Chronicles of The Omniverse Archived Cerulean Coast

as written by Script

"Hmmph!" Alianna placed her hands on her hips, lifting herself up to her entirely inconsiderable height. "Well, I don't know that our planned route aligns with your goals either, Mister Shopkeeper, since you haven't told me them in the first place!" She tutted, apparently not in the least intimidated by the many-eyed gaze. "For all I know, I could be leading you in the opposite direction."

To the side, Zacharie shot a nervous glance in Parov's direction, uncertain whether their guide's decision to have a clash of wills with their esoteric companion was necessarily the best one she'd ever made.

Folding her arms, Alianna sighed dramatically. "I won't take us off track. But this is an expedition, Mister Shopkeeper! We shall investigate what we find, even if we don't go so far as to light our torches and go witch hunting. You all have your own business, but I am an explorer. Discovery is what I do!"

And with that, she twirled about and strode back towards the cabin. "Shan't be long, but I'm going to poke about inside for a bit longer, see what I can turn up. Once I'm done, we can get moving again!"
 
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It was a frosty grey morning when the stranger came to the town of Armel. The blizzard swept through the northern coast the night before and dissipated in the early hours of morning, leaving the docking village smothered in a sheet of placid snow. Several homes had to be dug out and Geron's chickens froze to death, but the shallow harbor waters hadn't frozen over, which meant the townsfolk could still tow their boats out to sea. All in all, they counted themselves lucky.

None of this interested the stranger. All he knew was that the snow and wind were cold and he wanted to be inside. A sign above a nearby wood-plank house caught his eye - 'the Tide Salt Inn'. Visions of roaring fireplaces and hot food filled his head, his rose-petal lips curving into a smile as he thought of the hot plum cider which, he'd heard, was a specialty this side of the mainland. Perhaps he'd find a plaything as well? Taverns usually had a pretty girl or two - an inkeep's wife (or daughter). Boys would suffice too, if they were pretty enough, though they usually didn't know what they were doing. Girls were better. A good fire, a good meal, a warm bed. He looked down at his satin-white hands, at the manicured fingers already shaking with cold. All he needed to do was look them in the eye...

He frowned. No, it wasn't possible. The inn would be the first place she looked. He glanced over his shoulder, his forest-green eyes scanning the sawdust boardwalks, the snow-blanketed townhouses. Willow and ash, this was annoying. Paranoia wasn't a familiar feeling to him. He rarely had need of it; few caught onto his games. Fewer still could follow his trail for so long. He still didn't know exactly who she was... one of the coven, perhaps? A vampire from the clans? Surely she had some sort of powers - no human could keep following him with such persistence and skill for so long.

He shook his head, drawing his cloak closer over his frame and huffing. No matter. Soon it would be resolved. Soon he would be as before - wandering between towns and villages, doing whatever he wished to whomever he pleased, hunting his prize and having a good bit of fun while he was at it. Just as soon as she was out of the way.

He caught a few glances from passerbys standing out in the cold. Damn. What was he doing, drawing attention to himself? Strangers were rare enough this side of the country, even in a port town. He needed to move. A formal inn was out of the question, but that hardly meant he was out of options. Not with his abilities.

A passing face caught his eye. High cheekbones, dirty brown hair, cute dimples... a bit of acne, yes. And male. Ah well. He looked cute enough. Wordless, the stranger fell into step some distance behind him, following the unfortunate villager back to his home. Cute enough, yes.

Besides, the stranger had always had a thing for dimples.
 
Another stranger was passing through the village that day, face wrapped in a red scarf that had seen better days. A pleated skirt swept the brick ground of snow behind her as she sauntered by an inn, glancing through a window to the lobby. Only hazel eyes could be seen above the makeshift cowl, framed by heavy lashes.

She ventured further down the street at a brisk pace, and as she walked she felt the light tapping of her sword on the back of her knee. It was at a strange and inconvenient angle, but a deeceptive one. The past year of hunting this monster had taught her that trickery was a crafty tool, not just one of cowardice. A werewolf or undead construct would not have given such a troublesome chase. The creature hid among them, but he had made mistakes before. The woman had not forgotten them.

And so she wandered through the streets, alone and unarmored, seemingly unarmed, and made herself vulnerable. He liked that quite a bit, she remembered. It was the young and fragile ones he took with him.
 
"Oi, what's this, another one?" a swarthy looking fisherman trudged up a boardwalk and glared at the scarf-covered woman. "Some kind of festival in town, is it? Second one I've seen this morning."

"Shove off, Vin," an innkeeper scowled from the window of the tavern. She set her hard eyes on the newcomer and offered an honest smile. "Don't mind him, dear. It's awful cold out to be wearing a skirt, doncha' know? Have you had breakfast?"

---

It had taken the stranger twelve seconds to charm the boy, five more to subjugate him completely. A soft kiss, a hushed whisper against his ear, the barest excretion of mana and the Armeli youth named Carson was putty in his hands. Poor thing. The stranger almost felt guilty as he wove his spells into the boy's brain like a loom. Insecurities, psychological shortcomings, a general lack of willpower and temperament - the flaws of the teenage mind truly made a soul charm child's play. No matter. The stranger needed a place to stay, and Carson had the keys to his parents' home. That was all that mattered.

They entered a low-ceilinged hut made from pine logs. The stranger threw off his cloak, basking in the heat of the nearby fireplace... but then crinkling his nose at the stench permeating the kitchen. Goat cheese. Yelch.

Carson closed the door and wrung his hands. "Is it..." he swallowed. "Do you like it? My home?"

"It's..." The stranger searched for one of those pathetic human words which expressed polite disgust. "...quaint. Yes. Delightfully quaint." He clapped his hands. "Now. Carson. Will you do something for me?"

The boy's eyes widened. "Anything."

"Good lad. Fetch me some salt, a sprig of parsley and whatever precious metals your parents keep stowed away in this rat hole." He tapped his lip with a finger. "You don't have any gold, do you?"

The boy paled. "There's my mother's necklace, but we don't have any parsley." He fumbled in his pockets. "I'll run to the market right away and get some-"

"Easy, Carson," the stranger chuckled, "do you have cinnamon? That will work too."

He nodded furiously.

"Excellent. Go and fetch a tablespoon of it along with that locket and as much salt as you have. Go on now." The boy sprinted away. The stranger turned to the home's living room. There appeared to be enough space for a scrying ritual... assuming the boy pulled through with the gold. Never could tell with little peasant huts like this. He began moving the furniture, throwing chairs and rugs out of the way to clear a space.

A woman entered shortly after, her hands white with flour. "Wick and Wyrm Car, what are you-" She froze, locking eyes with the stranger. She had Carson's high cheekbones and curly brown hair. Mother, most likely. "Who are you? How did you get in here?"

The stranger smiled and waived a hand. "I'm an old friend. I'm welcome in your home."

The woman wavered, unblinking. "Y...you are an old..." She shut her eyes, groaning with pain. "Wait, no, that's not... get out of my home... leave..."

The stranger frowned. A strong will. Stronger than he'd expected from a peasant. He was half tempted to expend more mana to try and subjugate her to appease his vanity, but decided against it. Best to keep a semblance of modesty in front of the sheep.

Carson entered a moment later, bearing salt, cinnamon and the gold locket. He didn't even look at his mother, hurrying straight to the stranger and laying down his gifts.

"Car," the woman was aghast, "what are you - that's my locket-"

The stranger gave almost no heed. He began making a wide circle with the salt in the living room. "Carson, restrain your mother please."

The mother snarled now. "You can't be-" Her son rammed into her from the side, throwing them both to the floor. She gasped, grunting in pain as her child pinned her to the ground and twisted her arm behind her back. "Car! Car, what are you-" She looked up into the eyes of her son and found them glazed over in a milky film. The blood left her cheeks, her mouth opening in horror.

"What... what have you done to my baby?"

The stranger sprinkled cinnamon on the floor. "If she makes too much noise, kill her."
 
"Another one?" pressed the strange woman, eyeing the fisherman. "What do you mean?"

Her eyes came to the innkeeper, the gaze fiercely concentrated. The older woman frowned. "Ah, there was another stranger who came to town. It's a bit unusual for foreigners to come through here, so we were a bit surprised. Might he be a friend of yours, dear?" she asked.

The young woman in the cowl nodded. "Why, yes. We've been traveling together for a long time and I lost him right before arriving here. Might you tell me where I can find him?"

Nodding, the innkeeper pointed off toward where she had seen the stranger and the boy wander off. "You might be able to find him at the residence down the path there, all the way at the end. He seemed to get along rather well with little Carson."

Before the innkeeper had a chance to finish, the young woman was already storming off down the path. She had only seen it for a moment, but the innkeeper swore she saw a monster in those eyes.

"Vin... we need to be more careful of strangers," she stated shakily.
 
As the stranger finished his ritual, the young woman might have had time to set herself up at a corner window on the side of the house, granting her a full view of everything that was about to transpire.

The stranger placed the gold locket in the center of the salt circle and knelt before it. He rolled back his sleeve and drew a long, blue knife from his boot. The tip knicked his finger, a bead of black blood staining the jewelry. The stranger frowned. He hated blood rituals, but it was the best he had to work with given his resources.

Steam rose from the locket as the gold began to melt. The vapor twisted in the air, winding around itself in neat spirals before the face of a man materialized in the haze.

It spoke - the voice soaked in the whispy static of the fog. "...Darcy..." The eyes narrowed. "...tell me you didn't just scry me."

The stranger, now named Darcy, scowled at the face. "I wouldn't have had to if you'd honored our agreement. My escort to Tiranoth was supposed to meet me in Yalen four days ago." He put his bleeding thumb into his mouth and pouted. "I've been hoofing through pigshit villages trying to lose whoever's tailing me. Where were you?"

"Stalled in Lutetia," a slight growl entered his voice, "as I said I might be. You were instructed to make directly for Tiranoth, escort or no, not hobble about the countryside like a starving dog. Your delay is unacceptable."

"I'm being followed," Darcy retorted, "something is chasing me, do you understand? And since they've been able to keep it up for so long, I have to assume it's something bad. A vampire from the houses, a bell from the court, I don't know!"

"And you thought the best course of action would be to scurry around with the commoners rather than head to your objective, as instructed?"

Darcy flushed. "I didn't want to-... Corso, you've got to-"

"Don't say my name." The face darkened, the grey smoke billowing black. "You've done worse than endanger your own life. You've compromised me and our entire mission. You will be in Tiranoth in twenty-four hours, or else you'd best hope whatever is hunting you kills you. It will be a mercy compared to what I will do if I don't find you in the dead city by tomorrow."

All at once, the smoke dissipated and the face vanished. Darcy sat shell-shocked, his rosy cheeks paled and his fingers clenched into fists. How dare he. How DARE that little... two-faced... piece of...

He rose snarling and screaming, rushing forward and kicking the smoldering remains of the locket across the floor. He turned over a table, smashed one of the chairs into the floor, broke a mirror with a candlestick...

...then he turned to Carson and the terrified woman smothered beneath him. Anger had mitigated Darcy's glamour; his clenched teeth were fanged and so white they almost seemed to shine. His eyes were without sclera - pure black.

"Carson." He snarled. "Kill your mother."
 
Before the child had the chance to move, the young woman shot through the window with the force of a speeding train. She was upon Carson within seconds, rearing back a foot to collide with the young boy's ribs and send him tumbling into the far wall.

Following the motion of the kick, this new stranger swung herself around to face her counterpart, a thumb hooked into her skirt. The garment was whipped off, spilling to the floor to reveal not only a pair of thick breeches but the sword of the paladin that she had concealed for so long. In a flourish, the blade was drawn, then pointed at the creature before her.

She said nothing, only stared for a moment as she realized a moment long coming, waiting for him to make the first move. Her eyes didn't just burn with a vengeance, but a voracious hunger rarely seen in humans. This fight would not be another game: it was the climax of the hunt.
 
Glass flew across the floor. Darcy leapt back, yelping. No... she couldn't have found him... he should have been a full day ahead of her...

Carson barely had time to turn his head before he felt the paladin's shin connect with his side. Something cracked in his torso before he went flying to the far wall. His head smacked against the wood paneling and he slumped to the floor, groaning. His mother looked up, hands moving to the throat her own son had nearly throttled.

Darcy backstepped, his handsome face soiled with fear. The skirt fluttered away and he eyed the sword with disbelief.

"A paladin?" he gaped. A human? That's what had been hunting him? Thank the Crown. Vampires or necromancer could be a problem, but a mortal? This should be easy. "Oh, you sweet, little fool..."

His black eyes glowed, palm rising towards the girl. She would feel the faint tingling across her skin signaling a build up of arcane energy before a stream of fire spewed from his arm towards her.

"Should have stayed in your Monastery, little bird!"

Something begin to materialize in his left hand - a sword by the look of it, curved and crystalline.
 
Maeva did not answer him. She was not a woman of heroics and bad punchlines, not a woman of inaction or dramatic pauses. No. Maeva was a woman who got the job done.

As Darcy flung his hand out, Maeva stepped toward him, dropping onto one knee and leaning to the side in an attempt to avoid the fire, all while lifting her sword with a powerful flourish to pierce the outstretched arm.
 
The fires spewed overhead, colliding with the far wall of the home. The wood wall soaked the flames and caught fire immediately.

Darcy's eyes widened as the pitiful little human not only dodged his attack but jumped inside for a counter strike. Impressive. Clearly a paladin was a bit more capable than the average meat sack. Shapely hips, too. A bit thicker than he usually liked them, but there was a certain aesthetic to a muscled woman...

As her blade swept forward, Darcy countered with the now-materialized blade in his off hand. Ivaran steel met faean crystalline with a shrill, otherworldly chime vaguely akin to the ringing of a bell.

"Fencing, are we?" he smiled a toothy grin, before unleashing three rapid strikes - lightning fast swipes for her leg, torso, and shoulder. He let the mesmer enter his voice, trying to impress his will on the girl even as they fought. "We don't have to fight..." he offered, sidestepping, attempting to put some distance between them. He tried to meet her eye. "You're a rather beautiful girl. Wouldn't you rather be friends?"

Maeva would fill his magic pawing at her brain, attempting to push past her mental defenses and coerce her into obeying him.

With her Monastic training, warding off his charms would be the social equivalent of rebuffing a drunk college boy at the club.
 
Not for one moment did Maeva stop moving. Even after her attack was parried, she turned the blade and let it slide from Darcy's weapon, swiftly aiming down for his shin. In between every word he spoke and pause he took, she attempted to attack relentlessly. Even the mental pressure he tried to attack her with was batted beside by a determination that fueled her more than any training at the moment.
 
The blade connected with Darcy's shin somewhere around the beginning of his second sentence.

"Agh!" he yelped, all thoughts of seducing the young paladin banished with the unfamiliar sensation of pain. His body reacted on instinct, magic mustering about his frame and expanding in a forceful gust of wind which exploded around his body in a dome. Maeva would likely be thrown back across the room.

"Y-...you cut me!" he sounded positively indignant, reaching down to touch his leg, "you drew blood, you insolent little cu-"

He looked up just as her sword swung for his face. She'd crossed the room before he could manage ten words, the spreading flames outstretched on the wall like wings behind her.

"GODS!" he squealed, bringing his sword back up to parry. She took no time to catch her breath - no pauses for witty one-liners or verbal retorts. He saw something in her eyes. A burning. A hunger. This wasn't a duel, she wasn't his opponent. This was a hunt, she was the hunter. The killer.

He realized, instantly, how she had managed to follow him so closely. For the first time in two hundred years, fear knotted in Darcy's stomach.

"Yah!" he growled, unleashing another slice of force from his palm - this one aimed upwards, away from Maeve. One of the ceiling supports cracked, a large beam of timber falling on Carson's leg. The pain shocked him awake.

"Ahh... Ah-" he startled, "wha.. where... augh..." He looked down. "My... my leg..."

His mother quickly hurried over to him. "Car, Car, are you back?"

"Ma," he pushed at the debris, "ma, help me..." The log was far too large for a peasant woman to budge.

With the distraction set in place, Darcy mustered another windblast - trying once again to force the paladin away. If successful, he would take the opportunity to dash out the nearby window. She was a hunter, but that was a paladin's sword. If she did belong to the Order, then surely she would be compelled to save innocent lives?

The flames were quickly consuming the home.
 
Maeva felt the air punched out of her lungs when Darcy's attack smashed her back against a beam. She slumped to the ground for a moment, coughing. She lifted herself up, just in time to take notice of the boy and his mother. A sneer came to her lips as she spat "Weaklings will die," and turned toward the window that Darcy had escaped through. She pushed through the pain and leaped out of the window, searching for the fae sorcerer once more.
 
She might have met the mother's eye for a moment - her face contorted with pain, eyes rimmed with tears, with despair. She clutched at her boy as the paladin fled the room, offering no plea, no curse, stroking her child's hair as the flames closed in around them...

---

Maeve's tuned senses would allow her to quickly pick up on the blood trail left from Darcy's wound. It wound around an alleyway before opening up into the town square, mingling with the mud and snow. A crowd had already gathered around the burning home, calls for water being made among the townfolk.

Darcy ran/limped between the scurrying people, shoving the villagers aside. "Move, move recreant!" He threw a glance over his shoulder, gasping as he saw Maeve standing at the edge of the alleyway.

"Oof!" with his attention diverted, he ran smack into a pale-looking elder. Darcy cursed as he fell, stooping over the man. "You disgusting sack of..."

In one swift motion, Darcy removed the man's heart.

Screams now, not just from the fire. A mob of people ran in every direction away from Darcy, a shockwave of panic and dread.

Darcy stood upright, dripping heart in hand. His black locks hung over his alabaster face, statuesque features twisted with rage, with disgust, with fear. "Would you just... DIE!"

A wave of water cracked through the ice and soared above Darcy's head in a bubble. With a snarl, Darcy froze the mass of liquid and shattered them into razor-pointed spears of ice. He sent them flying towards the paladin - a hailstorm of lethal, frozen darts. Many of them struck the fleeing citizens as they ran in front of Maeve.
 
With a flick of the wrist, the paladin's shield expanded atop her arm and was lifted above her to defend her from the incoming barrage. Even then, she hadn't actually stopped her advance, and was sliding across the snow and the ice towards Darcy.

As soon as the barrage ended, the woman whipped her sword above her head and, with a lunge, flung it in Darcy's direction. She followed it up swiftly with a tackle, trying to bash her buckler into the creature's ribs.
 
CLNK CLNK CLNK - ice shards smacked against her vigilance, the steel and nanofoam keeping the barrage from inflicting the intended harm. As she charged forward, she would need to maneuver around the bodies of the townfolk felled in the line of fire - men and women with frozen spears jutting from their torsos, their limbs, writhing in the bloodstained snow...

Darcy parried the strike with his own blade, but the side of her shield met his stomach and something cracked within him. "Aughh!" he fell to the ground with Maeve atop him. His eyes glowed sickly black. "Nath'ka!" He spat, fanged teeth barred. A funnel of snow shot out from the ground at Maeve's side, attempting to knock her off of him. If successful, he would scrabble up to his feet and attempt a downward plunge with his sword wherever she lay.
 
Maeva was knocked to her side, and though she was already twisting her body to get away, the sword caught the side of her ribs. Still, she drew away and jumped up onto her feet, searching eyeing her sword on the other side of Darcy. Hefting her shield, she ran towards Darsy again, and though it looked like she aimed to tackle the demon, she dropped to her knees in a skid at the last second, attempting to pick up her sword.
 
Darcy snarled, bringing his sword up to swing at the girl as she made her second charge. It caught the empty air; at the last second, she dropped to the floor and skid past him, retrieving her sword and rising back into a fighting stance.

"Just DIE!" He spat, his voice somewhere between a battle cry and a temper tantrum. He launched a flurry of strikes against her - leg, hip, arm, neck, head - his strength and speed far beyond the typical limitations of a mortal man. Every parried strike would send tremors through Maeve's body.

For all that, he had abandoned form and prowess. He was lashing out without pattern or tact, using brute strength, fueled by his own rage and fear.
 
Off the docks of Descrieux, a small port town on the Cerulean Coast of Lutetia...

"How the hell'd you get an entire cargo ship, anyways?" Two figures spoke at the bow of a titanic cargo vessel, carrying a little over a hundred colored containers of various colors. One was a tattooed man, with slightly distressed jeans and a leather vest. His hairline was somewhat combed, but greyed and receding, accented nicely by yellow aviators. The other, a refined Lutetian woman, with a blue sweater, similar in shade to her hair.

"You'd be surprised how far a wad of cash and a few bullets can get you in this world, Bones," the Lutetian smirked, and grabbed a radio from the waistline of her designer jeans. "Go ahead and hail them, they should be expecting us. We've got that warehouse," she pointed towards one building in specific, largely indistinguishable from the others aside from the number painted on three of the four sides: H-5.

Bones followed her direction, and nodded, half in approval and half in awe. She really was amazing with these things, clearly there was more to this leader than even he knew. "Shame about your husband, by the way," he added, more to break the silence than anything.

"Yes, it is. He went out peacefully, at least, and I have grieved enough. It's time to act. Bad shit's happening here, and it's not because of me. That's gonna change." She knew all about his late husband's accident. He was too dangerous to keep alive, not because he was an actual threat, but he could talk. Saying the wrong thing at the wrong time could topple empires, and this was one empire that was not going anywhere soon, as long as the Lutetian had her hands on it.

Within several minutes the craft was allowed to dock, and did so rather unceremoniously. Cranes unloaded the containers, forklifts were driven out, and the warehouse belonging to the pair was opened. Gangplanks were lowered, and hundreds of crew members unloaded too, not a single one looking reputable, and all of them wearing matching necklaces, and blue shirts or bandanas.

Once the cargo and crew were on land, Bones and the Lutetian exited the ship, the former carrying a duffel bag and the latter a suitcase and a purse. The aging biker whistled to the dockworkers' supervisor, and beckoned him over.

"The help's nice, but we're gonna unload this stuff with our own guys. We're buying and keeping these forklifts too," he unzipped the duffel and showed its contents, bundles of money, more than enough to buy the posted materials. The supervisor shrugged, and took the money hesitantly. "One last thing," he reached out to clap his hand on the man's shoulder, "You never saw us here. Got it? Keep your mouth shut, and the money'll keep coming."

The dockworkers trickled back and returned to their breakrooms and lounges, and only then did the Lutetian and her associates open the containers and unload their contents, alone. Drugs. Money. Weapons. Vehicles. Machinery and materials to create said drugs, counterfeit money, among a myriad of other things, which were either stored or set up accordingly. Electronics, furniture and even some foodstuffs came too, which were arranged and stored in the section of the house that was once an office.

Several hours passed, and everything was unloaded and put where it needed to be. The woman gave a quick hand gesture to Bones, who then blew on a metal whistle to gather the subordinates, who arranged into small groups behind their leaders, and so on and so forth so the highest ranking were closest to the pair, all inside the warehouse. The Lutetian now had a megaphone, which she spoke into.

"Great job everyone, we've moved in without a hitch," The Lutetian smirked, as the crowd nodded. "You've all been briefed on what you are to do next, I made enough copies that you all should have them. If you lost yours, talk to Rico and he'll set you up. Remember, I want at least 50 men in this warehouse at all times, and you can stay here until you all can start getting real places to live. Nobody outside of us should be here, ever, unless Bones or myself knows about it. Once we're making money and going, we're going to meet with the packs in Lutetia City and move in, whether they want us or not!" At this, the crowd cheered for a few seconds.

"Alright, that's all I've got for you, now let's get rolling!" With a wave of dismissal, the packs of gangsters split up, many forming little huddles to discuss their plans. Once they dispersed through the warehouse, the pair was left alone.

"They listen to you more than I expected, boss," Bones crossed his arms and snorted with amusement.

"You thought Luci Lacroix was a feared name back on the island, soon my name'll be on the mind of every gang on Issunar," the Lutetian chuckled and cracked her knuckles.
 
Blip. Blip. Blip.

Sir David LaCharde clutched the distress beacon to his breastplate with bloodied fingers, heartbeat rising and falling in cadence with the locator. He lay at the footsteps of a great watchtower, a crumbling monolith at the southernmost end of the Cerulean shoreline. Once, six hundred years ago, this site stood as a bastion against the nefarious Barrows, guarding the coast from raiding parties. The thought brought a grim smile to David's lips. Was it ironic to die here? Perhaps. He'd never quite understood the meaning of that word. 'Irony'. He supposed he never would.

Another squib of pain flared from the wound trenching his gut. David groaned and pushed the rag he'd torn from his cloak deeper into the gash. His last batch of salve had worn off an hour ago. Blood poured freely from his abdomen, pooling in the grass around his armor. It was hurting less. Because you're dying, something told him. Why didn't that scare him? Dimethyltryptamine, the same voice replied, and the organic formula flashed in his head - on Gerard's chalkboard, back at the academy. Advance Chemistry II. Light, he hated that class. Never paid attention, goofed off half the time. He supposed it was Cleric Gerard's ultimate vengeance that his last thoughts should be of organic compounds. Not of Sadia, the cleric with the lovely eyes who liked silent horror films almost as much as he did. Not of Calem, his brother-in-arms, whose corpse was now being torn to pieces and consumed somewhere inside that watchtower. Not of God or the Light, of whatever afterlife might await a paladin slain in the line of duty.

"From ash we are born, to ash..." he growled, shaking his head. That was the wrong prayer. The orison du requi was for after he was dead. They'd put his corpse on a pyre in the monastery courtyard. They'd recite it together, like clockwork, and his body would go up in flames and his ashes scattered towards the setting sun. Maybe someone would cry. Maybe Johns would. Or Laura. Old classmates. Maybe Sadia would shed a tear or two. That would be nice. Dying wasn't so bad when you knew people were going to miss you.

Blip. Blip.

His mother, would she find out? Holed up in a slum somewhere in Vargeras... would she hear about her little boy's death? The child she gave up to the Monastery, the child she couldn't provide for, dead at twenty-five. Light, he hoped not. For a moment, David felt her hand smoothing through his hair, whispering in his ear through tears how proud she was of him, how much better his life would be without her, how much she loved him, how much she loved him, how much she loved...

His heart seized up, a cold chill running the length of his spine. An unfamiliar dread clawed its way through his addled mind into his thoughts. No, that wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to be scared. Paladins were supposed to die bravely, with honor. They didn't doubt in the end. They didn't weep.

"God help me," Sir David LaChard croaked, moisture brimming in his eyes, "God help me, I am afraid to die."

Blip.
 
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