NIghtmares Without Mirt (pretty much finished edition) The door creaks
open slowly. A haggard dragonborn woman takes up the entire doorframe, but her
hand doesn’t leave the latch. Her face and winter garb are dotted with blood.
Her eyes, bloodshot and baggy. She seems gaunt despite her muscled frame. The
product of many trials here in Segwyr, this is Zanelle Diamond of House
Kendrak. Zanelle stares down at the bed, still unsure if she’s
safe. Rex had rented this small room on her behalf after the wayward dragonborn
used a mediocre disguise spell to sneak up to the door of his suite. His
kindness allowed her to remain upstairs since Lilly, the proprietor of the
Halfway Inn, might recognize her by voice.
She didn’t want to chance revealing herself to any guards that might be
searching for her in this establishment or the terrifying new enemies she
encountered in the lawless parts of the city. Zanelle scans the room as if
something awaits in the long shadows cast by the dim light from the hallway,
one final threat that could pierce her stone-like pseudo scales as easily as
they lacerated his flesh… The room is windowless, as she requested. She would
never again be able to sleep in a room with a window. There are things that
snatch in the night. She pulls the door to, nearly shutting out the light, and reflexively
starts the hand gestures for her gem’s
glow cantrip so she can still see. But, she stops herself before completing
the spell and lets the sparkling mote die in her hand. The dragonborn doesn’t
want to draw attention to herself by creating a twenty-foot beacon, but isn’t
quite ready to face the darkness yet. Not after today. A sliver of light from the cracked door shines on the bedside
nightstand where there’s a half-burned candle. All she has to light it is the
flint and steel from her tinderbox, so she carefully and awkwardly sparks the
candle. Seeing the red droplets of Jacer’s blood on her hands and coat startles
her into dropping her implements. The stone sorcerer can hear his last command
to run echo in her mind. Her lips begin to tremble, but she stifles a sob and
blinks the tears from her eyes before rushing back to close and lock the door. Unsatisfied by the security of a single wooden door,
Zanelle uses her brawn to scoot her bed across the room and blockade the
entrance with the footboard. Then, she repositions her small light source
before finally sitting down on the edge of the bed. She suddenly feels very
dirty as her eyes catch the blood spatter again and she quickly takes off her
winter jacket. She can almost feel the little drops sticking to her neck and
face through her magical scales, so she delves into her pack for a water skin
and the bowl from her mess kit. She tries to find a scrap of cloth, but her
rummaging only turns up the roll of ceremonial gauze she normally wraps her
extremities before going to sleep. But, there’s no one in here to hide her
condition from this evening, so she dabs it in her makeshift wash basin to
clean off the blood.
Jacer had seen fifteen winters. If he had been born as
one of her kind, he’d be a full-grown adult at that age, able to take a mate
and earn a place in his family’s house. But, Zanelle has heard that elves can
live for a very long time, as long as many generations of dragonborn. Fifteen
years must seem like just a blink to them. Regardless of his years, he still had
the look of an aspiring juvenile who had yet to reach his full potential. This
visage made his druidic powers and mastery of animal forms all the more
impressive… and his death even more heart wrenching. The scene plays over in her mind again. She can’t stop
the images from coming. She and Jacer are setting up Therris’ strange machine
in an out of the way alley. They know the dangers lurking in the northern ruins
of Segwyr, but the young elf has made this clear: recording the frequency
permeating this cursed place is the only way to find the beast below and cut
off the madness’ source. Zanelle has her shield and runed longsword at the
ready to defend the elf druid should some indigents or foul creatures accost
them. But, she isn’t prepared for a battle troupe of green humanoids to
materialize on both sides of them so quickly. They introduce themselves as gith. A series of blades
are pointed at Jacer’s small frame before he can assume one of his more
powerful forms. Their manner is calm and unnerving. They ask him about one of
their own, someone called Bloody Mary. Or, more specifically, the weapon she
wielded. Jacer explains how he sacrificed the weapon to create his home, that
its magic is now part of the great tree under which he dwells. He asks if
there’s any way he can repay them for their loss, but that… that was the wrong
thing to say. The gith leader tells Jacer that his blood will feed the roots of
the tree that now holds Bloody Mary’s soul and they all descend on the boy with
their wicked blades. His final act is to shout at Zanelle to RUN! The gith have quicker reflexes than she does. Before
she can decide to charge forward and protect her friend, they move as if one
organism and lacerate him in a flurry of perfect sword strokes. The dragonborn
is standing close enough that specks of Jacer’s blood shower her face and
clothes like a misty rain and the terrible sight scars a permanent place in her
memory. One blade sinks into the side of his chest, stealing his breath away.
He tries to scream in response, but only speaks a gurgling crimson gout. The
arm holding his druidic staff is severed at the elbow. The rest of the
swordsmen deliver a series of shallow, lightning quick slashes that tear off
ribbons of his flesh. When he is about to collapse, four of the swords skewer
his torso and hold him aloft. She will never forget the pure agony in his face
as he stared wide eyed at the leader. The commander of the troupe steps forward
and slowly begins to decapitate him. When she finds the impulse to act, primal
fear wells up in her and she follows Jacer’s command, casting a spell of haste
on herself and fleeing. The dragonborn buries her face in her stone scaled
hands and lets the tears fall for him. Despite her imposing stature, inside she
feels like glass. The most abused glass figurine, molded with the false might
of her likeness. With this most recent trauma, there are so many cracks in her
now that she can’t cover them all with just two hands. She’s unable to keep the
despair from just… leaking out. If she gives in fully and collapses into the
bed, she may just shatter. For the first time, she’s facing the loss of a friend
alone. For every other monumental event that’s happened to her here, she’s had
someone to support her fragile will to carry on. One by one they’ve been
removed or she’s been separated from them. She’s no longer able to tell stories
about her past to Jacer at their makeshift camp in the ruins and he’s not here
to offer his wisdom this time. She isn’t lying next to Mirt, her human lover,
listening to his sweet and patient reassurances. He’s safe at the fey camp,
training… but can she be sure? Will he be cut down like Jacer, or suffer fiery
torment like Janra? Janra… her very name makes the desire to scream well
up within the frayed dragonborn. She shudders and crooks her fingers into
angry, shaking claws, scratching the thin layer of stone on her face. A droning
buzz starts in the back of her mind. In the dissonant, grating tone, she can
actually hear the sounds of the angry mob. As if the noise itself has rasped
through her skull and is now amplified by the walls of her room. Glanis’ voice
is chief among the chorus. The councilman and cleric of Ard called for Janra to
be purified by the sun despite her sickness. She can feel the spines of her
ears vibrating from his condescending voice as he explained this is the only
way. She’s just about to give in to the madness dwelling in her soul… when
something takes hold of her like a gentle guiding hand. A familiar fire appears in her mind’s eye, accompanied
by the dull thud of axes. The vision of Lana Varel, the fey forest surrounding
the city, being desecrated and tortured by humans ancient and modern. A
centuries-long take at the relationship between man and nature condensed into a
powerful vision gifted to Zanelle by Sornaya, one of the forest’s fey guardians.
The profound sorrow held in this vision wraps around her gut like a serpent and
suffocates her own. She can see Jacer’s destroyed body shown small among
the looming trees. Janra is only one of the many ashen corpses littering the hellish
landscape. Both of their deaths seem like part of the tragic tapestry. A direct
result of Segwyr’s very existence in these fey lands and the reason she was
tasked with driving everyone away from here. Propped up by the purpose given to
her by the fey, she’s just able to step back to solid ground. She takes a few
deep breaths and remembers that this was Jacer’s purpose as well. He understood
the truth after Sornaya captured him and showed him the vision as well. Now eased into an unsteady calm, she dresses down into
a long gown to sleep. She wills her stone scales to disappear and hears
crackling of their disintegration into a fading cloud of dust. They go away
when she falls asleep anyway and she might as well find a comfortable sleeping
position. As Zanelle slips into the covers, she avoids looking her ruined
flesh: islands of rough, shriveled hide separated by rivers of white scar
tissue. The Jimva Ternoki , or
Tarnished Scales, are the curse of her clan and give her weak draconic
bloodline its name. The bed seems bigger than it should. She’s used to the
presence of Mirt and Janra pressing against her. She hopes that sleep can
shield her from this loneliness, so she extinguishes the candle and closes her
tired eyes. The reminder of her fey purpose keeps the horrific images from her
mind long enough for her to fall into slumber. Zanelle wakes up in a tent with a powerful headache.
She looks down next to her bedroll and sees the small symbol of Vishtara,
goddess of love, that she drew in the dirt with her finger: an unbroken line
that makes two hearts connected at the tip with a four-sided diamond running
through both of them. As her mind comes into focus, she realizes she’s in
Segwyr’s ruins. A jolt of fear shoots through her as she recalls her terrible
nightmare. She activates her stone scales and bursts through the entrance flap.
Jacer’s tent is on the other side of their smoldering fire. “Something wrong, Zanelle?” his small sage voice can
be heard through his tent. She takes a breath of relief, “Oh, I just- I had a…
dream.” He chuckles, “Sounds more like a nightmare. It’s
almost your watch anyway. When you’re ready come over here so I can show you
some more readings. I think we’ve almost got it pinned down.” “Okay. Give me a moment to wake up,” Zanelle ducks
back into her tent for a quick drink of water and then stretches a moment. She
had fallen asleep in her over-the-shoulder baldric, so she attaches her shield
to her back and places her sword in the loop at her hip. She knows well enough
not to be unarmed even if she only travels ten feet in this town.
The dragonborn opens his tent and sees the young elf
poring over a pile of papers. He beckons her to sit down in one of the few
clear spots next to all the notes and readings from the machine and starts
picking through the stack. She settles in, careful not to crush any of his
errant possessions. He must be onto something big because there’s so much clutter
scattered about and he looks a little disheveled himself. “Start with these,” He passes over five pieces of
parchment. Zanelle nods and starts scanning the first page and
stops about halfway through, “I’ve already memorized these numbers and
locations.” “Oh, my mistake. Just keep going until you hit
something you don’t know,” Jacer says absent mindedly as he fishes for more
papers. Zanelle quirks an eyebrow. He usually takes this
business more seriously. She flips to the second page and sees that it’s a lower
quality copy of the first. She blinks a few times to make sure she isn’t too
tired to be doing this. But, sure enough, the madness spikes are the same. The
third page is yet another copy, this one even more distorted than the first.
But, there are a few extra marks on this page, so she goes on to the fourth
page. More distortion and more marks. Some of these even look like… draconic
runes. Specifically, multiple instances of the word for ‘you’. “I didn’t know you knew draconic,” Zanelle says
nervously as she looks over to the elf. He’s busy making another stack of papers and doesn’t
respond, so she pulls the last page from the stack and focuses and turns her
attention to it. The numbers have all been twisted into a handful of draconic
words written hundreds of times, overlapping each other. She squints and picks
out one of the legible phrases. ‘You let me die.’ Her blood turns to ice. As soon as she feels the
impulse to turn and face Jacer, she feels the hot breath of him whispering into
her ear, “… you let me die.” She snaps her gaze towards him and sees the bloody
mess. His lower jaw and throat are gone. Eyes are wide and shaking so much that
they’re vibrating as they stare intently at her. His torso is a canvas of
oozing sword wounds and other mutilations. She backs away in terror only for
the floor to silently give way beneath her into a pitch black. She tumbles into
the darkness only to be tangled in warm, slick vines and suspended in it. She stutters out the words for her gem’s glow . The resulting light reveals
she’s held up by all manner of viscera, long fillets of bloody elven skin and
intestines. She screams and tries to shake herself free, but the entrails cling
to her, almost constricting. She looks around wildly like a snared animal and
her eye catches Jacer’s head among the hanging body parts around her. “YOU LET ME DIE,” his voice is a distorted and
deafening declaration. She cries pathetically as she flails with all her
strength. From out in the darkness, she hears terribly raspy breathing and a
single set of shuffling footsteps. Each footfall has an uncomfortable dry
cracking sound. Zanelle struggles even harder as she looks between the
abomination of Jacer’s body and the direction of the nearing steps. There are
two fiery red pinpoints stumbling towards her, the burning eyes of whatever is
coming. The creature steps into the edge of her light: a
charred, flaking corpse with long, striking red hair untouched by the flame
that devastated its body. It shivers and has its arms crossed in front of its
burned naked body as if cold. Zanelle can’t even manage to say her name as she
stumbles forward with her mouth open and black teeth bared. Zanelle closes her
eyes and uses the very last of her breath in a terrified wail as the rasping
gets closer. Zanelle’s eyes snap open and she gasps for air. She’s
still in her bed at the Halfway Inn and instinctively reaches over to find Mirt
under the covers with her but finds the bed as empty as it was. She cries
softly to herself and waits for the fear and hopelessness aching through her
body to fade, but it does not. Mirt’s not here to talk her through another of
these madness-induced nightmares. She desperately wants to hear his voice and
feel his consoling hands on her face. He’s the only person left that can sustain
her spirit because he’s the future that awaits her once Sornaya’s mission is
done. Unable to shake the awful emotions from her nightmare,
she lays awake thinking of her human companion. Her thoughts move between
memories of their time together and tortuous thoughts about those lost. Going
back to sleep is out of the question, but the darkness of the empty room is
again unbearable. She uses her gem’s glow
long enough to get the candle lit again in case the bright light from her
cantrip is filtering through the door somewhere. Zanelle rubs her eyes and takes an exasperated breath.
She hopes the day will be here soon.
