So far from his homeland
his kith and his kin
A soldier realizes that
the cell in which he is
kept has bars forged
by his own hand and
dimensions limited only
by the depths of his
Despair
-An excerpt from the journal of Swordcaptain Simon Ephraim Cray, 3rd Army, Intelligence Division (Deceased)
The town of Wheloon, situated on the bank of Cormyr's Wyvernflow River, was a rather nice place to visit in the summer, if one could look beyond the evening Summer thunderstorms, and enjoy the hospitality of the citizenry. Few could appreciate the rough-and-tumble charm of the Wyvernwatch or the way that the sun rose behind the hills, silhouetting the partially-ruined redoubt atop them, due to the circumstances largely beyond their control. The usual, gentle rumble of the thunderheads and the patter of warm droplets had become something of a nightmare- A heavy gale, pitch-black clouds that blotted out the sky, crashing bolts of lightning, and a subsequent boom that echoed the laughter of Talos himself.
Miserable and damp, a pair of muddy Cormyrian soldiers hunkered down under the eaves of one of the redoubt's intact towers, standing guard against the enemy that lurked in the night. One of them, aged seventeen, at the very oldest, frowned worriedly at the treeline from beneath the lip of his iron helm and tightened the strap of his shield.
"Cor, come off it, Al. He'll be back." The other soldier said, thumping his younger companion's shoulder with a mailed fist. "Can't rightly see a bleedin' thing, if you're squinting like an old lady."
Alaric Cray glanced at the other soldier and gave him a subdued nod, as though not entirely convinced that his brother would return from the mission upon which he had been sent.
"Not like I can see a thing in this weather, anyway. Bloody rain." Alaric cursed softly and spat into the mud at their feet, pushing his helmet up to settle properly atop his dark-haired head.
"I'll go check in with Command. Sit tight, and blow the horn if you see anything." The older trooper straightened his Cormyrian army-issue surcoat, then patted Alaric's pauldron, before disappearing into the tower.
Alaric scowled darkly once more, one hand moving to grasp the red-lacquered wooden chesspiece that dangled against his breastplate- The holy icon of the Red Knight. He issued a silent prayer, for he had a feeling that his brother, wherever he might be, would need it dearly on this horrid night.
Lady be with you, Si. Come back safe.* * *
Several miles to the West, along the muddy banks of the Wyvernflow, a cloaked rider made his way beyond the edge of the hellish storm. His steed snorted irritably, exhausted from the hard ride and stressful conditions. The man hissed softly and patted the beast's damp mane.
"Easy, Thunderer. We're almost home, mate. Just take a breather."
Simon smirked a little. It was as much a lie to himself as it was to his horse. Suzail was another day and a half out, if he rode hard, under
ideal conditions. The wind had died down, at least, though the fog coming off of the Wyvernflow was thick, cutting his visibility down to a matter of feet.
He continued to stroke the horse's mane, trying to calm the creature down, when something dark passed through the fog ahead of him. The horse bucked sharply, startled, and reared back on his hind legs, crying out. Simon, caught off-guard by the horse's sudden panic, was thrown from the saddle and landed in the mud with a soft thump. His cowled head struck a submerged rock, and he lost conciousness...
