In a ti of the long ago, there was a man who lived happily with his three daughters. All three were graceful and of fair countenance. However, as is the nature of all things born into this world, his end would co to pass. A death vigil was held by his daughters, comncing with the eldest. She maintained an unbroken stoicism, shedding not a tear for him. The dying man asked her, “Why do you not weep?”
“I cannot mourn for those still living,” she answered gracefully.
Next, ca the second daughter, and she held his hand as he waited to et his end. They reminisced about their shared past - the countless joyful days, the painful loss of her mother, his adored wife. Despite the warm nostalgia of their shared mories, he observed a striking absence of tears in her eyes.
“Why do you not weep?” he asked.
"I cannot mourn soone who will find peace in a better place," she replied, concealing her true emotions behind a serene facade.
Finally, it was ti for the youngest, his cherished child and the joy of his existence, to bid him farewell.
“Why do you not weep?” he asked.
She remained standing, her face etched with a maelstrom of rage and subtle delight.
“I cannot mourn you, for bitter joy fills my heart. I hate you with all of my being,” she spat, her words scalding with rage.
"What has filled your heart with such anger against , my dear? What have I done to deserve your scorn?" he implored pleadingly, in a beggar’s tone.
Her voice was shrill and ringing as she answered him in bitter retort, “You have the gall to ask this, you who would touch in the night and call out the na of my mother? You always feigned ignorance, hiding behind the pretext of drunkenness. I have found it in my heart to forgive my sisters for their complicity, but I condemn you with all my heart. I do not weep, for it is I who have killed you. One poisoned cup at a ti."
In the grip of utter desolation, he t his end with her bitter truth echoing in his dying ears. For the light of justice will always shine on those who seek to hide in the darkest of places.
- The Threads of Forgiveness, found in the notes of the playwright Vlan di Panoli.
Stately and inexorable, the undead thing made its way toward , the weapon in its hand raised threateningly to strike. In response, I tried to work up a spark of anger, to fill myself with so token of fighting spirit. However, I failed miserably and only succeeded in raising my sword into a center guard, the tip pointing to face the new nace. Here, deep in this dark tomb, the sweat that had soaked into my gambeson had grown cold and clammy in new fear. I was to do combat with living death.
Advancing with the implacability of the grave, it struck at , once it was within the asure of its khopesh, the gleaming blade blurry and deceptively swift. I wanted nothing to do with this horrible thing, and I edged backward, unconsciously. The undead thing paused, as if unsure at the result of its actions, before it fixed upon with the baleful glowing orbs it had in place of its eyes. Its empty sockets lit with a lost soul’s luster. The dark guardian regarded , analyzing the trespasser of its domain. Teeth clacking with a tallic sound, it launched a few probing strikes in my direction. The undead guard’s movents were, for the most part, stilted and slow. Almost predictably so, but interspersed among the cadence of its attacks were serpent-swift strikes that my eyes could barely register. It was, in short, a most-vexing opponent, for it was unpredictable, the slow strikes lulling the senses before it struck at erratically, but at full speed.
I disengaged for a mont and drew upon my magical reserves to unleash Entropic Aura, hoping to hinder the undead guard I faced. The gray waves of entropy lapped against the skeleton, but the walking evil pushed through them unhindered. Grimacing, I quickly followed this spell with Drain, which was empowered by my Aura.
I could barely hear the inner voices, my longti companions. They scread in frustration as my dark energies made contact with the monster. This ti, there was no flood of delicious stolen energy towards . This skill was one of my aces, and I was thoroughly nonplussed as the Praxis Guard closed the distance to and cut at with its curved, heavy sword of war.
The sibilant voices within now howled, a howl that I echoed with my own frustration and blossoming rage. I was doing so damn well! I was finally making progress, only to be dumped down here, away from my companions and friends. On top of this, I was now forced to fight so insufferable creature that had the terity to be resistant to my magic.
However, anger is a poor replacent for skill and discipline. Though I hacked away at the offending creature with a few counterstrokes of my own, my blows failed to find any purchase across its unnatural body. In reprisal, the undead guard scored a glancing hit across my vambrace, which I barely noticed in my heightened state of rage.
Fight the wielder, not the sword, I reminded myself. Another maxim threaded its way through my thoughts. Fight smarter, not harder. After all I had gone through, surely it was not my destiny for this to be my tomb.
Purchasing a few seconds by retreating yet again, I vaguely entertained the idea of just running away from the revenant, into the darkness and the unknown. Further threats could lurk within, however, and I was already struggling as it was. I needed to deal with this here and now.
To my chagrin, the long-dead warrior’s jilted movents were slowly turning smoother, as if up until now had been nothing more than a warmup, a rehearsal. Great, just what I need, I thought bitterly as the skeleton closed within striking distance again.
But just as the creature's movents beca more natural, so too did my understanding of it. There was an almost chanical pattern in its strikes. A high cut followed a low, which was, in turn, followed mysteriously by a wide swing of its other arm, which struck nothing but air. This last move in the sequence was important, as it gave an opportunity to launch an attack of my own. With the insights gained through battle and my rigorous instruction under the overly-zealous Cordelia, I realized, none too late, that the dumb thing was swinging a shield it no longer possessed.
I was, in essence, fighting a machine. An undead machine, but a machine nonetheless. No matter how advanced, or magically-enhanced, there is no spell or line of code that can replace real human ingenuity.
Waiting for it to play this sequence, I launched a disciplined probing attack of my own that connected. I struck across its collarbone, and there was the dissonant clash of tal on tal. The shock ran up my arm, and I was utterly dumbfounded, for I had been expecting to cut deep into the bone. Barely able to parry its next stroke, I cursed my luck.
The thing before was more than just a skeleton warrior. It was a damnable tal skeleton warrior. My cursed Luck! When it rained in my life, it truly poured misery.
It was ti to try a new line of attack. Shifting my grip, I wielded my sword reversed, like a hamr in the ‘mordhau,’ the murder-stroke. However, unlike other blades, my weapon was designed to be used in such a way, and the Azag-Gishban felt solid and sure in my hand.
Predictably, like clockwork or the turning of the tides, the opening I had been waiting for ca. With a resounding roar that surprised even , I burst through the opening in the skeleton’s guard and launched a Power Strike at its hand. My blow smashed the skeletal digits of its hand, and magical or not, it was still bound by the laws of physics. The khopesh flew from its grip, clanging against rock sowhere in the purple murk. I had been foolish taking on the unliving monstrosity with the edge of my blade. The undead were always more susceptible to blunt attacks.
Flailing wildly at , with weapons it no longer possessed, it did not seem so fearso now. I took my ti dismantling it, taking no small amount of joy in the process, repeatedly using Power Strike to cave in the tal. I burst through its knee with the hamr head of my weapon, disabling it for the greater part. Finally, I lifted my unstoried sword and caved in its tallic skull with a final Power Strike, the weight of my fear and hate lending strength to my blow.
I was panting, my body and mind feeling like they had been through the nine circles of hell. In a state of fear-driven frenzy, I had ignored the ‘cooldown’ on Power Strike, causing it to burn through exponentially more Stamina than it would have done otherwise. Though my Stamina was prodigious—monstrously so—it was not without its limits.
Just as I was going through the slew of notifications that praised for my latest triumph, I began to hear the sound of eerie clanking footsteps coming ever closer. There was no respite for the wicked.
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