure you must know that I've never been one to do a thing simply because someone tells me to do it," Del replied. "Even if the one telling me is me." His double scowled, growling in his throat in a most un-Del-like fashion. "Don't be so damned stubborn! This is a flashpoint, Del. If events change here too radically, then everything will come unravelled!" his simulacrum said to him. He struggled for a moment and then began to explain. "Look, time is like a river. Vade was always hiding in that barrel, the first time we just crept silently passed and never met him. Interacting with him as you have is like throwing a pebble into the river of time; it doesn't change much. Having him stow away on the Lumaner in our place is like dropping a boulder; it will have catastrophic consequences on the future." "We were meant to board that ship. Not Vade. We were meant to meet Omar Lagasse. Not Vade," he said. "He's meant for a Byric prison in less than a half a year. If things turn out differently..." His voice trailed off and he looked down at his hand which still rested on his sword's pommel. "As much as I'd like things to turn out differently, I have sworn an oath," the Not-Del explained gravely. "If you will not board the Lumaner then I am to slay you and take your place. The choice is yours." [/QUOTE]
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