Walking the Path ~ Vicarra Theron

[Revenant]

⟽ Vicarra Theron ⟾

Hope. Hope is a funny thing.

Hope is what the young woman felt, hunched over with a quill in hand and the past in mind. Her modest accommodations contained a single candle, burnt nearly halfway down and well on its way to becoming yet another spent stump. The flame flickered and danced, warm glow only just giving light to a singularly weary face and the blank pages over which it pondered. The dull sound of rain filled the silence, punctuated by peals of thunder, a soothing song to the lonely occupant.

The woman reclined in her chair, exhaling tension, wiping it from her brow in suspended frustration. She was no storyteller, no scribe - the threadbare cloth she wore hid a warrior's frame, trained and hardened for the crucible of battle. And yet this task fell to her - to chronicle a story no other could tell and, she hoped, no other would read.

The words must be right, she knew. They must speak truth.

She sighed, leaning forward. An ashen hand extended, putting tip to page, letting flow the first in a string of words written in flowing, entrancing form - the language of her blood, the script of the spider.

__My name is Vicarra Theron. I am the adopted daughter of Ser Gregor Theron, of the Knights of Holy Judgement. I was born near Suzail, on the coast of Dragonmere Lake in the country of Cormyr. I know only that my mother was a peasant woman, a farmer, and that I am the progeny of one of the semi-regular raids by denizens of the Underdark upon mainland holdings. I earned my first name in that orphanage - plucked from a tale spun by my closest companion at the time, Melindera. I earned my second name when Gregor plucked me from that ramshackle boarding home.

__Gregor always told me to keep a journal. A chronicle. He said it helped keep himself internally consistent, helped remind him what he fought for and where he had come from. I did not understand the need until now. The year as I left it was 1370 DR. I am no longer in Faerun, however - and I have not been for some time. Indeed, to my knowledge it has been over a year now since I strode into that damnable bank of fog, blade held ready. Time eludes me, however - a few short weeks after I arrived, I stumbled into another bank of Mists. When I stepped out once more, seemingly moments later, it was to the chill dawn of a winter in bloom, four days ago.

__If it is so easy to lose time in these lands, to be ripped from one page of my tale to the next, then I must keep my own record. I will use this book to track my progress - the friends I meet, the challenges I face. I hope to return home - to see the beautiful greens and stunning blues of my land. To roam across a wild that doesn't seem twisted by darkness at every bend. Only then can I continue on my path - only then can I find Gregor, and prove to him that he was not wrong placing his faith in me. Perhaps I will show him this journal with pride. Perhaps I will be forced to bury it with him. One way or another, I must find him - and I must hope he has not succumb to the same abduction as I.

__I am a Knight of Tyr. A paladin, as many would call it. In my manner, I strive for fairness, for justice, and equity. Mine is to bring Tyr's retribution and strength where it is needed. Gregor had hoped I would come to be a devout member of the clergy, perhaps take up a scholarly role. Instead, we found that I felt Tyr's call more personally - felt his radiance suffuse my every moment. He told me, in softer moments, that I was always chosen. Gregor said that as he watched me defend Melindera from the other orphans, watched me trade blows to keep safe someone who had done no wrong, that he suspected I would end up following his footsteps.

__Regardless of fate's interference in my life, I was trained classically. My days amounted to an ascetic lifestyle blending scholarly studies with martial temperance. The smell of musty tomes would still fill my nostrils as I was drilled and instructed on how to lift a blade, fight foes heavier and stronger than I, fight as Tyr needed. Theological studies of my own faith and those of others in Faerun still buzzed in my ears even as I clashed with wooden sword and plank shield against other initiates. My teachers did not believe in me - they saw only my blood, the evil crawling in my veins. Gregor believed. Gregor ensured that I was challenged, rigorously - moreso, perhaps, than my peers. He forced me to excel, to dispel doubt.

__He was a striking figure, always. He wore his armor well, with stately bearing and time-tested armor. The very image of a knight a little girl dreams of while staring up at the stars. When he came and swept me away, I could hardly believe it - he said it was a debt owed to my mother, the promise to a dying woman he failed to protect. To me, though, it was fate, destiny, prophecy - all of these and none. I will always remember his face as it was then; brown hair so dark it might as well have been black, kept neatly just below his ears and with a chin-hugging, neat beard. The smile it bore - the fatigue under it all. Before the streaks of grey crept in, before the peppering of that chin.

__Gregor ensured that I was fairly treated. He monitored my progress closely, and though he would never have me call him such, he was my father.  The day came that I lost him, however. He rode north and east, out of Suzail, and was never heard from again. It was a trail I would later follow, up past Tilverton and the Hullack towards parts unknown. Without Gregor, my training both accelerated and flagged. The prejudice so long kept thinly veiled was now leveled evenly at me, derision of my blood and my ability to keep it in check bandied about openly. When I completed my initiation, became a true Knight, they all but exiled me. I was told to rove, and rove far - far beyond the borders of Cormyr, to do good where I may. I was an embarrassment to them, an oddity.

__I left Suzail by Calantar's Way, as my father had. I traveled first by lame horse, and later by foot. On the path, I did good where I could - settling disputes of landowners, beating back local pests or harrying kobolds. I resolved to embrace my exile from Cormyr - to find my father and bring him home, but also to find out what my calling truly meant. So many years bottled up, running through theoretical scenarios, mock battles, settling peasant disputes. I was - am - inexperienced. Perhaps I will always feel that way. But I knew that my real training had only just begun.

__I could not have imagined that it would have taken the form of the Mists, however. I could not have imagined that the Path set before me by Tyr would be so harrowing.


Vicarra paused. The quill scratched a phantom line onto the paper, as if to continue, but her eyes found themselves drawn to the window - the rain has stopped, and she could hear the quiet chirping of birds awakening amongst the darkness. She cleaned the quill, laying it to rest to mark her place in the simple hide-bound journal, and packed it away. The day would be rough, she knew - and yet with it came new lessons, and new pages to add to her chronicle.

[Revenant]

⟽ Luck of the Draw ⟾

She was alone again, but for the stars. She sat aside the mirrored expanse of the Tser Pool, helm set aside and eyes cast up towards the heavens, drinking in the sights of that unfamiliar tapestry. On her lap rested the journal, its pages opened to the darkness. She could read it just fine - she had always preferred to write in the night, as it let her stargaze at the same time.

These moments were hers, she knew. And though it would have to end, she could at least savor it for a while.

__The Gaping Wound - an unlikely haven for someone in my position. And yet I  find a degree of comfort in it. There is a normalcy that eluded me throughout my life. Whether it was right or not for me to be there in the first place, it feels correct to be there now. The Wound is popular - it is a center of rumor and happenstance, a crossroads for fortune and misfortune alike. Desdemona may yet reveal herself again to such a crowd, and at the very least I'd like to stop some poor fool from making my same mistake.

__I know why I drew from her deck. It was a gamble for my world - through her deck, I imagined I had a chance, however small, of seeing Gregor again. The thought of completing my quest, of filling that aching longing within me with vindication, drew me forward as her third victim of the night. I spoke that I would draw twice - and very nearly did I withdraw my word after the first card. The Paladin. A knight astride noble steed, backed by radiance - a radiance which filled my heart as it hasn't been filled since I arrived. In that instant I stood vindicated - my inexperience torn aside, my Path resolved.

__In a way, that was what I wanted. In that card, I saw many things - my father amongst them. My quest is not finished, naturally. I intend to find Gregor, to speak with him of how much I've changed or, if need be, to see him laid properly to rest. I attend now to this quest with lighter, though more sure, heart. Regardless of the boon that I drew, I am bound by my word: I drew again. This time, I was not so fortunate - I drew a snarling monstrosity, a thing of tooth and fur and rage. The Beast.

__What followed has still left me shaken, though I make light of it in good company. I felt my stomach turn as a fell hunger ripped through my being - the sudden urge to hunt, to kill, to shed blood and feast and gorge upon anything with a pulse. I watched aghast, fighting the feeling with every fiber of my being, even as my hand started to disfigure into the horrid appendage of the card's namesake. I drew upon my faith - upon Tyr - to cling to sanity and form alike. The horror passed, and has not returned. I still regard that hand with distrust, and Medea of the Wayfarer's will restrain me come the full moon to make truly certain.

__Much else has occurred, as well. My first expedition beyond the bounds of Vallaki and adjoining lands - I roved with a small group to the Mist-choked Village, and later on my own beyond. At this deep, shrouded camp I met many of like-mind, and fought foes I would have shrank from not all that long ago. There are good people, in these lands - people I hope to call my friends, regardless of how they might look. I remind myself that I must be ever vigilant - that many may try to deceive me, to hide their nature to take advantage of mine.

__I can tell, though, that the woman I met was good of heart. We share similar aims and beliefs. Similar problems, too, though hers are... far more pronounced. I should like to speak to her more; she knows much of these lands, as a native, yet can trace her blood back to my homeland. I can learn much from her, should I be fortunate enough to call her friend. She took me on my first expedition to Har'Akir - a beautiful land, if horridly hot. The stars were so clear - the entire sky one inky tapestry of twinkling light. I was almost too stunned to proceed.

__Others, too, have been met - recently and before. Some have come, and I am sure more will come, to dislike me. Doing the right thing has a cost, but still it wounds to know that I've alienated others with my actions... and with my thoughtlessness. Always, I must endeavor to be better. I will watch the result of my judgement be carried out; having delivered that woman to her fate, it is only fair that I see it through. I am confident that what I did was right - though I can't quite shake from my thoughts the sadistic glee with which the garda described her punishment.

__Whipped to death.  An execution only after an agonizing torment. There is justice in this, perhaps - yet perhaps too it is twisted.


She sighed. Another night burnt. Her mind was too abuzz, the paladin decided - she would try to earn herself some rest, to find more moments like these to relax in. Not too much, of course - the evil in the land didn't sleep, didn't tire. With a groan, the book was clasped shut and shoved into a sack - the weary paladin rising with reluctance from the lakeside, a last longing glance to the moon hovering mirrored in the depths before drawing up the hood and setting off.