414th Day of Ransalacue, 5571A
The Corridor, Samseed Wood
(about 30 miles north of Talantier)
"Someone's coming," said Dark.
The others had heard it as well. The Light in the Darkness halted and stared down the length of the Corridor road before them, Bjorn keeping a tight grasp on Stubby's reins in case whatever was coming turned out to be an animal such as a bear that might spook the mule.
But it wasn't.
Coming over a slight rise in the road perhaps two hundred feet ahead of the was a man.
He was staggering, his arms flailing to keep him upright as he came. His face was turned down to the road, but even at this distance they could see he was completely bald.
The figure's height and ruddy, weather-beaten skin tone suggested a human, which was confirmed as he came closer, still seemingly unaware of the party's presence.
He wore nothing but a frayed pair of linen trousers. No weapons, or indeed any possessions at all, were visible on him.
The Light in The Darkness glanced at each other and then back at the approaching figure.
There was no one within the party who, despite the absence of any obvious threat, did not feel a growing sense of uneasiness.
The man was wounded. His feet were bloody; perhaps attributable to walking on the Corridor road, as even the best-maintained highways still sported stones and other detritus. Both knees looked badly skinned, no doubt due to various stumbles he had taken.
The scratches on his legs and thighs, however, clearly bore the marks of claws.
The man was muttering; his words were incomprehensible- perhaps from distance- but as he came to with about thirty feet of the party, he tripped on a tree root and fell down.
The party rushed to the man and helped him to his feet.
He stared at them, now open-mouthed and silent.
Bjorn Sigmundson, always with healing on his mind, examined the man as he steadied him.
He looked to be in his mid-thirties, about six feet and perhaps just a shade under one hundred fifty pounds; fair-sized but somehow giving the impression of being smaller due to his hunched over posture and rounded shoulders.
Tattoos, faded by time and exposure, graced the man's arms and forehead. The latter looked to be truly the feat of a master artist; despite its small size (two inches long at best), it clearly showed the image of a man being stretched out on a rack. The figure's expression of agony left no doubt as to the torture it was undergoing.
The man made no response to their queries about his health, his name, or anything else. He just continued to stare at them each in turn; starting with Bjorn and then the others one at a time.
Something clicked in Oliver Athraite's brain as the man's deep blue eyes met his own.
"Phieran!" he said, looking around at his friends as he pointed at the man's forehead. "That's the mark of Phieran, the god of suffering!"
Sebastian frowned. "Not familiar with that-"
"Aaahh!"
The barbarian's eyes whipped back to meet those of the man, who was now pointing at him after emitting a cry of surprise.
"You! Dragonborn warrior of ages old!"
Sanders stared back, uncomprehending. The others looked puzzled as well-
-except for Qidarchios Sunleaf.
The half-elf felt his body stiffen up from what he knew was some kind of recognition, but for the life of him he couldn't place it yet.
But the man was now pointing in turn at each member of the Light in The Darkness, except for Caffrine Esslos.
"Snow white skin, O Lady Gold!
Wizard whose changes hint of top skills!
Priest of the North who heals and kills!
Far away fighter with sword so keen!
Young elven skald with voice so lean!
These are the ones on whom we'll rely,
when the End Times come – we thrive, or we die."
There was a brief silence when the man had finished, broken only by the sound of his heavy breathing.
"Not sure I appreciate being left out, but it is catchy," Caffrine finally muttered with a smirk. "Someone should set that to music."
"Someone already has," Dark replied, his face hard and his features set as the memory flooded back into him.
Now it was the bard who was everyone's point of interest.
"Explain, please," Seb said, folding his arms across his massive chest.
But Qidarchios did not respond to the budding half-dragon. He turned his attention back to the man.
"Who are you?" he asked, letting the urgency of his recognition seep into the question, hoping this would finally get this person to at least start an actual conversation.
The man gulped.
"I," he said, "am the Blessed of Phieran."
"I'm sure that's not the name you were born with, handsome," Illumenatta purred.
Dark looked over at his cousin curiously, but he had to agree that this human was actually quite a handsome individual if you looked past his current state- and if hair didn't mean that much to you.
The Blessed favored the moon elf with a small smile.
"Indeed not, my Lady, but I left my birth name behind many years ago- there are few in the Divided Kingdoms who would recognize it today. My name and my faith are now as one," he added, clasping his calloused hands together and looking down, uttered a small short prayer in a language neither elf recognized.
Athraite however, raised an eyebrow.
"Celestial," he commented.
Bjorn decided that some background was in order here.
"Phieran," he explained to the rest of the party, " is also known as The Tortured God. He gives strength in suffering and eases pain." He looked back at the Blessed. "Is this so?'
"Indeed," the man nodded. "You know of The Martyred One?"
Sigmundson gave an embarrassed smile. "Only through my religious studies. I am from Werold, where his worship is unknown." He tilted his head. "You are a vessel of his, am I right?"
The Blessed nodded.
"Come again?" said Caffrine.
"A cleric," expounded Lumen. "A priest."
Saito Takahashi had kept his arms folded and a frown on his face throughout their entire introductions but now spoke up, his voice direct and business-like."
"You were running from someone or something," the samurai stated as if this was both obvious and incontrovertible.
"Escaped or ambushed?" added Sebastian, whose mind seemed to be running on a parallel track to Takahashi's.
"Before we hear his story," Illumenatta cut in, "this man needs help." She was about to ask the Blessed if he needed food, drink, or healing, as he did not seem to have even a holy symbol upon him, but the man held up a hand.
"Thank you, my Lady," he said, "but I require no sustenance, and have not for years. Faith is my food and drink and these scratches," he gestured at his wounds, "are not deserving of healing."
Dark wasn't sure what he meant by that, but the Blessed of Phieran took several long, deep breaths and then began his story.
"I have been kept at Sumner Prison for some time-"
"I knew it," Lumen muttered through clenched teeth.
"-but several days ago, the prison was attacked by the small ones."
"Small ones?" asked Dark, puzzled. "Halflings?"
The Blessed shook his head. For the first time, his expression darkened.
"No. Not half the size of hobbits. Yellow and brown they are; hairy, with lobster-like claws. They tunneled into the prison like badgers."
"Sounds like miniature umber hulks," said Oliver under his breath.
"Some came out in the corridors of our underground ward," the cleric continued, "but some of them tunneled directly into the cells of prisoners. When the guards opened their cell doors, these prisoners, mad with fear, overpowered the guards or just rushed right past them. From my cell, I saw several inmates and guards overpowered by the small ones. Then, someone unlocked my cell and told me to run."
For the first time, tears glistened in the priest's eyes as he made a gesture of helplessness.
"As the Martyred One is my witness, I remember nothing else until I found myself outside, running away from the prison."
Seb frowned again.
"How these small ones owerpower men five times their size?"
The Blessed gulped again.
"How I know not, but they paralyzed their prey with a mere touch. Their victims were then dragged out of my sight."
"For food?" said Caffrine, making a horrified face. "Disgusting."
"Did these creatures speak?" asked Oliver.
"No," the cleric replied, shaking his head. "But," he hesitated. "I could hear them in my mind. Always the same refrain, repeated over and over, like an unholy hymn."
Qidarchios was pretty sure he did not want to hear the answer to his next question, but he knew it had to be asked.
"And what was this refrain?"
It took a good thirty seconds for the Blessed to steady himself to the point where he could speak the words aloud.
What you are now, we were once.
What we are now, you will become.
"We need to find out what's happened at the prison," Dark said to the group as they stood in a huddle several minutes later, just out of earshot the bedraggled cleric.
Caffrine frowned. "Baldy there said he escaped yesterday. It's probably completely overrun by now."
"Such a corruption would unlikely be contained there for long," Bjorn Sigmundson put in. After a heavy sigh, he drew himself up to his full six-foot height.
"My training and my faith compel me. Do as you wish," the priest of Balder announced to his companions, "but I must go and render what aid I can."
Caffrine Esslos stared at Bjorn, a scared expression on her face. The teenager took a deep breath as well, although it did nothing to calm her nerves as it had the cleric. "I'll go, too."
Bjorn smiled at the half-elf, who gave a wan smile back.
Sebastian Sanders stretched his arms wide and stretched his fingers, with accompanying claws. The barbarian tried to hide the grimace of pain the movement engendered in him.
"Sounds like trouble needs to be rooted out. I go."
Oliver Athraite sighed and shook his head, but it was obvious to everyone that the transmuter had no intention of abandoning his friend.
The tightening of Takahashi's mouth was the only outward sign from the wood elf samurai, but the party knew him enough to know that meant he was on board as well.
Dark looked over at Lumen, followed by the rest of the Light in the Darkness.
Once again, the moon elf knew she was the center of attention and once again, knew she didn't like it.
Lumen had spent her (admittingly) young life always being the center of attention. This not enjoying being in the spotlight was a new and unpleasant business for her.
"We were heading to Deepwatch, to try and help Caffrine," she put forth with a weak gesture at the rogue, knowing she was merely delaying the inevitable.
The teenager shook her head vigorously, annoyed at this being redirected at herself. "I said I'm going."
"You know Sumner is up along the Corridor, before we even reach Deepwatch," Qidarchios reminded his third cousin of the fact that he knew she knew as well as he did. "Our loss of time will be minimal."
"I'm more worried about our loss of life," grumbled Illumenatta, but she made a gesture of assent.
Unfortunately, the Light in the Darkness was unable to convince the Blessed of Phieran to accompany them back to Sumner Prison. Indeed, the very idea seemed to horrify him, and although the priest did not try and dissuade the group from their decision, he told them only that they need not be afraid of martyrdom before he left them, continuing south on the Corridor at least as fast as he had been earlier, as if he was sure the "small ones" might still be hot on his heels.
The others watched him go in silence.
The Saito samurai was the first to speak, another deep scowl marring his features.
"For a man supposedly not afraid of martyrdom, he seems all too eager to avoid it."
"He did say he had to spread the word in Talantier," Bjorn said, shrugging. "If his god has commanded him, it is not our lot to say no."
Takahashi snorted, but Sanders now turned back to Qidarchios Sunleaf.
"Explain please," he said, "how we are fated to save world. I did not get memo on this."
There was a long silence after Dark had finished relating his mentor Darren's encounter with the man who was probably the Blessed of Phieran in his home village of Rendrick some months past, and the same stanzas that the elder bard had heard from the crazed cleric then.
"I got the impression," he added, "that this prophet was looking for those people he was shouting about, but obviously we weren't there."
"Lucky us," added Lumen, her arms folded and a rare scowl on her face now. "I hate prophecies with a passion; they bespeak to our lack of free will." She transitioned to a sour smile. "I'm sure I might have made my feelings clear about this at some point in the past?"
"Maybe once or twice," Dark replied with a grin that eased the sorceress' mood somewhat.
"Well," said Bjorn, who looked as if he was trying to cultivate an attitude of neutrality, "the Werold are no stranger to prophecies; they're a core tenant of our beliefs, truth be told."
The others looked at him curiously. Sigmundson seemed to be having an internal debate on what to add to that statement, but at length he simply said, "We believe that the strands of our Fate are woven at birth- Prophecy to us is not so much seeing the future as illuminating the only road before us as we continue along the present."
The Light in the Darkness look thoughtful as they digested this, with the exception of Illumenatta Duskwind. The moon elf merely grimaced and turned back to the north, adjusting the straps on her backpack and bedroll as she did so.
"Well," she said, not looking at the others, "Sumner Prison was built at the site of a vineyard that's still active. Keep an eye out for a sign of it."
"A winery, huh?" Caffrine said with the first real smile she'd shown in a while. "Maybe at least we'll get some free wine out of this."
"Too bitter for my taste," Lumen muttered in response.