After gathering a few supplies, we set out once more on our travels to head to the Necropolis. I must admit some trepidation at the fact. The cycles of nature are once that embrace both life and death, growth and decay. What has come to be and grown in strength will one day wane and pass on. That is the way of the world. It is what brings not just new life, but new thoughts, new ideas, an advancement… even peace, where hot memories of conflict cannot lock us into cycles of war.
So the Necropolis is a place that makes me uneasy. A place of death without life… I do not belittle the change the dragonlords wrought in their short time here, but this unchanging remnant is difficult. My squirrel friend seems to agree. He has settled down in the bottom of my pack and refuses to move. I leave him be, he seems safe enough for now.
Even as I hear stories of Damon the Lich, sworn to protect this place, I wonder about Damon the man. What loyalties and ties compel a man to tie himself to this world, unchanging, watching those he loves dear pass on only to mourn their memories forever? It is not a fate I would wish upon anyone, yet he chose it willingly.
As we tacked our way up the mountain path we found solace in the songs of Calliope, which brought back much of the feeling of life to this place. It’s hard to remember she is centuries old at times- her zest for life seems like a trait of the very young, but she handles herself well. It is with somewhat of a smile that I help her in gathering blooms to take to place in remembrance, using a little magic to keep them fresh and vibrant for a while longer.
The echo of her voice as we reach a switchback in the path comes back as a discordant note. Odd. It’s then we hear fresh voices joining in. Mocking. Hate filled. It is then the harpies strike.
The battle is short but fierce. One creature stays at the back, screaming obscenities and threats at Braz. He is cursed, his lineage ill-fated, and whilst he lives, this creature cannot die.
It is perhaps so, but it can be caused pain and driven off. It is shaken we once again climb.
Until we are there. Standing atop the bridge, face to face with Damon himself. His frame is simply that of a man, a dark hood obscuring his features. A skeletal hand grips a simple wooden staff. There is nothing of ornament or ostentation, nothing that outwardly shows of power, but simply drawing near him… Gods… it sets my teeth buzzing.
He spoke to us. Spoken is perhaps the wrong word. He summoned words into being and that was simply the new reality. Mountains formed his words and reshaped themselves at his whims. He accepted our coin as token and that we could pass.
Most of all, he spoke to Calliope. Recognised her from when he lived. From that, we all saw clearly what kept him here, mourning those he would never see again.