The Misgivings, pt 4
We came into what was once some sort of observatory, a battered telescope occupying much of the room. Two floor-to-ceiling paintings flanked one wall. One depicted a black-haired woman holding an iron staff, the other a handsome man wearing an ivory and jade crown. Though familiar, I could not place them.
Vohoi walked to the window and then back to my side several times, becoming increasingly agitated. I put my hand on his shoulder and he startled, turned and faced me. His eyes came back to him, as if he were somewhere else for a moment.
“Are you ok, mage?” I asked. I clasped his shoulder firmly.
He hesitated a moment before his reckless smile reappeared. “Yes, I am. I had heard… I wanted to throw myself out the window to the rocks below. But…”
I nodded. “This cursed place must be undone,” I said.
“She won’t like it, what you’ve done here,” Shaiira said in a voice not hers, that I refused to let echo in my heart. She stared out the window, fingering the loose frills of her scarf. Of Mum’s scarf. I felt my hand rise, but fought it back to my side.
We entered into the hall and, by Desna, I heard a sigh from behind a closed door. Noria opened it and we stood, fixated on the large, rose-wrought mirror in the corner. Before it stood an emaciated woman.
She wore the same garb of Iesha Foxglove in the portrait downstairs.
Iesha Foxglove. Iesha Farateldi. Mum. Mother.
“She’s not happy,” Shaiira’s weird flute-voice piqued in my ear. “It’s your fault.”
“It’s not my fault,” I said; but Shaiira was not behind me, nor even in sight.
Mum was saying something. Her lips moved. Her lips were slim, broken and black. Her face was mottled blue and green, and large sores covered her exposed arms and legs. Her hands were gnarled and knotted, and the fingers that once in my life plucked the strings of a lyre and braided my hair now ended in wickedly sharp claws. Her eyes stared into the mirror as her lips twitched, the black orbs possessing nothing but great sadness.
“Mundin, Caramour, do you see her?” I asked.
“Aye, the abomination is but an arm’s length from you. Come back to us,” Mundin whispered, axe drawn. From the corner of my eye I could see C preparing a spell.
I cleared my throat. “Mother,” I said. The creature did not turn to me. To be so close without provoking the undead horror meant but one thing- she was indeed what the Pharasmin priests call a revenant. Her soul belonged to only one thing- the death of her murderer. Suddenly I saw myself again, realized what a fool I was.
“Mum-” I had entertained taking her murderer to my own bosom, to trust him as she had. If I were to die in a split second I’d have welcomed it. Revenants do not just lust for the life of their killer, any blossom of memory will do. I stepped between Mum and the mirror, hoping to either break or inspire her rage. Her head snapped up, and the black orbs of her eyes crackled with pale green malevolent motes.
“Aldern! I can smell your fear! You will be in my arms soon!” I cowered in fear as her suddenly animated body made swift and powerful progress past the dwarves guarding the door and down the stairs.
“Should we follow?” C asked.
“Revenants know the exact location of their killer. If everything tumbles into place, we’ll find Aldern at the end of this,” I said, recovering from my fright and doubling my efforts to follow Mum.
We followed Mum through the house until we reached the first floor. She had stopped at the weird spiral-staircase motif on the hallway floor, shrieked and began ripping it apart. Mundin slid by me with his axe, but I stayed his arm. She would lead us to Aldern. Piecing things together, it was he we were after for the ghoulish atrocities that brought us here. It was he blighting the Misgivings. Revenants can find their killer unerringly, all we had to do was wait.
Mum tore through the floorboards, exposing a basement below. But as she began to lower herself in, C blasted her with a burst of positive energy. Enraged, she clamored back to the floor to attack us, wicked claws slashing away.
Mundin was first to move in, and she quickly grappled him as the rest of my mates fell in to combat. I stood, dumbfounded. How could they attack her? She was my mother, my mother! The one I’d traveled to Sandpoint to find, to liberate and to bring back to me. To me, I am the last of us. How could this be? This was not her, I knew I could find some way to bring her back. Who could have drained her of all her vigor, vivacity, her laughter?
Shaiira suddenly leapt into combat, wielding my mother’s scarf as a weapon. She struck my mother and she reviled, yet grabbed the scarf and then began choking my sister. Shaiira’s legs kicked at the creature’s legs, and her hands grabbed at the undead horror’s face, but the monster kept squeezing her. My sister’s face turned purple, her eyes bulging. My mother’s…
She was not my mother. My mother is dead. She was a beast, a monster, a cur, an epithet destroying what little I had left in my heart, mind, and soul. I drew my crossbow, clumsy as it was, and fired a shot at the revenant. It missed, but distracted it enough for the dwarves and casters to rain death upon it, setting my sister free.
Her body lay prone on the floor. Sadness overcame me. What was once a grand part of me was irrevocably corrupted. Grief flooded my heart. I could sleep easy knowing she was dead or alive, but not this. Noria stood above the revenant, her eyes waiting for me.
I nodded, my head as heavy as a guillotine.
I ran to Shaiira, tears flooding my cheeks. Her eyes were as sodden as mine, and we took a moment to realize our worst nightmare.
Our friends were quiet. I turned to them, intent on delivering a soliloquy wrapped in bravery, timeliness, and history. Instead, I wept. I wept openly and unabashedly. I could not find the words that could make it right. Noria shouldered me as I calmed down.
“Best to rest tonight,” she said. “The casters are low in power, as are you.”
“Aye,” I said, wiping the tears from my eyes. I stood and smiled. “Maybe an extra ration of wine tonight, Mundin?”
The dwarf smiled. “I’m all ears, lass. Let’s get somewhere safe. There’s the ruin at the bottom of the road that might provide shelter.”
“On a clear night, we should be fine,” Vohoi said.
We headed towards the burnt-out servant’s quarters, where Vohoi pointed to the sky. A large, circling murder of crows preceded us, hovering near the ruin. As we came closer, they swooped in to attack us. Their bodies were emaciated and rotting, smelling of foul undeath and they swarmed us quickly. C sent out waves of positive energy, immediately dropping the crows. We spent an uneasy night in the ruin, knowing full well what dangers lurked in the damp below.
Halfway through my watch, I heard a companion rise and leave camp. Though quiet, the footsteps were obvious. The soft foot-pad and the tap of wood indicated Caramour was up and about.
“Sorry about your mother,” he said, his words quick to my ear like his feet on the ground. C is always faster than he looks.
“My mother is at peace,” I replied.
“But I-”
“You did what was right in your heart, Caramour. She had to be stopped.”
“You did not approve.”
I was silent. I did shriek when he blasted the area with positive energy. Mum would have led us to Aldern, I thought. But then again, what do we know about the next minute? Nothing but that which we assume.
I turned to C, our eyes hidden in the dark embers of the campfire. “I don’t know, C. I’ve always had stories, songs, jokes to get through. You all know that. I’ve always had my past on my terms. To see it laid bare, for what it is-”
Silence hung in the air for a moment. Crickets chirped, a sudden sign of life at the Misgivings.
“The past is real. It is no longer a vision you shape for your own definition. It becomes a hard concept within you. It touches your soul,” the cleric said, “but it does not mean that the past cannot be interpreted. Tomorrow is the journey we embark on today.” Caramour took a few long draws on his pipe, I poured myself another glass of wine, and we sat in silence for a while.
“C?”
“Yes?”
“What brings a Vudrani here to Varisia?”
Caramour smiled.
We came into what was once some sort of observatory, a battered telescope occupying much of the room. Two floor-to-ceiling paintings flanked one wall. One depicted a black-haired woman holding an iron staff, the other a handsome man wearing an ivory and jade crown. Though familiar, I could not place them.
Vohoi walked to the window and then back to my side several times, becoming increasingly agitated. I put my hand on his shoulder and he startled, turned and faced me. His eyes came back to him, as if he were somewhere else for a moment.
“Are you ok, mage?” I asked. I clasped his shoulder firmly.
He hesitated a moment before his reckless smile reappeared. “Yes, I am. I had heard… I wanted to throw myself out the window to the rocks below. But…”
I nodded. “This cursed place must be undone,” I said.
“She won’t like it, what you’ve done here,” Shaiira said in a voice not hers, that I refused to let echo in my heart. She stared out the window, fingering the loose frills of her scarf. Of Mum’s scarf. I felt my hand rise, but fought it back to my side.
We entered into the hall and, by Desna, I heard a sigh from behind a closed door. Noria opened it and we stood, fixated on the large, rose-wrought mirror in the corner. Before it stood an emaciated woman.
She wore the same garb of Iesha Foxglove in the portrait downstairs.
Iesha Foxglove. Iesha Farateldi. Mum. Mother.
“She’s not happy,” Shaiira’s weird flute-voice piqued in my ear. “It’s your fault.”
“It’s not my fault,” I said; but Shaiira was not behind me, nor even in sight.
Mum was saying something. Her lips moved. Her lips were slim, broken and black. Her face was mottled blue and green, and large sores covered her exposed arms and legs. Her hands were gnarled and knotted, and the fingers that once in my life plucked the strings of a lyre and braided my hair now ended in wickedly sharp claws. Her eyes stared into the mirror as her lips twitched, the black orbs possessing nothing but great sadness.
“Mundin, Caramour, do you see her?” I asked.
“Aye, the abomination is but an arm’s length from you. Come back to us,” Mundin whispered, axe drawn. From the corner of my eye I could see C preparing a spell.
I cleared my throat. “Mother,” I said. The creature did not turn to me. To be so close without provoking the undead horror meant but one thing- she was indeed what the Pharasmin priests call a revenant. Her soul belonged to only one thing- the death of her murderer. Suddenly I saw myself again, realized what a fool I was.
“Mum-” I had entertained taking her murderer to my own bosom, to trust him as she had. If I were to die in a split second I’d have welcomed it. Revenants do not just lust for the life of their killer, any blossom of memory will do. I stepped between Mum and the mirror, hoping to either break or inspire her rage. Her head snapped up, and the black orbs of her eyes crackled with pale green malevolent motes.
“Aldern! I can smell your fear! You will be in my arms soon!” I cowered in fear as her suddenly animated body made swift and powerful progress past the dwarves guarding the door and down the stairs.
“Should we follow?” C asked.
“Revenants know the exact location of their killer. If everything tumbles into place, we’ll find Aldern at the end of this,” I said, recovering from my fright and doubling my efforts to follow Mum.
We followed Mum through the house until we reached the first floor. She had stopped at the weird spiral-staircase motif on the hallway floor, shrieked and began ripping it apart. Mundin slid by me with his axe, but I stayed his arm. She would lead us to Aldern. Piecing things together, it was he we were after for the ghoulish atrocities that brought us here. It was he blighting the Misgivings. Revenants can find their killer unerringly, all we had to do was wait.
Mum tore through the floorboards, exposing a basement below. But as she began to lower herself in, C blasted her with a burst of positive energy. Enraged, she clamored back to the floor to attack us, wicked claws slashing away.
Mundin was first to move in, and she quickly grappled him as the rest of my mates fell in to combat. I stood, dumbfounded. How could they attack her? She was my mother, my mother! The one I’d traveled to Sandpoint to find, to liberate and to bring back to me. To me, I am the last of us. How could this be? This was not her, I knew I could find some way to bring her back. Who could have drained her of all her vigor, vivacity, her laughter?
Shaiira suddenly leapt into combat, wielding my mother’s scarf as a weapon. She struck my mother and she reviled, yet grabbed the scarf and then began choking my sister. Shaiira’s legs kicked at the creature’s legs, and her hands grabbed at the undead horror’s face, but the monster kept squeezing her. My sister’s face turned purple, her eyes bulging. My mother’s…
She was not my mother. My mother is dead. She was a beast, a monster, a cur, an epithet destroying what little I had left in my heart, mind, and soul. I drew my crossbow, clumsy as it was, and fired a shot at the revenant. It missed, but distracted it enough for the dwarves and casters to rain death upon it, setting my sister free.
Her body lay prone on the floor. Sadness overcame me. What was once a grand part of me was irrevocably corrupted. Grief flooded my heart. I could sleep easy knowing she was dead or alive, but not this. Noria stood above the revenant, her eyes waiting for me.
I nodded, my head as heavy as a guillotine.
I ran to Shaiira, tears flooding my cheeks. Her eyes were as sodden as mine, and we took a moment to realize our worst nightmare.
Our friends were quiet. I turned to them, intent on delivering a soliloquy wrapped in bravery, timeliness, and history. Instead, I wept. I wept openly and unabashedly. I could not find the words that could make it right. Noria shouldered me as I calmed down.
“Best to rest tonight,” she said. “The casters are low in power, as are you.”
“Aye,” I said, wiping the tears from my eyes. I stood and smiled. “Maybe an extra ration of wine tonight, Mundin?”
The dwarf smiled. “I’m all ears, lass. Let’s get somewhere safe. There’s the ruin at the bottom of the road that might provide shelter.”
“On a clear night, we should be fine,” Vohoi said.
We headed towards the burnt-out servant’s quarters, where Vohoi pointed to the sky. A large, circling murder of crows preceded us, hovering near the ruin. As we came closer, they swooped in to attack us. Their bodies were emaciated and rotting, smelling of foul undeath and they swarmed us quickly. C sent out waves of positive energy, immediately dropping the crows. We spent an uneasy night in the ruin, knowing full well what dangers lurked in the damp below.
Halfway through my watch, I heard a companion rise and leave camp. Though quiet, the footsteps were obvious. The soft foot-pad and the tap of wood indicated Caramour was up and about.
“Sorry about your mother,” he said, his words quick to my ear like his feet on the ground. C is always faster than he looks.
“My mother is at peace,” I replied.
“But I-”
“You did what was right in your heart, Caramour. She had to be stopped.”
“You did not approve.”
I was silent. I did shriek when he blasted the area with positive energy. Mum would have led us to Aldern, I thought. But then again, what do we know about the next minute? Nothing but that which we assume.
I turned to C, our eyes hidden in the dark embers of the campfire. “I don’t know, C. I’ve always had stories, songs, jokes to get through. You all know that. I’ve always had my past on my terms. To see it laid bare, for what it is-”
Silence hung in the air for a moment. Crickets chirped, a sudden sign of life at the Misgivings.
“The past is real. It is no longer a vision you shape for your own definition. It becomes a hard concept within you. It touches your soul,” the cleric said, “but it does not mean that the past cannot be interpreted. Tomorrow is the journey we embark on today.” Caramour took a few long draws on his pipe, I poured myself another glass of wine, and we sat in silence for a while.
“C?”
“Yes?”
“What brings a Vudrani here to Varisia?”
Caramour smiled.