Malcear Balfier: Fueling the Fire

Of all concepts manufactured by human thinking, “The end justifies the means” must truly be the most sinister.

Flame Disciple Duxx walked with the slow tenuousness that spoke gravely of his destination. The long chambers of the Temple of Skylight were washed in the flickering silver light of enchanted torches hanging from metal chains that seemed to be swallowed by the darkness of the high ceilings. His footsteps echoed down the corridors, chased by the sound of tiny metal wheels against stone. He pushed a heavy iron cart before him.

At first glace, it would appear to be covered in devices of malicious nature, small handled tools with sharp blades and long hooks. Vials of acrid chemicals in all colors of the spectrum. A single iron statuette of a candle, which bore a magical silver flame hovering inches over the sculpted wick. The light it cast, seemed to Duxx, to be darkest of all. But the servants of Noreal do not torture. They do not interrogate, or dissect. These were tools used in a ritual. Some would consider it a much worse fate than torture.

The young man pushed on into the last chamber, fully cast in the light of hovering orbs, like stars floating in the mock ether of the dark blue painted rotunda ceiling. It was the private temple of The High Immolator, master of the priests of Skylight. The man himself, statuesque in his long midnight robes and silver chains leaned against a colossal book case. His pensive slouch erected into stoic attentiveness at the sight of Duxx.

“High Immolator Brule, here is the last of it. Everything is.... prepared. He rests in the lower chambers. The others have been informed of their task. Those who refused have been sequestered. We await your orders.”

The tall man closed the book he had been reading, and left it on the shelf. Folding his tiny spectacles, and tucking them into his robes, he moved to meet his Disciple, and placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

“Young Duxx, your voice is full of uncertainty, which is understandable. All I ask of my followers is to trust in the judgments I have made. They are my burden to bare, and there is no fear in following the orders of the Goddess. I have heard her voice in the flames. The song tells a dark tale, and it is our task to prevent these grim divinations from coming to fruition.”

“Master, we all believe in your visions. We have heard of the great darkness forming outside The Wheels, and the fire that will consume our next generation. It is an honor to be chosen to help prevent it, but the boy--”

“The boy has a part to play. His path is already mapped. It is crucial to ensure he is given all he needs to seek the true flame, and bring a peace that only Noreal can promise.”

“Yes High Immolator, the importance is clear to me, but this ritual... He is so young. He hasn't the developed mind to give himself over to faith.” The words shook from him. He was terrified of Immolator Brule, and the thought of questioning his orders seemed unthinkable, but the fears bubbled up out of him. “If he chose another path....”

“HE WILL NOT CHOSE ANOTHER PATH!” Brule's anger and frustration seemed to make the Star Orbs glow brighter. “Duxx, you have to believe that I have considered all options. I've prayed, and speculated, and rationalized this for the last year. There is no room for error in our actions. There is no leaving this up to fate. Our Goddess needs this servant to have no falter in his devotion. Only his pure commitment will suffice for the tasks he must face.”

“Of... of course, Immolator. I just don't understand. Is there power in faith and devotion to the Goddess, if it isn't found naturally? Is free will really the sacrifice required to produce such a devotee?”

Brule dropped his arms in a gesture of resigned defeat. He rubbed his tired eyes, and looked upward to the tapestry of night that danced above them.

“He has to serve the silver flame. Even the smallest chance of his conversion to another, or worse yet, the chance of him turning to evil could mean the end of us all. He is young enough that it will seem natural. He will believe that he chose the faith himself, that he was raised believing in the teachings. His dedication will be beyond that of even myself. Please understand, Duxx. I don't take this task lightly. It will be possibly the hardest thing I've ever done. He is a special child. He could become a great man with age, but we simply have to ensure that the man he DOES become, will serve his purposes.”

“Then... then he will be a great hero?” Asked Duxx hopefully, looking for a silver lining to a cloud of ambiguous deception.

“He will accomplish great things, yes. He will lend his hand to saving this land, if he is strong enough. He wont be alone, but the flame must be his to bare. I wish I could say that he will be honored, and praised for his great deeds, but the visions are quite clear. In the end, the flame he will use to save and unite us, will consume him.”

“Consume him? He's going to be killed by the true flame? After all we are doing?”

“The vision isn't clear on his fate after all is said and done, but he will be consumed. We've spoken of this enough. The stars are right, and the boy wont remain in his state for long. We must begin sculpting the future of our world, starting with the heart and mind of this chosen child. The end will justify the means.”

As Disciple Duxx took the cart back down into the deepest chambers of the Temple of Skylight, he kept chanting it to himself, like a Mantra. “The end will justify the means. The end will justify the means.”

Malcear Balfier: Once Step at a Time

Years of hard training, of both the body and the mind, had embedded in Malcear a natural aversion to anger. It dulled one's senses, made you lose focus, and usually ended in poor judgment.

At this very moment, Malcear was pissed off.

Fooled by some high lord's cowardly farce. Lord Nivin had been bought, and a price has been put on the heads of the lantern bearers. A man who had no doubt been in many battles, known true honor, and ruled the Riverlands had been reduced to a well dressed sell-sword. Malcear was beside himself.

Not only had Nivrin put them underground, but he sicked his assassin dogs on his allies. They were traveling with Malcear as a favor. This was his journey, and they showed great courage in helping him. Now they were stuck in a cemetery dungeon with him, surrounded by abominations of flesh.

The Flesh-Shaper. That name had been heard several times now. This place reeked of a laboratory for perverted dark magics. What kind of a noble leader would let such horrors of undeath be practiced knowingly so close to the town? To harbor them, hide them, and utilize them for his own gain?

He grit his teeth and cleared his lungs of the last of the acrid smoke from the explosion of chemicals bombs. He gripped his rage like the reigns of a bucking stallion. It was time to focus, not lose control. He needed to feel his goddess. He had to see his path of purpose here. He had to stay calm.

He was going to kick down every door of this dungeon, find the “Flesh-Shaper,” and stop his wicked practices by any means necessary.

He was going to get his friends out of this dangerous dungeon and get back on the road to the North.

He was going to find the true flame of Noreal, and return to Corllace, and unite the separate churches under one cause.

But the biggest thing on his mind right now was to serve justice to Lord Nivin. He would make him answer for his crimes. No title, no number of soldiers, no prestige or fortress would stop him from confronting Nivin again. He would die trying, if he must. He wanted to snuff the flame of Noreal by burying it underground? He would show him how brightly it could truly shine.

He gripped his Scimitar, focused his ambition, and fell in step with the percussive tune that seemed now to play at all times in the back of his mind. 

Malcear Balfier: Song of Starlight

The further North Malcear traveled, the louder the music became.

The question that plagued him was whether the music was in his mind, or he was actually hearing it?

Malcear never complained to his friends about the long nights he spent awake, wrapped in a cold cloth of Arcane magic that Gasadriel had draped on him. (Arcane magic had always felt cold to him, like bare skin against steel) A spell to keep him feeling rested, but it also kept him from falling asleep. He was the best choice for a night watchman. He could see in the dark, he had keen eyes, and if anything snuck up on him, he could handle it long enough to wake up his allies. It was an honor to protect his friends. That being said, a week without sleep did things to his mind. The constant awareness. The heightened sense of time passing. No darkness. No closed eyes dreaming and forgetting reality. Not even for a moment. And the music.

The source of the music was difficult to pinpoint. The style of the music was near impossible to describe. It seemed to drift downward all around him, like a soft snow of tinkling bells, and a light wind of choral voices. The percussion came from within his chest. The campfire danced to the beat. He could swear it was burning silver tonight.

It felt as though he had heard this music his whole life. It had always been there, swirling and arching, even when he was a child. The thought seemed slightly mad, but he couldn't shake the truth of it. It was only now in his life he became aware of it. He could identify the changes. Read into the meaning.

“It's coming from the stars.” He decided one night. “Each one has a voice, and their choir compels me.”

While his friends slept, he used the privacy of night and nature to indulge the seeming madness he was feeling. Malcear would move away from the camp, never far so as to keep a guardians vigilance, but at a distance where a waking pair of eyes wouldn't see his strange ritual. He danced.

If ever there was a word to describe a man, graceful was Malcear's. He danced in slow circles. He re-enacted the sword forms he learned in his daily lessons. They seemed now more like a dance than a means of fighting, used in such a way. His scimitar cut silently through crisp night air in wide vibrant radials around him. It moved like cloth, not steel. It felt weightless. His feet shifted with meticulous precision. His arms and legs rising and falling. Eyes closed. Ears drinking in the music of starlight. The beat of his heart and the pulsing rhythm of the choir growing to a forte that pounded the blood in his ears. His sword was a conductors baton. His force of will, an orchestra.

Holding his eyes shut so tightly prevented him from seeing the small white flames that licked off of his body, ever so lightly, casting his dancing shadow in every direction.

What was he becoming?  

Sevrin's Crusade: Fateful Meeting?

If you were to make a list of all the great heroes in Lucadere's past there would be one thing they all share in common, companions that stuck by them when things got tough. They needed a friend at their back when surrounded by enemies on all sides, someone to reach out a balancing hand to catch them before they fell, comrades they could trust to be at their side no matter what happened. No man, no matter how great, can stand alone against the countless threats that plague the lands.

Up to this point in his life Sevrin has not had the fortune of meeting such people. His time in the temple was spent as a half breed outcast. In the early days the Elven children considered him beneath their notice and ignored him. When he surpassed them their demeanor changed from inattention to envious and unfriendly. Once his training was complete he was assigned to patrolling the borders of the Elven Forests. His time there was spent with the trees and animals except for occasional contact with other border patrols. If he was going to achieve his goal of making Lucadere a safer place he was going to have to do it alone.

After events have calmed down following the Battle of Ofaylum Sevrin retrieves a small leather-bound book and quill from his pack. He flips about halfway through the book and reads over the last few pages.

Dwarven Kingpriest - First Impressions:
Meeting too short to form any real conclusions.
Threat Level: 5 - Follows Epicusp. Good reputation. Needs to be further examined.

Malcear Balifier! - First Impressions:
Before Malcear was even close enough to get a good look at I could sense a good aura emanating from him. As he approached I took a quick stock of his features and found that I couldn't easily determine what he was. He was like no Human or Elf I had seen before. Strangely I felt a small amount of comfort rather than unease from his unfamiliar appearance. His holy symbol marked him as a follower of Noreal, a trustworthy goddess.
Threat Level: 2 - Unlikely to cause any trouble. Safe to ignore.

Gasadrael Spyrn - First Impressions:
A young elven female dressed like a member of the nobility out beyond the safety of the forests. I couldn't stop myself from drawing parallels between her and my mother as a young woman with a taste for adventure. This leaves me with a very uneasy feeling knowing how my mother ended up. What reason could this woman have for leaving the forests? All the work I did guarding the borders now seems useless somehow. What good was keeping all of the threats out when the ones I was protecting leave the safety I provided so willingly?
Threat Level: 5 - Likely to get herself into trouble and end up getting the ones protecting her killed in the process. Thankfully for her I will be around for this journey.

Dethias...... First Impressions:
The moment I laid eyes on him I knew he was trouble. I didn't sense any evil from him, but something about him was still... wrong. He did not appear to be any race I have encountered to date, but unlike Malcear he had a sinister look to his features which wasn't improved by the way he dressed and carried himself. I found it odd that he shared company with one such as Malcear. Perhaps there is more to him than his appearance suggests.
Threat Level: 8 - Likely to cause trouble. Need to keep a close eye on him.

Malcear Balifier! - Journey to Ofaylum:
Took it upon himself to tell me the story of their trek through the Sunken Citadel without me even having to ask. Was good company over the long road. Did not detect any falsehood from him the entire time which in my experience is a rare trait. One odd thing to note... After 3 weeks of travel he didn't smell like the rest of us. If anything he had a pleasant odor. Could this be a clue about his origins? Certainly nothing to complain about.
Threat Level: 1 - Further interaction has solidified my initial impressions. I could get to like this guy.

Gasadrael Spyrn - Journey to Ofaylum:
Kept her distance from me most of the time. More than likely doesn't want anything to do with a lowly half-elf... Pretty much what I expected from an elf of her station. I am used to such treatment so I won't hold it against her. Despite the distance she kept she did seem to keep a wary eye on me. Considering I am a stranger this is a good thing. Maybe she has a bit of sense after all.
Threat Level: 4 - Still not comfortable about a fragile elven girl traveling beyond the protection of the forest, but at least she shows a bit of caution.

Dethias...... Journey to Ofaylum:
Upon arriving in Ofaylum I feel fortunate to still have all of my possessions. Perhaps I was quick to judge or could he just be waiting until I drop my guard?
Threat Level: 7 - Has not proved my suspicions yet, but will continue to keep an eye on him at all times. Sevrin dips his quill and begins writing a new entry in his journal of threats to the realm.

Malcear Balifier! - Events in Ofaylum:
Stuck to his beliefs and refused to break into the Baron's home without prior evidence. When Ofaylum was invaded he was the first person to join the fight. Put himself between me and 2 ogres, a large zombie gnoll, and a host of kobolds, golbins, and orcs.
Threat Level...
Sevrin's hand becomes suddenly still on the page. He remains motionless like that for a few moments and appears to be in deep thought. Honest... Reliable... Courageous... Sturdy... Powerful... This man is no threat to the realm. He seems more likely to save it. This has never happened before... What do I do now? After a few more moments Sevrin crosses out the section on Malcear Balifier and then begins writing again.

Gasadrael Spyrn - Events in Ofaylum:
A little too willing to follow Dethias in breaking into the Baron Toko's home. It needed to be done... but didn't seem like a task for a noble lady. Had I not been so focused on tending to the fallen boy Dethias had just ruthlessly stabbed I would have followed her in. I shudder to think of what could have happened to her alone with the likes of Dethias... My opinions on her safety made a sudden shift the moment she emerged from the inn and conjured an enormous ball of fire and hurled it at a group of charging orcs. Who could have guessed such fury could be unleashed from such a small frame? It is also well worth noting that she the power to infuse others with amazing bursts of speed. What a rush that was.
Threat Level: 2 - There seems to be some truth behind the old saying "You can't judge a sword by its scabbard." Will continue to look out for her safety, but it seems much less necessary than I previously thought. If only she would show a bit more caution.

Dethias...... Events in Ofaylum:
Snuck up and stabbed a young boy nearly killing him to gain entrance to Baron Toko's residence. Nearly drew my sword, but noticed he gave the boy a healing potion which at least brought him out of danger. During the battle he always seemed to be positioned exactly where I wanted him, behind the backs of my enemies... rather than mine. As I was nearly overcome by an enormous bear and a swarm of gnolls and goblins I noticed him behind me and thought for sure the dagger was coming. I closed my eyes and inwardly berated myself for allowing him the opportunity. To my great surprise a potion was placed in my hand instead. My first thought was poison, but why would he waste it when it would have been just as easy to use his dagger? I had no time to think so I downed it and was relieved to feel healing magic coursing through my veins.
Threat Level....6 - Why is this guy so hard to read? One moment he is stabbing a seemingly innocent child in the back and the next coming to my aid right when I need it. Far too unpredictable for my liking, but at least aligned himself on the right side of the battle.

Baron Toko
I could sense he was hiding something the moment he opened his mouth. Found damning evidence in his study. Has connections powerful enough to call forth an army of kobolds, orcs, goblins, gnolls, and far more dangerous creatures including a dire bear, zombie gnoll, and ogres.
Threat Level: 10 - Soon to eliminated, but not before I find out more about his associates.

Ruddy... Baron Tom
Another difficult one to read... Likes to steal the glory from others. Not a very commendable trait, but no sign of him using the power he has gained from it wrongly. Luck seems to be on his side which brought the help he needed at the right time.
Threat Level: 6 - Has sway over the people of Ofaylum, a problem with alcohol, and powerful enemies. Not a great combination.

Lord Eddar
Left Ofaylum with his guards after learning about a potential attack on the city. In my opion... negligence of his duties to protect the people in his lands.
Threat Level: 8 - Not comfortable with such a man in power. Perhaps something can be done about that in these elections I keep hearing about.

 

  Something Sevrin is not likely to forget

Sevrin's Crusade: A Tragic Beginning

The tales of adventure told by bards throughout Lucadere inspire many young would be heroes to set out on journeys of their own. These brave souls are drawn off the safe path most travelers follow in search of ancient ruins, strange cultures, magic, and treasures.  Some find the glory and riches they seek, but all too often they end in tragedy and this is how Sevrin's story begins.

In a frontier village south of the Elven Forests far from her home a young elven maiden's quest takes a turn for the worse. The village is attacked by a barbarian raiding party which results in rape and plunder and she is among the unfortunate victims. As a result of this tramatic event she loses her fervor for adventure and returns home only to find an unwelcome gift from the experience in the form of half breed child in her womb. Fearing the shame bearing such a child would bring she takes refuge in a Temple of Epicusp deep in the Elven forests away from the city where the child is born. Upon seeing his golden hair and emerald green eyes that match her own she her hatred for the unwanted child falters and she leaves her sword with the priests to give him when he is old enough to use it.

Twelve years later...
While growing up in the temple Sevrin noticed there was something a little different between himself and the elven children. Unfortunately for him they noticed too. He never quite fit in so he spent a lot of his time alone wandering the forests around the temple and practicing his swordsmanship. He listened to the teachings of Epicusp the priests taught with rapt attention. The ideals really resonated with him and he quickly outpaced the other children in training. The priests noticed his fervor and promise with the blade and began teaching him separately from the other students. For the next several years he was taught about the art of battle, the dangers of Lucadere, and how to see through the masks people wear to hide their true intentions.

At the age of twenty-two he was called to the sacred springs north of the temple where he bathed in the hot cleansing waters. He was garbed in ceremonial armor, given a blade, and tasked with retrieving a frost lily which only grow in the mountains northwest of the Elven Forests. Upon his return from the Orc invested northern mountains with frost lily in hand he was anointed to the priesthood and given the sword his mother left to him. He was told the story of his birth and vowed to dedicate his life to rooting out the dangers that threaten Lucadere and making it a safer place where people can enjoy wandering the lands like Epicusp intended.

He was assigned to guard the borders of the forest and to deal with anything that threatened it. After years of service protecting the Elven cities from the dangers lurking beyond their realm he was called to the Dwarven Citadel for an audience with the Kingpriest where he heard news of a group of adventurers that recently appeared from the depths of the Sunken Citadel. Interested in knowing more about this strange party he seeks them out.

  

Well, this accelerated quickly.

Tfft tfft tfft tfft tfftfftfftftftftftftftftf

This was madness. No, it made madness seem pretty rational. This was pure chaotic insanity.

What were they thinking? “Let's just climb into this ancient machine hundreds of feet below the surface of the ocean in a tower infested with undead and denizens from nightmares!” Maybe the poison was still clouding their judgment. Maybe the powers of that demonic sea beast had affected their minds. Maybe after everything they had been through up to this point, the idea of loading themselves into a mechanisms of a giant crossbow and getting shot head first into an endless black abyss seemed like a nice vacation. One thing was for certain. It was too late to turn around.

Tftftftftftftftftftftftftftftftftf

Somehow the weight of the falling water against the slanted metal plates was pushing them faster than any horse could dream of running. Malcear didn't understand the science at work here, but he was not enjoying the resulting reactions in his digestive track. If you've never vomited hard tack and dry rations, avoid it at all cost. He couldn't even turn his head to see if his allies were in the same turmoil. The speed and fear and darkness were all too much. He wasn't afraid. He was never afraid of anything, but he was overpowered with sensations.

Tfttftffftftftftftftftftftftffftftftftftfftf

His knuckles gripped white against the walls of the contraption. Cold sea water splashed against his face and armor. He was being gently choked as the weight of his cloak flapped heavily behind him. The swim they had taken did a good job of cleaning most of the Dryder and Naga blood from his clothing, but the sea water made the dagger wounds he had received (in abundance) sting to the bone. This was the most uncomfortable he had been in his entire cloistered life. He longed for the beatings and bruises of his sword-brothers. He longed for the incendiary disciplinary practices of the fire priests of his Goddess. Even the dreams he often had of being chained up and tortured seems a small comfort in comparison. The one thing though, that made things unbearable was the fear of never again seeing the stars at night.

Tftftftftftftftftftftftftftftf

Malcear prayed.

The Journal of Dethias: Fragile Beginnings

There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says "morning, boys. How is the water?" And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes "what the hell is water?"

This is a standard requirement of journal entries at the beginning of great quests, the deployment of didactic little parable-ish stories. The story turns out to be one of the better, less bullshitty conventions of embarking on a quest, but if you're worried that I plan to present myself here as the wise, older fish explaining what water is to adventurers reading my journal, please don't be. I am not the wise old fish. The point of the fish story is merely that the most obvious, important realities are often the ones that are hardest to see and convey. Stated as a sentence, of course, this is just a banal platitude, but the fact is that in the day to day trenches of questing, banal platitudes can have a life or death importance, or so I wish to suggest to you while catapulting through this wet wind blasting into the unknown.

Here's another didactic little story. There are these two guys sitting together in a tavern in the remote Hub wilderness. One of the guys is a cleric, the other is an atheist, and the two are arguing about the existence of Gods with a special intensity that comes after about the fourth grog. And the atheist says: "Look, it's not like I don't have actual reasons for not believing in the gods. It's not like I haven't ever experimented with the whole God and prayer thing. Just last month I got caught away from the mining camp in that terrible blizzard and I was totally lost and I couldn't see a thing, and it was 50 below, and so I tried it: I fell to my knees in the snow and cried out 'Oh, God, if there is any God, I'm lost in this blizzard, and I'm going to die if you don't help me.'" And now, in the bar, the cleric looks at the atheist all puzzled. "Well you must believe now," he says, "After all, here you are, alive." The atheist just rolls his eyes. "No, man, all that was was a couple Dwarves happened to come wondering by and showed me the way back to camp."

It's easy to run the story through a kind of standard magus' analysis: the exact same experience can mean two totally different things to two different people, given those peoples two different beliefs and two different ways of constructing meaning from experience. Which is fine, except that as a seeker of knowledge I must delve deeper into the machinery constructing personal beliefs; recognizing my orientation toward the world as a matter of intentional choice, not automatically absorbed from culture, like language, but constructed from arrogance. Arrogance of certainty. Blind certainty of interpretations erects a close-mindedness that amounts to an imprisonment so total that the prisoner doesn't even know he's locked up.

The point here is that I think this is one part of what questing is really supposed to deliver. To be just a little less arrogant. To have just a little critical awareness about myself and my certainties. Because a huge percentage of the stuff that I tend to be automatically certain of is, it turns out, totally wrong and deluded (specifically activating ancient Artifacts). I have learned this the hard way, as I predict adventurers reading this will, too.

"Oh Occhidy, if you ever listen, I'm imprisoned in an ancient Dwarven ballistic cart, and I'm going to die if you don't help me."