Moments of Contemplation [Cecilia Lafayette]

[Hidennka]

3rd day of Tarsakh, 1350
Darkhold, Death Row: Day V

“Write your thoughts, Sister” He said to me gently, showing me his own small book as I struggled inwardly and outwardly with what was on my mind following the transpired events involving the Dead Crows. It was but a small piece of advice, but wise as his advice often was. Sometimes he would clasp my shoulder, encouragingly. Other times his brow would knit in contemplation, or he would scratch his nose in annoyance. Yet he was always there. He was a brother, and he was. . . no. . . is treasured. I had feared writing my thoughts though, felt that were I to spill it all I would sound like a fool or a disgrace perhaps. I felt like any doubt was weakness, and I was ashamed of such. Had I my own book now, I do not know if I could find the words I wished to say.

He is gone. A second Brother lost to me. I fear had I quill in my hand at this moment it would be laying in shards on the ground. "The Painbearer" they call him, but I correct them defiantly and call him by name and titles. I look out through the bars of Darkhold's dungeon cell and think foolishly that it is good for their sake I am caged. My tunic is in tatters, stiff from dried blood, I hardly recognize myself. My body now healed I pace against the bars like some kind of pathetic, underfed animal. I question why they would heal me. Perhaps so they do not seem so evil, perhaps because they wish to begin the torture anew on fresh canvas. They claim it is to help me think clearer. I’m unsure if I had even wanted the pain to stop, truthfully. Like enduring is part of what is keeping me going. Something to focus on. Something to prove I wasn't dead. Broken ribs, broken arm, beatings, blood drawn from my body. . . they’re all like a bad dream now, echoing in the darkness along with the drips onto the stone floor beside me.

I am both lost and found in this moment. My desire to endure, to live, to fight and to bring about justice burns ever brighter and I am reaffirmed in my previous decision to begin walking the steps needed to become a Triadic Knight. A desire to carry on the work of my Brother priest, and the need to bring about change and unity in the order. And yet, there is something else that drives me now. . . a rage, a bitterness that needs be quenched. I am both ashamed and empowered, and yet must remain resolute in the face of adversary. Even with every beating, as the fists fall on my person. Reveal the truth, punish the guilty, right the wrong, and always be true and just in your actions. I will not give into despair. I will not give into rage. Despite my body, my mind, my emotions begging against it within this hollowed out shell, I will not give in. "Fight, Sister!" he had called proudly, as I lashed out within my cage. And I will.

The betrayals I have witnessed leaves a foul taste in the mouth, I question whether trust truly has a place in this world. Is it a lie we tell ourselves so that we do not feel alone? Yet there are those I trust. I trusted Ameris, and still do. . . he did not betray my trust, yet there were things I did not know. Things I know now that I will continue in his stead. I trust Eldarian. . . but with his current condition, even before this, his actions . . . no. It’s actions, leave my heart heavy and yet I am starved for his company. No doubt he thinks I have abandoned him. I clutch his pearl in my hand, the one from his childhood given unto me and forged into a necklace. It is all I have of the world outside. I think of everyone often, even of those with me at the time of the attack. I wonder if they think of me, I question what is happening beyond these walls. Eventually thoughts of Cormyr will resurface. Then I see the faces of the Zhentarim again, of the traitors, some of which I trusted to varying degrees and the rage fills me once more. I think then, once again of the priest and his counsel, and of duty. It is an endless cycle.

Even the Trickster has stopped talking to me now. Ha. His talk of harnessing my power and overcoming weakness, . . . to think even the words of a madman are better than silence, but no. If what his brother tells me as he whispers in my ear is correct, he is dead. Somehow, this has been blamed on myself . . and thus his Brother threatens my life should I make it out of this cell alive. The nightmares of the deaths from that night following our venture into the theater have left me now as their conjurer passes, yet they are replaced by images of this place all of which end with me screaming into the same cloth gag, and I watch him fall over and over. . .

I know I am not leaving this place. I expect my Brothers and Sisters of the Order to remain resolute in their duty. The coin can be put to better use than my life, and destroying the Holy Avenger swords? The idea is almost laughable. I know what I am, I know the life I chose. Duty above all else, and I will die knowing I put my heart and soul into our cause. I will die knowing Tyr's justice will eventually smite down their wickedness. I will die with my head held high and my faith in tact, praying to my lord.

I will die...

Regardless of whether or not the ransom is paid, I have seen too much. Even should they wipe my memory, the traitor warns them of my potential. They laugh in my face as I speak of my faith with determination and yet I see a hint of wariness in them. Would they really allow a paladin to walk away from this place? I doubt it.

Five days have passed, five remain. . . and then I shall hang from the ramparts.

I pray that Tyr will find me worthy and accept me into his halls.

[Hidennka]

4th day of Tarsakh, 1350
Darkhold, Death Row: Day VI

Minutes bleed into hours, hours into days. The Zhentarim do not come by as often now, and rarely enter the cell. I haven’t eaten. . . save for a few slices of apple one tossed into the cage. I wished to hide my pangs of hunger from them, to avoid showing them any signs of weakness and yet I took them, dusted them off and partook of them gratefully. Does this make me weak? Or merely a creature of basic survival instinct? I could say I took the apple slices, devouring them to keep up what little strength I have left, though that would not be completely true. I was hungry, and I caved.

I had thought I was alone in this place at this moment, or at least within the dungeon, but it seems the Trickster is not yet done tormenting me. The Trickster. It seems he is not dead after all but gone are the riddles and games. . . no, not gone. Different. I had a strange dream this cycle. . . cycle, because in truth, I have no knowledge on whether it is day or night beyond these walls. I open my eyes, finding myself on a bed in an old mansion and wondering where I was. There was a creature in the room, not unlike the one whom was there after we went into the theatre. Blood dripped from it’s foul mouth and down over the folds of it’s large, purple body. It told me it had eaten all those I held dear and I sat in stunned silence, reaching for my weapon which remained missing from my side.

I recall then, walking through a field with the children from the orphanage. The sun shone overhead, I thing I miss. . . an image of beauty as light drops of rain fell onto my face and outstretched hand. Their happy laughs and chatter like music to my ears, and as they chased the butterflies my heart soared with elation. In the next moment that passed a black fog rolled in and I could hear the children getting further and further away. I still feel the familiar burn in my legs as I think about it now, the thudding of my footsteps as I attempted to run after them, blinded by the fog. . . running breathlessly, the echoes of their laughter fading into the distance and I am alone once more. No. . . not alone. Blind-folded and chained, the voices of the Zhentarim around me, talking idly of how they will torture me next. A sense of dread fills my stomach and weighs on my heart. It is not unlike talk I have heard before. I struggle in my bonds and the scene fades into some ruins. I’m wearing my armor, sword in hand.

I had almost forgotten this feeling of weapon in hand. There was something soothing about it. Comforting. I am reminded of days training with my Brother in the cellar of our home in Cormyr, and the relieving of tension against the wooden totems in the armory of the Chapterhouse. . . I digress. A knight stood before me in the darkness of the passage, though I was able to see the symbol of Tyr emblazoned on his chest quite easily. “Remember, we must always reveal the truth, punish the guilty, right the wrong and be just in our actions! This is the path of Tyr.” He spoke as we walked, his voice confident and humming with power. I was in awe, empowered by his word and presence. “Hold strong in your faith, and never give up hope. Be strong and courageous always.”

Where these words meant for me? Meant to encourage? Or meant to build false hope? Are they a message? I’m not sure at this point. The dreams I have. . . I am not sure how long it has been since they were my own. How I long for a peaceful night's sleep, were it even in the same room as Eldarian’s own disturbed thrashings. . . but. . . best not think of that now, though such seems impossible.

Starting "awake" from those words spoken by the Knight, I found myself back in my cell. Words echoed in my head, whether I was awake or asleep at this point, knowledge of such still eludes me, speaking of how bored he was without me and that he had taken to harming Aiden instead. I had hoped with the strange attachment the Trickster seems to display, my being here would at least keep him from harming others on the outside. It seems such is untrue and the thought that he continues his tricks and deceptions, preying on the innocent, leaves me feeling helpless within my cell.

"I want you by my side.. As my servant . . ." the voice uttered in response to my question, asked angrily after witnessing horrifying displays. He is not the first to offer me a position alongside evil since I have been here and the words are poignant like the tip of a blade. I could help them all, he promised. He could take me from this place, promising not to betray me like others had. Dream or not, my hands shake as the voice speaks, not in fear. . . but in exhaustion. I speak in turn, reminding him I do not make blood pacts, nor deals with evil but my voice comes out hoarse and my heart, though it beats with the will of Tyr, feels heavy. Perhaps had I been at my full strength. . . and in different circumstances it would not be the case but I can feel this place taking it's toll on my person. I will continue to oppose that which is wicked in this world, though it is no mystery to me that my time grows short. "Cut your self, and bleed into a cup. . ." the final words echoing in the silence. . . or perhaps in my head before I was alone one more. Perhaps for the first time in a while, rather gratefully.

I look up at the lofty ceiling far above my head, head back against the wall trying desperately to avoid thinking of all of which has befallen me. . . and another. I had known my path would not be an easy one, and yet it is beyond anything I had expected. The desire for the light, for justice, still burns in my heart, perhaps brighter than ever before but my eyes are open now. . .

I am a child no longer.

[Hidennka]

5th day of Tarsakh, 1350
Darkhold, Death Row: Day VII

My thoughts turn now to Ethan. No. Not Ethan. . . this was not his real name as I had learnt today. A man I foolishly trusted and who’s betrayal, though not as significant as some of those I have witnessed. . . the coin giver, though I never trusted him fully to begin with. The Magus, for my Brother's sake and then there's the traitor. . . but it still strikes me hard. I recall how Ethan had saved my life once, though it was not the first time we had met. No, that came when he offered aid in my plight against Kahanak and his murder of Eldarian. . . was that offer a lie also? Were strings being pulled and manipulated even then? Undoubtedly. Stupid, foolish girl I was to fall for it so easily. Are Tyr's words not "Be vigilant in your observations and anticipations so you may detect those who plan injustices before their actions threaten law and order"? Could I have prevented this from ever happening, had I been less trusting and more vigilant? Were my heart steeled and closed to aid and mercy, and more open to the idea that not all men are as honest as we?

I smirk bitterly now at the memory, I had even asked his affiliations, including Zhentarim, openly as we sat in the booth of the Friendly Arm Inn. My memories drift then to waking up in the Song of the Morning temple in Beregost, having been badly wounded and near death from the sting of a Wyvern's tail. I had opened my eyes to his hooded face peering down at me, having carried my limp body from out of town. . . or so he had said. He had offered then to help train my sword arm, and there were one or two times we had ventured out together, tending to the Undead in the Gullykin crypt and the wyverns to the South. Blinded by these acts, I was oblivious to his true nature. Perhaps even failed my god in this matter. . .

I am not the same I was, however. I am broken, though not by man. . . it is more likened to a thought that I will have to start afresh if I should ever leave this place. No longer held back by the ignorant bliss of a sheltered youth, I will need to rise from the bended knee of circumstance with clear mind and open eyes.

"Make it so that she can't speak for a while" the blonde male had instructed Ethan from the desk, waving a dismissive hand as I asked of their titles and hierarchy. The latter of the two approaching the cell with an enthusiastic glint in his eyes at the command."Perhaps she has begun feeling a tad too comfortable." I did not wish to sit by and be made a for reining blows, "Fight, Sister!" my Priest Brother's words echoing in my thoughts once more as I lunged for the gate. My spirit was met with a plated blow to the face, the desperate cracking of bones in my hand echoed moments later as the sound reverberated from the metal breastplate whence I'd struck. A faint chanting came from outside the cell and I was unable to move. Fists pounded against me then and everything went black after that. . .

I'm unsure how long I lay unconscious for, the blackness fading eventually into another strange dream. "Thieving scum!" came the shout, the familiar clanking of chains rousing me into a state of coherence as the thud and a glance confirmed the addition of a prisoner in the cell next to mine. We did not speak for long, the red-haired stranger speaking with an amused mockery in his tone. He had attempted to rob the Zhentarim, hoping to find a weapons cache worthy of stealing and then selling it to merchants. It makes me wonder how desperate a man must he have been to go up against such, knowing the inevitable outcome. It was not long however, until he was dragged from the cell. I have not seen him since. . .

[Hidennka]

7th day of Tarsakh, 1350
Darkhold, Death Row: Day XI

I dont. . . know. Why can’t I remember? WHY? What is this haziness that has become of my time here? What is this sense of dread and foreboding? This bitter feeling of hurt and betrayal? Why do my hands shake when I try to peer into the fog of what I assume are memories. Faces, names. . . even conversations are blurred beyond recognition. Was it always this way? I remember the beatings, even now I reach up and can feel my cheek is swollen and bruised. My pendant, the one with Eldarian's pearl is gone. I look down at my malnourished body, what's left of my tunic is stiff with blood. . . I know where I am. I can see with my own two eyes that I sit on the cold stone floor within the dungeons of Darkhold. I remember and yet I do not.

I remember the fight in Triel, being dragged for miles semi-conscious until the earth swallowed us up, appearing before the towering doors of the stronghold, instantly pulled into the dungeons in state of near-death and chained to the walls by limbs. I recall Ethan breaking my ribs, the shallowness of my breathing and the excruciating pain of snapping bone. I can still feel the horror of someone pulling blood from my wounds, storing it in a vial and speaking wickedly of what they would do with it, without knowing who they were. I remember Ameris’ prayers in the tongue of his homeland, and Ilmater taking possession of my body for a short time, painless and at peace in body but heart heavy as I looked upon his face and the pained expression of betrayal as one talked to him.

The images of the Deadlord standing in the temple of Bane, the words uttered at the so-called 'trial'. . . the march to the ramparts and moment of his death. . . these moments, those words remained burned into my soul, not unlike a scar left from a branding iron. I remember being strapped to the rack, heartbroken over my Brother's death, broken limbs pulled to the point of dislocation as they left to drink wine. . . days and days without food, nightmares, taunting through the cage as if I am some animal on display. . .how is it that I am able to remember all these things, feel the pain of each individual action and yet have no memories of who or what did this to me.

Where is the justice in that, when I cannot even remember the faces of those who have done wrongly?

I've been here for. . . nine days now. If the words spoken unto me of ransom with the Radiant Heart speak true, of whom there has been no answer as far as I know, then tomorrow my fate will be sealed.

[Hidennka]

8th day of Tarsakh, 1350
Darkhold, Day of Reckoning

Soft prayers uttered in the dark. . .the creaking of the cell door. . . shuffling footsteps of a physically drained being dragged forth. . . the clinking and rattling of chains. . . a shudder at the bite of freezing winds. "I won't grant you the courtesy of a clean death, like I did with Ameris." comes the voice beside me, my neck itching as the rope is tightened in place, every muscle in my body tensing against the action. "I will watch you thrash your legs for hours... Days, before you finally succumb." His hand roughly grasps my cuffs, I feel the other on my back, as he guides my weakened form over the ramparts. My stomach turns as I see my Priest Brother, still hanging below from nine days prior. I tilt my chin upward once more, I am not ashamed of what has brought me here today and I will stand with my head held high.

Reveal the truth, punish the guilty, right the wrong, and always be true and just in your actions.

A nudge, my vision tumbles for a moment and is stopped short. I cough and splutter as the rope on which I am attached tugs painfully into my throat as I am lowered slowly, drifting further into the wind. I lift my cuffed hands to the rope, my fingers slipping from it feebly under their weight, my legs kick and thrash as expected. Every breath is a battle, and yet still I fight. "Good riddance." come the final words from above me, muted by the wind as their footsteps carry them away. "Captain, double the security on the front towers."

Uphold the law wherever you go and punish those who do wrong under the law.

Were my jaw not clenched from the pain, my teeth would chatter as the bitter cold air seeps into my poorly clothed person, my mind turning now to the life I am leaving behind. I had once viewed the world to be a thing of beauty, a precious gift which needed protecting from the clutches of darkness. It is not however. It is a dark place, it is a place of lies and deceit, a hive of villainy, and we fight continually to prevent it spreading. We fight to light torches amongst all the darkness, we strive for every inch. It is not about fame, it is not about personal gain nor pride. It is duty. It is needed. The truest measure of success comes, perhaps, when there are those who can lay their heads down in a peaceful night's sleep without ever knowing the war that rages around them. Without seeing the horrors, nor knowing there are those who fight such for their freedom and for their happiness.

Keep a record of your own rulings, deeds, and decisions, for through this your errors can be corrected, your grasp on the laws of all lands will flourish, and your ability to identify lawbreakers will expand.

I think now of those I have met, those I know, both in light and shadow who fight this good fight. Men and women of varying races, skills and faith all doing what they can with what they have been given to strive against the darkness. I think of the Order. I think of those I consider friends. . . of mentors, priests, and brothers. . . of knights, sailors, philosophers . . . even tiefling and a crazy old wizard. "Endure." I think to them "and thank you." I have been blessed with many wonderful, and unexpected relations.

Yet I am torn. . . this feeling of betrayal runs deep within me. Concern grows for those I hold dear, those I consider friends and what will become of them, and despair over not being able to warn them of treachery despite not knowing who is in question. But. . . such is out of my hands now, I can only hope and pray that others will be more vigilant than I.

With both fondness and a heavy heart, I recall in quick succession the moments that have passed on my journey. In doing so I cannot help but think of the Dawnknight Eldarian. I pray to The Maimed God and to Lathander to watch over him. In my heart, I know the possibility of him surviving what has befallen him, what he is fighting will be now further strained and that pains me more than he'll ever know. I remember that evening in the crypt, the last time I thought I would ever see him and he told me of the way in which he embraced the sun, asking me to revel in it when he could not. I'm looking at it now, Eldarian. I cannot feel it's warmth in these bitter winds but I see it in all it's beauty.

Be vigilant in your observations and anticipations so you may detect those who plan injustices before their actions threaten law and order.

I dont want to die, I think as I gasp suddenly for air. I know where my duty lies and I accept this, I commit to this, I am honoured to die in the name of my Lord. . . and yet there is more I had hoped to accomplish, experience. Mayhaps I should have written home when I had the chance. I am battered. Broken. And yet still able to be used for the light of good. But selfish too, perhaps, as I would wish to continue my indulgence of the company of others.

Deliver vengeance to the guilty for those who cannot do it themselves.

My lungs burn, I am unsure how much time has passed as my ragged breaths seek the cold mid-morning air. The spots before my eyes growing ever larger and my energy has long since departed. I have lost the battle, I pray that my Brothers and Sisters will continue the war.

My time has come. . . I am ready to be judged.

Hours after dropping from the ramparts, Lady Cecilia Layfayette of the noble House Lafayette of Cormyr, Paladin and Champion of the Just God Tyr, Squire of the Order of the Radiant Heart under prelate Eliphas Valkarian thusly takes her last pained breath of cold Northern air, a tear dripping off her chin and into the breeze that sways her lifeless corpse.

[calvinus]

Wai Li hears rumors that Lady Cecilia Layfayette has been executed by Zhentarim forces in Darkhold while Wai is near the Friendly Arm Inn. Not knowing for certain, she reasons still that in all likelihood it is the truth. Wai Li had previously prayed many times to her god Helm to protect Cecilia, her paladin comrade, during Cecilia's capture, apparently to no avail. The gods do work in mysterious ways after all, even for their own devout. Still though, in coming to terms with this likely final and grim reality for Cecilia, Wai Li kneels near the Friendly Arm Inn campsite, and speaks softly what is probably to be her last prayer to Helm in her paladin friend's name: "Oh, Watcher, protect the soul of Cecilia, moving on, always obedient to her code, to be with Tyr, until the days of the world are done." Finishing the prayer, Wai Li stands and heads south on the Trade Way road, oddly smiling at the thought of Lady Cecilia Layfayette forever joining her god in the afterlife.

[Hidennka]

13th day of Tarsakh, 1350
Baldur's Gate: A New Dawn

Darkness. I was walking, walking and walking. The memory fades. Then . . . light. Blinding light. My body. . . no, not physical . . . it's pulled. Pulled, and I along with it. Willingly? Yes. My work is not done. Painful, yes. Mortal, yes. . . . Reborn?

There are voices, they are muffled. Who's voices are they? My brow furrows, but my limbs remain still. I try to move my fingers but the feeling is foreign, clumsy. A soft groan forces its way past my lips. I hear. . . sobbing? The voices become familiar. . . but can they be trusted? Someone is shaking me. My eyes flutter open, blurry and stinging from the light. I take a few breaths, forcing the air into my lungs and wonder where I am. Images flood my mind at the touch . . . cuffs, blood, stone walls, the sound of bones breaking. My body is rocked, my limbs feel heavy but they thrash uncontrollably. Then force . . . they're holding me down? Faces. I can see their faces now, yet I remain uneasy.

I ask for the Priest, my voice cracks hoarsely over the commotion. A voice, recognised, speaks in return as she looks down upon me. Neschera. "He is alive and well, we're taking you to him now if you'll let us." I try to help but I cannot move as I wish to, I feel uncomfortable in this replacement body. It is the same, and yet. . . different. They lift my limp form onto a bedroll, and I catch a glimpse of the man I call Brother across the room in a similar state. My breath catches in my throat, a flashed memory of him standing on the ramparts, rope around his neck . . . and yet he lives. For the briefest of moments, my heart soars with relief only to be battered down by harsh realities of what had happened, what I remember and what will follow. What path will follow this? Where do we go from here? Who do we trust? I am overcome with thoughts, like waves crashing onto the shore. I can see their hurt expressions when I question with suspicion and it fills me with pain.

I collapse onto the cloth, and they bring my Brother over to me. "Sister. I think we are allowed a day off today." He smiles faintly, seeming to mask his pain with fair spirits and humor, or perhaps it helps him cope in an attempt to keep from burdening others. The latter are something I do myself, though on this day, I cannot even muster that as blessed are we are to be given our new dawn. I see the pain in him though, I understand it I think. As he is brought over and laid beside me I think to myself that it is a good thing, as hard as it may be, that he does not remember that place. That he does not have this twisted, indiscernible feeling of betrayal. His pain is not any less so however, that make is known and understood. We find a few minutes alone before the first guests arrive, not many words are said but also not needed to pass on the most pressing point.

We are aided up the stairs to private quarters so that we might find rest, my feet drag along the floor and feel heavy beneath me. Though exhausted, neither of us seem to find solace in pillows turning instead to conversation. It is heavy on the heart, there are many uncertainties. We both attempt to comfort each other with encouraging words, truths even and yet we are both reluctant to let them sink in, I think."Sister." He says, his quiet voice drifting down from the bunk above. "You should report". And so I do. A fraction of such, at least. My tone remains as it has been. . . measured, formal. Like my body. . . no, my spirit, it is weary and yet determined.

We have guests that come and go. With each of them that pass through I question in my mind if they could be Zhentarim. The blurred, unidentifiable faces from my memories. My thoughts are uncontrolled at this point, even as I lay here and stare up at the wooden bunk over my head I understand this. I flinch at every touch, linger on every word as my thoughts return to my time as captive. There is shame as I struggle with it, knowing what I must be and falling short of that.

My Brother's words as he falls asleep ring in my ears and drown out my thoughts as sleep approaches.
"We endure, and the argument is not yet over."

[Hidennka]

14th day of Tarsakh, 1350
Baldur's Gate: Temple of Ilmater

What is trust and what place does it have in our world? This is a thing I question now. Is it because I no longer believe in it? No. But I do question it to a greater extent than I would have previously. Trust has it's place in this world, in life but it is something taken for granted also. It came to me rather easily before. I was willing to open my heart to those who sort comfort, willing to give the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise . . . and foolishly accepting those of questionable presence.

Trust is something given freely, and yet shattered easily. How can you ever truly know? You can't. This is how organisations like the Zhentarim work. Underhanded and deceitful. Trained in the webs of lies, the games that we are too honest to play. It is their way to get as close as possible, using charm and wit and personal knowledge to work their way into lives and yet, even knowing this, we do not see it. Even now as I question, they are winning. We cannot bare to think that anyone we know would betray us to such extents but it happens. Judging by the expression on my Priest Brother's face as I looked on from my cell, the air heavy with the sting of betrayal and this same feeling in the pit of my stomach as I think of my own encounters, it has happened. Trust is allowing yourself to depend on another, yet is full trust needed? Can we go on without it and what does it mean to live without it?

Trust, being of social construct, is expected. Why are people looked down upon when they are suspicious of others? Why is it that offence is taken at such? I have been guilty of such in the past, of wounded pride when there are those who do not trust me and yet I have been forced to a point where I gaze at all I meet with varied measures of debated trust. It is crippling and unsettling, and yet not without foundations. Without trust, all contingent possibilities should be considered, leading to a paralysis of inaction. Is it the bane of all who are easily trusted to be inevitably used, whether intentional or not? Does it liken to the food change that those who are stronger performers will make use of those lesser so? It is a thing I wonder.

I do not believe it is a thing I have done, but as I look at the gifts in my hand given by those who have visited this day . . . can one truly know? Are they freely given? Are they given to build connections to later be used in benefit . . . or is it due to my own connections they feel obliged? I question why such a simple thing has become a deep process of thought. What would others think if they knew of my current struggle?

I still find myself on bed rest, but my Brother is about and moving today, albeit slow and assisted it is a good thing to witness. Stubborn, much like myself. . . and yet I envy him being mobile. We have not talked much today, but I keep a watchful eye on him as best I can. The day was filled with the coming and going of visitors, well wishers and friends. They seem glad to see me and yet I am not oblivious to the concern in their eyes, their odd looks and questioning glances to me and to others. I wonder what they must think of me, and yet at the same time it feels only as though it is a small, nagging thought; something distant and unimportant when compared to my larger goal.

Tyr has graced me with a second chance, and I will not see my borrowed time squandered on that which will not benefit the plans he has for me. Such was made apparent this even when my former tutor; the Cormyrean Dawnbringer talked of music and dance. Even as I think on it now, what place does this have? It serves no benefit and thus I shall not partake in such. How can one partake in such merriment when darkness lurks on our doorsteps? When others are suffering and beset with hardship. No. I am dedicated to my cause and there is already much to do.

My life now, even more than ever before, belongs to my Lord.

[Hidennka]

17th day of Tarsakh, 1350
Baldur's Gate: Temple of Ilmater

Productive. That is what I have been over past days and what I shall continue to be. My Priest Brother is absent now. I hold his parting letter in my hand, already wearing on its folds. "Know that you remain my sister, come what may" he writes, and I find myself missing his counsel. It is a thing I understand must happen, his departure, something I support but it is a difficult thing. I worry for his safety, and for his mission. Yet I press on. Things begin to become a little clearer. I follow my path now as I had planned at his death, to continue what he could not. My throat grows hoarse from conversation, my hand aches already from letters scribed, and the errand boy, though dutiful, grows weary.

I returned to my own temple yesterday, moving stiffly on my own for the first time and spending much of my time there praying for guidance to the Most Holy God of Justice. For hours upon hours I knelt, holy symbol clasped in hand even as the sun passed over head. My voice wavered in both murmurs and fervour, my past, present and future laid bare, humbly asking for a glimpse into the Maimed God's infinite wisdom so that things may become clear to me. The actions of the Zhentarim, Triel, Knighthood; both of the Order and the Triad and the path I must take on these things amongst others are questions which left my lips.

There has been too much time spent on thoughts and bed rest. Bed rest which has been afflicted with reoccurring dreams, no, nightmares of Darkhold. Even now as I look down at my arms I see the bruising caused by apparent thrashing through the night. I wake up in sweats, my chest heaving. Last night's recollection still weighs on my mind as I relived the tortures inflicted upon me, over and over again as if I'd never left. Following my prayers however, before such came to a close and I woke I saw a vision. The same I had during a dream in my time within the cells; walking alongside a Tyrran Knight. He speaks the familiar dogma: Reveal the truth, punish the guilty, right the wrong, and be always true and just in your actions. Be strong and courageous. Trust in the calling. Tyr is with his servants. I start awake, shaking, an unexplainable feeling that something is out of place.

The pieces of the puzzle begin to slowly come together, however, but it is to small extent. My conversations bare some fruition and there is some manner of succour that comes from believed progress. Assumptions and suspicions they remain, a delicate task but a hint of a scent on the otherwise chilled wind that will eventually draw the hounds and sound the horns of the hunt. My duty, my purpose gives me strength.

My body remains uncoordinated to some extent, but I am regaining control of my movements at a decent pace. It remains a frustrating thing, almost as much so as the haziness of my memories as I find myself in a lesser state than previous but it is expected. Those whom I have been willing to spend time with have been patient with me, despite the burden I place on them. I made it to Beregost today . . . alas, I was denied entry to visit. It is not an uncommon thing in recent times, though I would be lying to myself that I had hoped it wouldn't be different. Were it not within the walls of a temple, I would struggle to keep myself from breaking down the door. It seems I am not completely emotionless yet.

This path remains, leading me into solitude's arms but I will attempt to see through the darkness.

[Hidennka]

19th day of Tarsakh, 1350
The Trade Way, South of Beregost.

I have found some measure of peace on this day. Mm. Purpose at least, or reaffirmation of such. It is bitter-sweet however, as such purpose comes from circumstance that push us in different directions. Beginning and end. I let go now of the stone to which I had grasped and we part ways as I move to face and weather the storm before me. Counselled, but standing alone. "You will have to be "the paladin". I will be "the cleric."

A heaviness clouds the air on both sides, burdened as we talk. Similar and yet different. Calmed and stirred by the presence. It is not hard to notice the masks we wear between us. Pride, perhaps, that such formalities are observed and maintained. The need to be proper. Familiarity, tradition, foundation. There is a side which relies on this whether it is by choice or by habit. . . no, it is both. Yet somehow, even with the walls in place there is understanding as stories are shared. Personal, amidst the pain.

There are many things to think on now, suggestions and plans made. Questions answered. Moments of realisation that I can no longer stand in the shadows of those believed to be more capable than I. The time has come to step forward, eyes open and childhood behind me. It is time to take the weight on my shoulders more than ever before and do what needs to be done. Supported, but not reliant. I walk away, but it is hard to not look back. My legs are stiff as they force me onward.

"You can help make the Order be what it should be."

[Hidennka]

19th day of Tarsakh, 1350
The Trade Way South of Baldur's Gate.

Life and death. It is a fine line we walk between the two. To be alive without living, to live for the wrong purpose. it is a fragile thing. Something easily taken away and yet rarely spared. With the blessings available to us in this age, it is easy to forget this. Having such at our fingertips, does it depreciate the value of life? Are we more willing to throw our own away or take that of another? It would seem that way, and yet it has it's place in the world also. There is justice in death . . . but injustice in the death of the innocent.

Cormyr weeps on this day, having been robbed a piece of it's heart as every man and woman of our great land is. On this day, I saw the death of my close friend and comrade as he tumbled from the rooftops of the Friendly Arm Inn at the hands of Dravolich. Though long since departed from the forest kingdom, and affected by the injustices of life and self there was a goodness in him, the world a little darker without his presence. Argued, by recent turn of events which lead up to such and yet not things which are easily controlled.

His blood smears my armor, hands shaking as I hold his journal in my hands, his hat tucked under my arm. It is dark, I am alone as I head toward the gate, the sobs of his courted sunite still echoing in my mind. His lifeless body whole once again, but his soul unwilling to return. I cannot bring myself to open this book, not yet.

"Lady Layafette of Suzail...I've seen you before.." he had recalled to me only the day prior, after touching words and I am reminded of the Summer Festivities in Marsember then. A soldier at the time, a Purple Dragon knight like I had so desired to be. Our conversation was short, distracted as I was ushered away from the dark haired teenager. It was not until some time later on the Sword Coast, even after knowing him some time that the link was discovered. A kinship through heritage that brought a unique feeling of acceptance, and trust. . . I can think no further on this. Though I did not know him all that well, my chest aches at the loss of an innocent.

Death comes yet again, clawing at the small measures of comfort that remain in my life.

[Hidennka]

20th day of Tarsakh, 1350
The Friendly Arm Inn, Private Chambers.

Duty remains ever present despite these troubled times, and a plan begins to form. It is our way, the very foundation of our faith that duty comes before all else. They are oaths not taken lightly, mind you. The words are simple to say, guidance in decided action even seems to pale in comparison to the challenge of doing that which must be done in times of unrest. When the lives of others are at risk, and must come before your own and oft those you care about. When you must leave mid-conversation to tend to situations or follow possible leads, when circumstances prevent you from spending time with a lover or friend. When there are things you cannot speak of and it is accepted the chances of seeing your thirtieth winter are slim. Yet it is a thing we, I, have taken on willingly. A thing that few truly understand what it means, and the challenges that come with it. In duty we have no race, no gender. In duty we are a united force in the darkness, unshackled and yet bound in unison. To answer that calling, it is the very essence of who and what I am as a servant of my Lord and it is honoured. I am well enough now to travel, to engage in combat and although my body is left exhausted by the eve, though to say this is entirely physical . . . well.

"Cecilia, I will not have you running off thinking you can take on all the worlds burdens by yourself. You will either let me help, or I am dragging you back to that temple myself." And there she is, as stern as she ever was. Varra. Her voice is yet another reminder of the place I call home. Of childhood and submission. Of honour and pride. Even as I stand in the midst of turmoil, tending to conversation and laying down paths to see duty done, she remains unchanged. A blessing perhaps, that she has not yet fully seen the darkness of this world. She tries to understand, tries to keep up, I can see this as we try to explain that despite her concern, her involvement could make things more difficult. Yet even as she stands, seven winters my senior with arms folded there remains a youthful, unmarred childishness to her. "You speak so harshly of betrayal. Yet you leave without any word when I specifically told you not to till you could prove to me you could defend yourself. I... its a betrayal of friendship." The words cut through me like a knife that she can compare such, and yet this is what is has been like. They offer advice, counsel, roll their eyes, thinking they understand and yet they avoid talking about it. Avoid asking . . . as if I am a fragile doll, even as I relive those days every night beneath the covers. I do not expect to be coddled, nor do I wish to be yet how can they truly claim to understand without knowing? Counsel comes, though from unexpected source and yet it is wise. "It will never be the same. I know this ... but the others ... how can they know? .. in their wildest dreams they could not imagine what it is like to go through all this. You are not fragile ... you have proven that time after time ... but they have no idea how to help .. what is needed to help you .... it will be up to you to help them .. help you ..."

"Running off like justice is just some little game. Its not dear, its a bitter harsh world out here and you're in no fit state to deal with it." She questions my path, states I'm destructive and self-loathing. My muscles tense at her accusation, heart thumping in anger in my chest. That she can lecture me on bitterness? How dare she! She asks how I can speak of betrayal . . . on bitterness? Even now the anger and pain of her words causes my blood to boil. The feeling burns in my stomach. I speak of betrayal because it is something I can manage to vocalise, something I endure, something that haunts me. I speak of betrayal because I have been privy to it, and seen the pain on another's face because of it. And such is being compared to leaving the temple without word to do my duty? "Your pride is your undoing." In my frustration, I challenge her as to what she knows of bitterness. Her answer is short, plain. "You." Our conversation, the knowledge being passed that Valiant has told the Trickster's accomplice, the friend I saw die yesterday . . . and remains slain still, of Eldarian, the understanding that he wishes to have me fall from grace and to his side as obedient hound. . . and the plan we had began to form against the Trickster crumbles at the interjection.

"Do you want to know the truth about your brother?" those startling words rang in my mind as I had turned from her then and continue to as I lay here. Alistair. No not that Alistair. Sir Alistair the Gallant . . . Lord Alistair Benjamin Lafayette of Cormyr, Paladin of Tyr and beloved oldest Brother. I should have declined. I should have refused, knowing it would only lead to more pain. Yet I could not. To my understanding from what I was told in childhood, he had fallen in battle - an honourable death for a Tyrran. "He suffered the same fate as you, by the hands of the same people. But you did what he could not, you returned to us." The truth of his passing, done at the hands of the Zhentarim is a crushing blow even without knowing the circumstances. Two brothers they had taken from me, of blood and of faith. . . . not just from me, but from the world. Two lights burning brightly and inevitably snuffed out. It is in this moment I give thanks that the flames of one have flickered to life once more, a small spark seeking the oxygen to shine once more.

Still, my thoughts continue to spin uncontrolled even now as my lashes grow heavy and I berate myself for my weakness of negative thoughts. I should be above such . . . my path remains the same . . . and it's not getting any easier. This is accepted though. I will endure. I must endure. Even if I lose everything dear to me these things must remain within. . . and, as my Priest Brother states - duty, honour, righteousness must shine in the hope it will inspire others to bring about the justice this world craves. I have no other paths. I am hope, and there are those that look to me.

[Hidennka]

22nd day of Tarsakh, 1350
The Song of the Morning Temple, Beregost.

Anguished. This is but a whisper of what I have become when I look into his eyes, blue turned crimson as he progresses over months passed. An empty thing, devoid of a piece of me that can not be replaced. A piece that was given willingly, a piece that I never aimed to part with under duty. And yet it bleeds, this piece, even as it is torn from within the cavity of my chest. His days are numbered, perhaps even counted on two hands. The Most Radiant had stopped me as I entered, my heart beat flickering weakly as he speaks. "If you have anything you wish to say to him . . . I would say it with this visit. I am unsure how much longer he will remain himself."

He thrashes even now in tormented sleep as I lay nearby, blood already splatters the cold stone ground as wounds open easily. His words had come dry and forced at first. Bitter they remained still, to a degree, as his body weakly called for sleep. "You were not there for me when I needed you." he had said, shattering, ringing in my ears. I know these are not his words. . . or perhaps they are. Even as I slept on the stone outside the locked door he was abandoned. Even as I hung from the walls in chains within Darkhold I had failed him. Even as his words bit, evidence of my pain allowed him to slip further. The words cut me deep regardless of their intention and I struggle to keep my head up high and remain encouraging even as the hurt tears at me from inside. I tell him how I feel, I try to explain. When once my cheeks reddened, and my words soft they now come in earnest without reprieve.

My hands tremble even as they brush over his unnaturally warm skin, sweating and weak. He still wears the ring, even after it has been exchanged between us numerous times since this began . . . a ring of courting, a tradition of my homeland. I . . . had never intended to be on any other path than that of my Lord's . . . and yet our paths entwined and brought us to this moment. My eyes gaze over his once golden hair, now dull and lifeless and I can't help but think yet again that mayhaps such wonders were not meant for me. Surely the Dawnknight would have been better off for it. What hath I brought but pain to this man's life? A viscous murder at the hands of a besotted sailor. . . returned to us by Lathander but in a poor state that saw slow recovery and constant battle, overcoming such to then dwell in the knowledge that I had been taken by the Crows and his hand offered in aid of rescue to be battered away, opening him up to what plagues him now. Where is the justice in this, that such should befall a man such as he?

I do not hold regrets over our time together, I treasure it. Even as labored as our admissions were to one another, the uncertainty, the memories are fond and replay in my mind. A bittersweet thing, to remember what it was like and what it is now. . . and what I may lose. No . . . what many will lose. What he will lose . . . what he must be going through right now. What he must be dreaming and feeling. What he gives up to save me. He thrashes again, more blood. I almost gag at the sight, despite all that I have seen, it is a poignant moment.

I must remain strong in this. He is there, and he needs me to be. Helplessness bares down upon me like a Direwolf's jaws but I will continue to fight for it as long as the breath remains in his lungs. Should I fail . . . there will be no coming back this time. None of us are willing to speak the words but we all understand it to be true. There is no turning back from this, with every step I take. . . the less I know, the more I search for reason. The first ritual, done while I was held captive rendered unsuccessful and my body feels weak at the thought, arms heavy knowing his days may be numbered. Our days. We won't fail. We can't. The shadows will rise and fall but they won't take this. . . am I determined. . . or hopelessly begging for a positive outcome?

Squeezing my eyes shut, I reach for him again in the dim light, murmuring quiet words, reminding myself despite the harsh words given, the misunderstandings, the pain. . . what I fight for. What we fight for together.

He is not alone in this.







Tyr. . . Lathander . . . help us. . .

[Hidennka]

23rd day of Tarsakh, 1350
Temple of Tyr, Baldur's Gate.

History is a strange thing. We learn from it, yet are not beyond repeating it. Or so it often seems. We know all to well the trickery of evil, and yet there are still those who fall to it. We have seen beast and villain year after year attempt to tighten their grip on the wrists of the land and drag it further into shadow, and we continue to fight as we must. Like pieces on a chess board, there are sacrifices which are made for the ultimate goal and yet with each it, in turn, makes the side weaker.

I reflect now upon a tale I was told on my early days on the coast, and in light of recent events have sought to revisit and ponder. It seems a lifetime ago in which I heard it, and while the tales of Lady Katarina and her kin are still a thing of respected awe for me, gone is the youthful innocence in which they are sought. Replaced instead with quiet contemplation, a sense of understanding in review.

The lich Bazu was an ancient Netherese lich of incredible power. His undead army threatened the coast north of the Cloudpeaks. He worked effectively on turning the goodly against each other by seeding tainted rings to curse those who wore them with undeath and increase his power. Some wished to slay those who held the rings out of hand. In time the truth became clear. The lich had a tragic history. He has been a loving husband and father whose son had fallen sick with an incurable disease. He sought to undo this; and in the end cheat the death which stalked his son. Yet, the corruptive methods he used tainted him and drove him mad, in time becoming the lich they fought. Unwilling to let his family go, he brought them into undeath; the children becoming his phylacteries, the wife a spirit he kept bound in a warded prison.

During their battles with the lich it became clear he had a fascination with Katarina; she seemed to him his wife reborn. I do not know what he intended - to bind his wife's spirit into her body? Or to render Katarina undead? It is unknown. Regardless, an attack took place on the lich's lair. Horrors were revealed within, including Thedran; who had been captured and who thought had escaped. Rather the one whom was fought beside was a copy which gave its unlife in this struggle.

The chamber within which the spirit of the lich's wife was found. She spoke of the truth of his tale and of how she thought there was a seed of good within him, a seed evidenced perhaps by his regard for Katarina. The spirit begged to be freed from her prison, so she may appeal to her husband to release herself and the children from undeath; and for himself to relinquish it as well.The only method was by taking a body, Katarina's, whom offered herself willingly, trusting in the power of a mother's love. Surely it was proven strong; the wife reached Bazu, reminding him of that which he denied, the hope and love which had set him on his quest; he surrendered himself to true death and released his wife and children. The process was not an easy one, and yet Katarina and her devotion to the Just God saw victory.

It is now I premeditate and pray upon this tale, for it seems the similarities of our paths may align once more in this instance. Bazu? No. Another. Coincidence . . . or a planned thing, a work of trickery? We will find out in due time I think, and in doing so perhaps provide another method to invoke his temperance.

[Hidennka]

26th day of Tarsakh, 1350
Beregost Streets

The light in the room dims, souls return and life seeps back to it's host from the blood-splattered stone. Victory has been claimed on this day, the weary faces of those involved around me as we step out of the temple and into the early morning darkness before dawn. I can feel the rain on my face, pattering down softly until my hair is slick and face damp, however it is not an unwelcome sensation. Looking to my left, he stands there taller than I, the illustriousness of his hair aglow once more and a weary but warm expression on his golden features. I had truly considered it would not be a sight I would ever see again, be it my demise or his own and yet my heart beats with relief and pride at the strength of the Dawnknight. War was waged, and he were the victor.

“I will send volunteers into Eldarian's soul, to attempt to directly challenge the demon.” The Most Radiant had said, Kelddath’s voice heavy with weighted words and serious expression as we huddled in the small room, an arrogant laugh bursting echoing in the room alongside. “But in an incorporeal form, any who agree to participate will be open to corruption and soul death. Permanent. Death.” We had looked between us, Brother, friend and lover at these words, heart still thumping in my chest from the events witnessed, the demon's dark words to me and the almost kiss. We spoke in hushed tones between us three then, the High Priest leaving us to our decision as we weighed our options. Despite what the heart wanted, it would not be a decision to be taken lightly. "Should you fail, he will still be destroyed. The risk is four souls. Or one."

Duty to one, or duty to many? To remain alive and serve or wage war on a demon, a vile creature who had not only stolen the life of one dear to me, but the will and the body a warrior of light surely needed in these times. I think of my duty first as foremost, even as I try and push the heaviness of my feelings aside yet I know somewhere, deep down that my mind is already made up. There is no aura of fear that penetrates my being, my blood does not run cold at the thought of death but what was right? Should I stand back, allowing the Dawnknight to be destroyed along with the beast? It certainly seemed the most sensible of actions, the Most Radiant himself discouraging the extremest of actions. His words continued to echo in my mind "If your soul is destroyed, everything you are is gone. There will be no afterlife. There will be no coming back. Please consider this as something other than duty. You will be at great personal risk." Yet how could I walk away from this? Knowing I had the opportunity to save a life and just gave up? My brother's words come, eloquently echoing my own thoughts. "In truth Cecilia has no choice in this. She is a paladin. She cannot turn aside from even one innocent. She must make the attempt. The question is whether she is forbidden from doing so, and then absolved of the sin of not doing so, because those less bound judge it foolish."

Yet despite the odds we stand, a paladin, a priest and an elderly wizard hand in hand in the small room, united in our decision as we face our own mortality and yet our thoughts, at least my own, are not of impending doom but on that which we face. On Eldarian. “Ve vill be ze vall Eldarian needs, ze sword to defend his flank and ze shoulder to carry his burden. It is vhat friends are for after all." came the wizards words, his leathery hand gripping mine on the left and the gloved hand of my priest Brothers on the right. My own voice comes then, shaking but resolute. My heart thumps, fearless but aflutter with concern for those closest to me, a flicker of what I was before. Yet I am determined, my life forfeit in my duty. We will fight this beast or die trying, and I will do so alongside those whom I held dear. "Friends, I believe in us and the bond we share. I believe in my Lord. Let's show this demon what we endure, and what Eldarian's connection means to us." Our hands fall. Our decision made. Our final words said.

We take up position alongside what had once been Eldarian, his crimson eyes flitting between us before a rumble sounds from deep within him, words coming out in a soft growl "If it's a war you want. . .it's a war you get." Our eyes close as bid, we clear our minds, focusing on the monotone chants of the Most Radiant High Priest. Time seemed to stretch on forever, seconds turning into what felt like days. When it felt as though there was nothing and never would be again I lurched forward in impact, eyes opening as armored boots kicking up a small cloud of reddish dust. All around there was storming and quaking, corpses littering the dead landscape. the eyes of my spiritual form were instantly drawn to the distant pyre of flames, where the Dawnknight engaged in desperate battle with a horned and winged fiend as red as the blood which had been spilled. My heart swelled with pride, he still fought. Despite it all, he was there. He was fighting still.

The Most Radiant's voice echoed all around us, or perhaps it had been in my head. Either way, it was cut short by a silky laugh in the shadows around us. . . the kind of laugh that pinched at the back of my neck and stirred my very soul with an unexplainable heaviness. Evil. Taunting words followed, large yellow eyes appearing in the stormy abyss behind Eldarian as he fought still. We stepped forward then, the mocking words harsh as they attempt to break the Dawnknight's will along with our own with talk of abandonment, hopelessness and failure.

In our approach a shape began to form, barricading the way, a hideous creature looming before us, folds upon folds of fatty flesh on it's vile body with a stench likened to dead fish rotting in the sun. I murmured soft prayers to my Lord as I gazed upon the foulness. It's breath exuded in green clouds and his yellow eyes glistened with a milky sheen as he boomed over our own defiant cries "IF YOU ARE ALL SO RESOLVED TO HELP HIM, I WILL MAKE YOU A DEAL ... IF ONE OF YOU ACCEPTS ME INTO YOUR SOUL, I WILL ABANDON THIS ONE." A long, black tongue had lulled out of the creatures mouth, drooling green saliva across his quadruple chins. A disgusting sight that may turn away the bravest of men, it was at such a time despite the hardship I turn to my experiences and that which I have endured to steel myself further. At our refusal, the creature grew to an enormous size, bringing down it's meaty fist toward the place I had stood only moments before throwing myself aside. War had come.

I think back now on that battle, it seems a blur, a distant memory as my gaze continues to dance over Eldarian's features while he engages with those around us and I know the horrors we faced, the trials we overcame, his own included were worth it. Even had we failed, to let such evil go unchallenged would have been a grave sin. Set upon by the foul fleshy beast, we raised our weapons, battle cries catching on the strong windy currents that flew around us. A cumulation of evil came in seemingly endless waves as the beast called fiends to it's aid, winged beasts and horned devils, hounds of fire and denizens of evil. I heard the cries of my companions but dare not look away from that before me as I slashed, blade in hand and sweat pouring down my brow from the heat of the flames. I thank the Just God with every breath for their aid and friendship for without it I would have been surely beaten. With every second that passed, with every breath, every slash of the sword, with every spell cast we were tested until the massive, hideous creature fell, green, gooey gore spilling out of its perforated body as it's support was pushed back.

What followed. . . was one of the most awe-inspiring and heart wrenching moments of my short life. Standing, the ground slick with the mixed blood of our own gaping wounds and that of which we had fought we looked up at the shadow demon whom had claimed Eldarian, their fight suspended as his red form turned to face us. It spoke of being impressed by our efforts, that we would risk so much for one soul even as it gloated it's victory. A sharp impact had hit me then, a blow which had silenced my protests to giving in and sent me weezing into the reddish dirt before raising the same hand above it's head in a fist, winged minions appeared encircling us in a red fog.

"I do. . .surrender." his words came softly, the warmth returned to his voice as he looked out and spoke to each of us; brother, friend and lover. He stands regarding us three with a warm smile, his old self once more coming through. He seems content and at peace with his decision, opening his arms to us. We look to him stunned, we cry out in protest and disbelief as he steps forward and kneels before the demon. My stomach heaves and I claw at the ground, pulling myself close enough to embrace him for a him for a few short moments in time, I hear the words "This is the only way" before we are ripped apart, my own battered body now in the grip of one of the demonic minions. I look to my Priest Brother and his words mirror in encouraging agreeance. From death, life. Like a phoenix. Eldarian's arms open wide in surrender toward the demon, his voice clear. "I surrender. . .to Lathander." A sword appears in the Dawnknights hand, his own blade, a bright light above us and a pained cry errupting from my lips as I struggle in the arms of my captor as I see him drive it through the body his own spiritual form."Lathander's light bind and keep you demon." he had murmured, slumping forwward in a bloody mess as light overtook us all, and there was no more.

Yet in death, life. As they say. I squeeze his arm gently as a lump catches in my throat, his own garments damp from the rain as he turns his eyes on me, restored to their golden flecked blue. He smiles. He lives. Even as I had held onto his dying, mortal body, even as our eyes had opened upon return to gaze the bloody temple floor beneath him, he lives. We all do. In this short moment, we allow ourselves to celebrate and I feel a piece of me thought lost, returned. It is a miracle. The white smoke bellowing from the temple signifies this. We breath, we talk, we jest. . . and so the dawn comes, wrapped in the rains of rebirth and renewal, a gift from the Morninglord and with it a New Dawn is given.

Victory.