Lyric Lyric felt the hunger slip from her as her Patron’s “gift” evaporated into tendrils of shadowy darkness, leaving her feeling empty, weak, and cold…oh so cold. She shivered and sank to her knees and waited for the blood to begin coursing through her veins again, filling the emptiness within her and nourishing her with its warmth. She dared not look at her companions, dreading the look of disgust they surely must be sending her way each time she was forced to adopt this mantle of undeath.
As her body slowly warmed, she was suddenly hit with a wave of sadness, tears welling up in her one good eye as the enormity of the weight of the past few weeks hit her with full force. So much death and destruction had surrounded them of late, and this room was a veritable museum to such suffering. Once the seat of power for the City of Kalaman, it was now a macabre ossuary, a canvas of sorrow decorated with a patina of blood and gore. Lyric braved a glance at Governor Miat, the kindly - if somewhat ineffectual - leader tasked with the rulership of Kalaman. His face, thoughtful and creased when she had first met him, was now ashen and still, pale as a marble bust sculpted into an expression of confused agony, his sightless eyes staring into the world beyond this one.
Other notables from the leadership council of Kalaman lay amid the carnage in the room: Lord Albelon, whom Lyric had tricked into dousing himself with wine upon meeting him by magicking his wine flute to appear emptier than it was, now lying crumpled and still with another crimson stain upon his chest; this one the result of a vicious cut rather than an initiate’s schoolyard prank. Lord Ryan, the owner of the Wheelwatch Outpost, a military man puffed up with haughty pomposity, but who had been berated into submission under DD’s authoritative command, his face now locked in a twisted expression of shock and horror.
There were others that she recognized as well but could not remember their names, all cut down in this room. In one fell swoop, almost all the leadership of the City had been eliminated – with one glaring exemption: Lady Portman was not among the deceased. At first, Lyric had been relieved to not find the kindly woman’s body amongst the slaughter, but now a nagging suspicion ate away at her. Why was she not here? She was outspoken against invoking martial law within the City, but could martial law have helped to prevent this bloodshed? There definitely would have been more security in place at the gates and within the castle, perhaps that could have turned the tide?
Schemes within schemes. It all made her head hurt. Lyric pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to regain composure. After the span of a dozen deep breaths, she felt her strength return. She looked around the room, skipping over the scenes of the massacre and into the faces of her companions. Arnie was dutifully cleaning her sword and trying her best to ignore the myriad of cuts and gashes that the mighty kender had sustained in their many battles today. Deuxdahl had a faraway look in his eyes, as if the man were dreaming of better times rather than fixating on horror that currently surrounded them and the dreadful uncertainty that faced them in the narrow passage out of this room. Eros was sitting cross-legged in one corner of the room and looking almost serene, though it was hard to read the inscrutable elf with the intricate mask that covered his face. There was a subtle hint that all was not calm within the man: his shoulders were slumped slightly, as if the weight of the celestial burden he bore dragged steadfastly pulled him to the ground. His divine magic had held them all aloft during the grueling fights of the day and now it seemed that the enormity of it was had taken its toll.
DD was locked in conversation Durstan, a knight who had until moments earlier had been possessed by the malevolent ghost of Caradoc – gods, how was that even a thing? Was it a month ago that she had been tending to goats on her father’s farm and listening to him sing in the tavern? That seemed like an eternity ago, and Lyric could hardly remember that naive girl who cared more about trading stares with the cute farmboy next door than the lessons that her mother tried to impart upon her in their daily trainings – lessons without which, Lyric would have died a dozen times over in the month since leaving the farm. That girl was gone, a distant memory composed of sand and smoke, slipping forgotten beneath the breaking wave or carried away by gentle wind. No, in that girl’s place was the Daughter of Kavrash, the Fang of the Spider, Venom made Flesh. There would be no more tears, no more fear, no more uncertainty. They had been brought together for reason, Eros’ holy presence here was testament to the divine providence that tied them all together and placed them on this path. And when DD finally stood up and said that it was time for them to head down the narrow tunnel, Lyric simply nodded in assent and rose to her feet, Green Trust slipping wordlessly out of its scabbard and coming alive in her hand.
“Let’s go.”