… And just like that, the pain was gone, swallowed in blinding, deafening darkness.

Flynn Flashwood awoke with a start, eyes open wide to see not oblivion, but the sunshine. A sun more welcoming and warming than any he’d ever experienced. Far away from the bitter, violating cold of that terrible place, he knew. One moment ago, Flynn had been in that alien contraption, feeling as if his very blood had been replaced with bubbling acids, an agony unlike any he’d experienced sucking the life from his body. Then suddenly he was here, lying back in the sand, a glass of wine in his hand, the sound of the ocean lapping entrancingly just a few hundred yards away.

“Beautiful day, is it not?”

Flynn looked up, instinctively squinting as his eyes turned toward the sun… except the sun did not dazzle or obscure in any way. It hung in the sky, brightening the world and burning nothing, not too bright at all. Not too hot. Nothing here was too much of anything. It was all perfect.

The man stood before Flynn grinned widely, a neatly trimmed beard framing a pearly white set of too-perfect teeth. A mocking eyebrow was raised below a mop of curly black hair. On either side of the man, two half-elf women were giggling, and the man’s arms were draped across their naked shoulders.

“Mercy… you bastard.”

Flynn got to his feet to greet his uncle, the brigand king, the liar and the cheat. B’Sar “Mercy” Ebonflowerwood, the “great” progenitor of Zoa’s hundred bastards, with two women on each arm and a drink in each hand, unmistakable in his decadence. Flynn wanted to hate that lying, cheating, murderous piece of shit. But this place felt like home, and Mercy… felt like family.

“Guilty as charged, Mr. Flashwood. Of course, you know all about that. You know who I am. More than my children ever did.”

“What… is this place?”

“It’s death, my boy. This is where all my worthy bastards come when Kalamar’s finally had enough of their shit. As you can see… it’s been a long time since we’ve had a visitor. Apparently not too many of you ever quite made the grade.”

Flynn looked around as he sipped his wine – a wine not too sweet, and not too dry – and noted the distinct lack of any others on this seemingly endless beach.

“You want something else to drink?” the brigand king asked. “Some women, perhaps? Men? Whatever you want, just ask. Better yet, just think it. It’s all yours, boss.”

“I’m… fine for right now. So I died, huh?”

“Looks that way. S’what happens when you let Risk take the rudder for you. Roll the dice one too many times, and you soon find yourself in debt. The house always wins, Flynn. It always wins in the end.”

“I have so many things to ask, uncle… or great uncle… or… actually, first question – exactly HOW are we related, anyway?”

“Well, interesting story there. The Flashwoods, you see…”

A tearing sound cut the man off before he could continue, as the very fabric of this place pulled itself apart. Mercy smiled smugly.

“Well well, maybe you’ve got a few more chips on the table than I thought, boy.”

Flynn was about to ask what Mercy had meant, but felt the pull in his gut, and simply knew what it meant. He could feel hands reaching for him, a voice calling out. The chill winds and the pain and the suffering… Brand telling Flynn to come back. Flashwood looked toward his uncle… or great uncle… and the brigand had no drinks in his hand, no women on his arms. He was smirking, arms folded.

“You can always stay, you know,” he said. “Nobody ever has to go back. Just tell your friends you’d rather say goodbye to the struggle, the loss, the agony. Stay here. Drink. Eat. Fuck. Conjure two-bit good-for-nothing market sellers and let a crossbow bolt off in their stupid fucking face day after day after day.”

Flynn sighed.

“I can’t,” the young bard replied. “I have to go back.”

“You won’t abandon your friends, eh? Or is it that the fate of the world is just too important to ignore?”

“No… the way I died was really, really fucking stupid. And I can’t let Brand look better than me.”

Mercy laughed.

“Spoken like my true nephew… or was it great nephew? I guess we’ll have to wait for the answer. Shall I, uh, hold your drink for you?”

Flynn handed his wine glass over to Mercy, who took it and nodded in respect at his young ancestor.

“Don’t you go drinking that now,” Flynn warned. “I’m coming back for it.”

“I’m sure you will be. But, y’know, it’s getting poured over somebody’s tits regardless.”

… And just like that, the pain was back, swallowing Flynn with a blinding, deafening cacophony.

“I feel better than ever,” he shouted, holding back tears.

I couldn’t see my hands anymore. There was so much blood it seemed impossible. Blood on the floor, the ceiling, in my hair. My hands looked like something out of a dream. Covered in blood and viscera. I was holding my friends esophagus in my left hand when it hit me. We made a mistake. Well, it wasn’t us, so much as the “doctor” that got to work on Odom before us. It seemed easy enough. Heal the wounds he had taken in this place so we could be on our way. The problem we didn’t see with that, was how this “doctor” viewed us.

Im getting ahead of myself. Let me start with a little about the half-orc. Odom is a man with a heart too big for his chest. He sees the best in people, and will always help someone if they need it. He sees the world through this lens, and because of that, he expects others are the same. He expects that when a doctor tells him to lie back and take this shot, that he is well on his way to being healed. What he could have never expected is that this doctor did not see a person that was whole and only needed basic medical attention. The good doctor saw a very sick thing lying on his table. A thing that had all the wrong parts in all the wrong places. So he went about doing what he “had” to do. Removing all the organs in this sick man.

I have no problem saying when im wrong, and on that day I was wrong! I should have listened to Diogenes when he said that Odom would die. I should have listened when he said something was wrong, and I should have listened when he told me to stop helping that doctor. I didn’t, and thought that at some point this doctor would start putting things back where they were supposed to go. That didn’t happen. Thank the Magic Maker for my weird nature loving comrade! Diogenes had the idea to regenerate Odom. He casts the spell, and had his plant clothes (yes, clothes made of living plants) protect the prone half-orc as best they could while the Druid worked his magic. None of this deterred the doctor as he kept pulling things out. One by one he worked his way through Odom’s most vital bits and tossed them out like they were trash. By the time he started separating my friends spinal column, I knew that it was time to stop.

Almost on cue, Flynn had the same epiphany. Before I knew it, a cage of pure magic enveloped that strange doctor. Flynn layed into his lute, and a chord struck the air like a thundercrack. If you have never found yourself lucky enough to be in the company of a true Bard, such as Mr. Flashwood, then you are truly missing out on one of the greatest treasures in life. When he struck that chord, it sounded like the sweetest thing my ears had ever heard. The note held strong for a heartbeat and reverberated through the chamber, and in response the world moved. Energy crackled from the very sound itself, as Flynn directed it with his song. Dazzling lights coalesced into something solid from the very sound itself. A cage made of pure energy enveloped the strange doctor thing, and pinned it to the ceiling. Did I mention that he was hanging from the ceiling from some contraption? Yeah, hanging from the fucking ceiling like something out of a nightmare. So the cage goes up, and Flynn starts shouting at me. I glanced over at the assistant, and put a hold on her, just in case. No use slaughtering people just trying to do their job, no matter how misguided the attempt may seem.

In my life I have but a couple of things to truly be proud of. The first I will keep to myself, but the second came just seconds after the doctor got caged. There we were, standing in a room with our friend laid out before us like he was being field dressed. Diogenes’ magic was keeping him alive, but only by a very slim thread, and he was bleeding more than I thought a body was capable of bleeding.

As a cleric, we are allowed to follow some of our own pursuits of knowledge. We all get the general lessons, but we also get to choose some of the things we want to learn outside of the basics. I chose to learn the skills of the artisan. I also chose medicine, and thank the Riftmaster for that! As Odom lay there bleeding, I couldn’t just stand there and watch. I did what anyone in my position, with my knowledge would. I rolled up my sleeves, sent up a prayer, and started putting things back where they belong.

To my surprise, Flynn jumped in. What we did together that day was nothing short of pure magic. Don’t ever tell him I said this, for he would have no choice but to let it go to his head, but that man became my hero in that tiny little room, operating on a friend who deserved better. Before I could ask, Flynn had the tool ready. Before I could even think about what came next, Flynn was there handing me the implement he thought would work best. He pulled bones out of the way and went elbow deep with me into Odom to put some of the more vital pieces back. When I got confused, or nervous, he was there. The words he said to me that day will stay with me forever, and I will not share them, but I will share their effect. He inspired me in a way I never thought was possible. Flynn is a man among men, and I hope to one day show him what his ever present companionship has meant to me. One day when he isn’t as apt to sing a song about how it was Flynn Flashwood all by himself that changed the world, or worse still a song about a big Cleric prostrating himself to a lowly Half-Elf.

Until then, I will continue to write my thoughts in this journal. Maybe one day, when the world is back to being more simple, these writings will serve as a history, or primer, or who knows. Maybe they will be collected and stored, or lost in some old library under a temple in Bet Kalamar. Whatever the final destination, I would be pleased to let the world know how close it came to being undone. I would let them see what four men and an Idea could do. I would let them see a holy man, and his friends, risk everything they ever had to keep the world from burning.

Nadirn. Krinn. Winston. Vox. Occam. Mercy. The combined personal experiences of six men swirled and screamed in his head, each vying for attention, each desperate to show more horrors and express more rage. The rage. So much anger, all thrashing and clawing at Flynn’s mind. The bard sat cross-legged on the basement floor, nothing but cold and silence, while in his head a burning storm of shrieking hot fury assaulted his every waking thought.

Chief among the long-forgotten memories of resentment was the overwhelming hatred of… him. Winston The Golden, prophet of The Landlord, a name that now filled Flynn with a most disarming terror. He had looked into the eyes of pure, unfettered hate, and those eyes had looked back unblinking. He had to be stopped. Whatever crimes the Lich Lord had committed, Flynn was convinced that he was at least not insane… not in a conventional sense. Winston was powerful, influential, and above all mad. Driven to the brink by almost two centuries of resentment. Flynn was sure of that, if nothing else.

But between them stood the only thing that could match Winston’s anger. The Profane. Now a shambling husk, a hollow shell with a flicker of loathing floating around inside, too small to be called a soul, yet more intense in its wrath than any being should be capable of. Flynn had felt his loathing too. It was a sad feeling. A pitiable mockery of human emotion, clinging weakly to ancient flesh. Elven children still scare each other with tales of the Lendelwood Butcher, and the bard knew enough to understand that fear was well founded. He couldn’t bring himself to feel it, however. He couldn’t even make himself despise the man, despite his crimes and horrors. He pitied him, more than anything else. Flynn had seen the Butcher’s life and death. He’d experienced his reawakening. There was nothing in that dark-hearted killer but wretchedness and sorrow. For all his wickedness, Vox had endured the worst possible punishment – he had to suffer himself, and not even death let him escape the torment of being Vox.

Was that why Flynn pitied Vox? Really? He had asked himself this. Was he simply telling himself he pitied that creature, or was it more that he empathized with him? Like Vox, Flynn too was now a dead thing, ostracized and confused and alone. His friends had told him as much that they didn’t see their old companion anymore. They saw a blasphemy, a disease to be cured or stamped out entirely. And sometimes, just sometimes, Flynn wondered if it would be easier to simply become the thing they expected him to be. The killer. The creature. The butcher. Flynn had wanted to slaughter those arrogant, pious fools at the Halls of the Valiant. It’s what Vox would have done. And it would have been so very satisfying.

Flynn sighed. Maybe he deserved a stake through the heart after all.

Brand and Diogenes were plotting something. They made no secret of it. They were confident that they would “get their friend back” by any means necessary. Flynn was sure of it. Part of him wanted to stop them – he had grown used to this power, and he did not want to just give it up. He balked at the idea of the Keymaster and the druid stealing his strength from him, robbing him of his newfound abilities. Part of him wanted nothing more than to be rescued, to be the old Flynn Flashwood again and have the trust of his friends back.

But Flynn had done… questionable things… to get where he was. He feared a return to normalcy, because if he had to step out into the light, it would shine on all those dark, dark things he’d had to do. And then there would be more lies, more shame, more guilt. All the things he’d said goodbye to, the crippling things that had gnawed at him in life. He’d hate himself for what he’d done. The morals ignored, the laws violated. Flynn would come to loathe what he’d allowed himself to be.

And then… then he’d truly be no better than Vox.

Wyatt had never run so fast in his whole life. The hard cobblestones made his feet hurt, his heels especially—fine shoes are not for running… at least that’s what his mother would say. But, there was no time to waste! Ever since buying Tempest Burbage’s Fine Blackmusic Masque of Theater from Hame Burbage, he’d been on the sidelines of a failing acting company watching his mother’s money and his own future shrivel into irrelevance.

All of his friends patroned artists, but he wanted to be the true star—and why not? Count Lothono’s son, Crizzen, he had made himself more than passing famous for that bawdy song he wrote (which his tutor actually wrote, but Crizzen took credit for). They sing it in alehouses, earthy and tawdry, all along the waterfront and someone raises a toast to the (ludicrous name) Count of Choruses every time. Wyatt knew he was jealous, but that didn’t make him feel any more magnanimous about it.

The cobblestones turned to packed earth as he crossed his way out of the Centira into the common streets of Bet Urala. He felt something tear in his pants, He cursed his state of dress—appropriate sashes and breeches for an afternoon lunch with mother and her friends. Only moments ago, he’d been sitting demurely, purring and nodding his pleasantries.

And when word came from Kingsly, the troupe’s playwright, that he’d completed the play Wyatt had been funding for months now? When the reality came over him that this epic story would be told with the gravity and power of his own skill? That throngs of people would mark the day they saw his production as the day they truly knew why Muses mused and why Emperor Kakilas’s famed addage was true that the breathe of the gods really was the art of the player…

…when the word came, Wyatt tore himself from tea and shouted his apologies to mother and made for the playhouse. Fucking Kingsly. A fortune and an age and lots of patience and finally, a play wholey new and—if the old goat wasn’t simply lying—maybe his finest work.

And the lead? Only Wyatt of House Stoneberry—the Lord of Monologues… or something. He’d had no luck thinking a great name for himself (fucking Crizzen, the gadfly).

He skidded and tripped headfirst into the old birch door of Burbage’s playhouse. He felt a gash on his temple as the wood of the doorjam punished him for the intrusion. A moment of horror took him as he realized the blood he wiped from his cheek was his own—and had it not been for Udom and Banks dragging him off of the floor, and slapping some wind and focus into his back while doing it (laughing as well, bastards), he might have vomited at the thought of it all. Muck about his clothes, blood on his face, and the surly and lowly actors and artisans of the troupe staring at their patron (and star) trying to suppress giggles and fits. Their hushed murmurs were as embarrassing as they were infuriating. Wyatt felt his face grow red and warm.

“My lord Wyatt…! I did not expect you so soon” a gravelly voice called from behind the the piles of seafaring set pieces. Kingsly dragged his bad leg with him as he walked, frowining at his quill and the book he was scribbling in as he did so. A man in motion, always restless, that he could not sit still even while writing always made Wyatt uncomfortable. A man should sit as often as there is a place to, his father had said. The most dangerous man, the most powerful, is the one that sits while others fidget about. It never made sense to Wyatt, but then again he’d never thought too hard about it either.

“Master Kingsly, I came right away when I heard you had finished the work—I am… most anxious, indeed most anxious, to begin preparing for the role of…”, his manner slipped a moment as he grasped for… well, damn. Wyatt realized he’d never so much as asked Kingsly about the parts to be played.

“…the hero? Yes?”, Kingsly cocked an eyebrow at him with a small smile.

“Yes, yes, of course. The Hero. Bold, eh? I should play him as bold as the great heroes of the empire of old, you say?”, Wyatt could see himself on the stage, painted gold armor, thundering fear into the villain of the piece. His jaw strong and his words shaking the first few rows in its powerful inflection. He would be The Valiant come again, if only for the night.

“—hardly ever, so there was not a need. I didn’t think it spoke well to do that. But, I’m sure we can place you well enough”, Kingsly droned on while returning to his scribbing.

“What?”

“I said, there is no hero in the piece, my lord Stoneberry. The history is spare, of course, but this is only a tragedy. Everyone dies at the end. The only hero, I suppose, is the priest—but, even—”

Wyatt leaped in “Priest! Yes, of course! I have had versatile lessons in the manner of a godly character from the great Wotton Henks, of course. I can he the cleansing heroic priest that brings life and love and wisdom to the world”, Wyatt could see it now. The robe flowing and his role as the ever-present central figure of the story. Being the sage to the king that is a fool, being the quest-giver to the hero who dies, the desireable to the girl who cannot have him, the virtuous and the noble priest… he will save the kingdom and want nothing in return.

“—died anyway. But, that’s how these things go.”

“Hunh?”

Kingsly sighed, “I said, my lord, that the priest dies. They all die. The priest is part of the reason they die. It’s… perhaps you’d like a reading before selecting the part you’d like to audition for, eh?”

Audition? How dare he! Like some common play actor, needing to audition! The nerve.

. . .. … …..

Chorus: The Fates beseech you, flee this place, do not stay, avert your face; to tell the tale we must retrace the path of figures lost. From Mendarn to the raging sea, on land and water, jubilee; disgraceful mein and honorees all pay the final cost.

[Curtain parts to the sea voyage set]

Celanon: Cousin! hah-HA! [Jovial, sly] Why don’t you burl the halfstead there, I have too much wind on our flank.

[Krin grabs rope, is pulled comically off his feet onto the deck]

Krin: Ahh!

Celanon: Oh, stop your prattle, cuz. Twas only a little rope and we’ve been in thicker swells this far out to sea before.

Krin: It’s not the elope of the rope, Cel; but the scope of the slope when you sail. By the gods great and small, can’t you steer this thing at all?

Celanon: Haha! I could sail this Golden Storm to the ends of the earth itself!

Krin: [sitting and pouting on deck] Such a name, you dolt. Would that your Storm could rain gold we wouldn’t have to ferry crates of this up the coast and crates of that back down just to pay for dinner.

Celanon: Psshhh, perk up my brother of the sea. Perk up. My Golden Storm rains well enough to put food in your belly and wine in your flask does it not? Well enough to pay for a little more than that besides. Have you talked to our new quartermaster?

Krin: Him? [exasperated] But whatever am I to do, cuz? I’m no sailor and now this oily bearded devotee is to take my job?

Celanon: Oh, Krinaldo, my sweet faced. I have bought you secrets from the Academy of Cosolen and you still have the finest cabin on this old boat. Let the priest count the chickens and boxes, and devote your mind to higher goals. It is my love for you, cuz, that I do this. You, amongst all in the world, have a mind and a will to change all things. I promised your mother I’d see that you learned of the world and learned to make it your own. You have a talent for conjuring, my friend. I will help you develop it. Even if that means only putting shelter over your head and salt beef in your belly and paying Financier Winston Dashingstash to keep the books in your stead.

Krin: [pouting] I just want to be useful. I want to pull my own weight. I may be small, but I have a power inside me.

Celanon: I don’t doubt it, boy. By the by, would you grab me that rope?

[Krin grabs rope and is jerked off his feet again, Celanon laughs]

. . .. … …..

Wyatt clutched his sheaf of papers while moving about the stage. They put the greathelm on Udom to hide his skin—the thought of that hobgoblin playing an Eldoran soldier was hilarious. And to his credit, the hobgoblin managed a convincing accent and his manner was almost regal. Wyatt was a bit jealous, honestly. He might have to ask Kingsly about trading parts. The Eldoran had the best lines, all about strength and honor. He even had a dark past, some old war perhaps? Or a crime of passion? The mystery of the Eldoran only made the first act more fascinating.

Kingsly read through the scene’s actions. A storm. He gave notes to the triplets about how to make the sounds most realistic and a shopping list. Storm rages. A subplot with other players as the hero Paladins of the Valiant who he says will show in Act 2 believing the protagonists are criminals but get swayed by a speech from the priest. Wyatt wanted to read the speech out, but Kingsly was adamant that this walkthrough exercise was for interactions with the main cast and not monologues.

The protagonists are all shipwrecked on a jungle island in the far south, blown off course by the Storm Lord in his rage against the perversions of the Brandobian Empire. Celanon the Captain lays on the beach with broken legs and cannot continue the journey. Krin, the boy mystic, nearly dies and is brought back by the priest Winston (who throws coppers to the audience everytime he does a miracle). The Eldoran with dark secrets is with them. The blonde elf, Mistress Lovely, who was travelling to her sick mother on the ship is washed up to shore with them and it is Krin that wakes her from her coma with a kiss. The act ends with them all on the shore amidst wreckage.

So far, Wyatt was pleased with his role—more than he had thought. The coin tossing was a little pedestrian, but it was sure to get him talked about by the crowds. The story seemed good, he was eager to read on.

. . .. … …..

Krin: Lovely creature.

Lovely: Oh. But when you say my name, I must shield my eyes, for they tell the truth of my heart.

Krin: It is that heart that I would hear truth from.

Lovely: But, what if it is a lying heart? What if it only tells you what you wish to hear?

Krin: [Excitedly] Then hear it well I would! What man would not like to hear what he desires? What would your lying hear say to my hungry ears?

Lovely: They would… keep a lady’s silence. [Impish look]

Krin: Oh, truly… then I would speak my magic words and pry the truth from your lying heart.

Lovely: [Taken aback] Would you then? Can there be no secrets?

Krin: The world speaks to me, the heavens and the stars as well. I hear their secrets and know the movings of the world, but the movings of your beauty and your lovely heart would be worth more than all the golden roses in the far kingdom of Ualia.

Lovely: [smiling again] You must be a mage, Krin my love.

Krin: [Confused] Why?

Lovely: For you know the true and deep words that touch me deeply. You know my secrets, for you know my true love of you.

Krin: And you know mine.

Lovely: But, I must attend Celanon, he is still hurt and I fear he may catch fever.

Krin: [Unsmiling] Take not too much care that you forget me.

Lovely: [Leaving] Never in eternity.

[Krin slides out of view and we are further down the beach]

Celanon: Oh! Wine! Only more wine!

Winston: Vox, hold him down, I cannot bring him relief when he struggles so.

[Vox pins Celanon down]

Winston: Better. Now, I fear the leg must come off, Captain Vronn. It will kill you as surely as the fire of a dragon if you don’t let me.

[Celanon screams and whimpers in pain]

Lovely: Perhaps I can help.

Winston: [Charming smile] Oh, Lovely—you are only too dangerous for him to be near, a bad leg will kill him slowly, but if you take his breath away with your beauty he will not survive the minute.

Lovely: Flattery, priest. A golden tongue indeed, and not just a golden hand, then?

[Winston raises gold hand]

Winston: And why not? The Landlord has no greater servant than the priest who would gild his own flesh. You should see the great heroes of my faith, Lovely, half made of gold themselves.

Lovely: No, all of that luster would blind me. I prefer the roots and trees of my people. And might save our Captain with those yet.

Winston: Then I leave you to your earthy magics, Lovely. I will pray.

[Winston leaves, Vox stands to go]

Lovely: Oh, Celanon. You will die, I know. There are no magics to save you, but I would know if you’d have mercy from me sooner than more pain from the Profiteer.

[Celanon whispers, looking fever mad]

Lovely: What? Closer?

[Celanon holds her close and whispers to her ear]

Celanon: You bring me an offer of death? Then I trade you in the same coin. Butcher of Eldor… silence her.

[Vox lashes a whip around her neck so she cannot scream, and stabs her through the back]

Vox: Unclean thing.

Celanon: [in pain] Oh, no… no, what have we done?!?

Vox: It was necessary. She claimed power over you. Their kind cannot be allowed the assumption.

Celanon: No… [crying] We are foresaken.

Vox: It was always to be so.

Celanon: Krin cannot know. Quickly, hide her body in the trees. And… Vox?

[Vox picks up body and turns]

Vox: Boss?

Celanon: Leave some coins near her.

[Vox exits]

. . .. … …..

The suspense was killing him! Oh, this was Burbage’s finest play. Kingsly’s best story. The tale was gripping, and Kingsly says it was even true! A history! It was said that the Emperor was mad for histories, but writing the same old stories over and over? The conquering of this or that? Boring.

This was such new history. Kingsly says if the troupe can hurry and get some xostumes doublequick, they could be performing this on the centennial of the return of the Prince!

Oh, that Crizzen would shit his pretty silver pants.

Wyatt… heir of Stoneberry… on stage in front of the great and good acting out the story from one century ago. Live.

Gods above… his was a destiny of greatness.

The second act was a series of racing adventures. They find a dragon (Wyatt cringed ad that old story-telling device… there’s ALWAYS a dragon there to give the heroes a ride, it seems). Celanon (with padded shirt to make him look like he is growing fat) returns home now that he cannot go on, but hires dark men to watch his cousin for fear of him finding out. Krin regards Winston warily, suspecting those coins to be evidence of wrongdoing, and as he mourns his love he turns to whispering in the night to creatures the audience cannot sea and his make-up grows pale. Winston’s arm becomes gold and he serves as the comic relief, it seems, for most of the act. Vox says little, but has two amazing fight scenes that Udom seems to have down pat.

They travel to an ancient forest and kill a demon. They are cornered by paladins of the Valiant who judge them true—but Krin tricks them by giving everyone rings to hide their secrets. They are confronted by a lute player who tells them riddles (and is there to tell the audience some of the secrets of the characters). Wyatt could imagine the audience gasping when the Lutist on the road sings his song and sings to Krin that “a man would pay any price to be with his love, but the coin is false”.

Wyatt read ahead while they were in the scene where they trick the hobgoblin king into giving them his sword.

“WAIT!” he barked just as Udom was braying his lines to the demon prince.

Kingsly looked up, face annoyed and curious.

“I kill Kakelas?”

Everyone stared at Wyatt.

“I mean… no. Right. So Winston kills the Prince with the sword of the goblin king? I can’t do that”

Kingsly’s teeth ground under his greying beard.

“And why?”, he asked flatly.

“Well”, Wyatt tossed his hands about searching for a way to explain, “I mean, what will everyone think? I can’t act like I’m killing a Prince. That would be unseemly.”

Kingsly took a deep breath and sat down on a crate.

“My lord, it isn’t real. It is a play. And that is actually what happened?”, He started.

“I KNOW it is a play, Master Kingsly. I am NOT a moron”, Wyatt sneered, “I mean to say that a gentleman does not appeal to the low thrills of political dissent.” The words came trickling out of him, he was sure his father had said something much like that when he was alive, but it didn’t matter. He was not going to play the murderer of the Lost Prince on stage before the court or nobility. He was not the villain.

Kingsly grumbled, running his hand through his thinning hair. He glared at Wyatt, and Wyatt glared back.

An hour, some yelling, a few drinks, and Belila flirting at the young lord and they managed to come to an agreement that the sword should be magical and the priest would kill the prince because he was possessed by an evil spirit. Where the damned priest is supposed to get a magic sword and why it’d be here… fuck. Whatever. Kingsly sribbled the notes about having the dragon give them one and winced at the sloppy storytelling.

Bart was doing a good job with the young mage, though—Kingsly was proud of that boy. His mama always said he should stay away from the stage, but he’s got the blood of an artist in him. Kingsly was proud to see him hunched and sneering as Krin, from the flush and funny boy in the first act. He’d go far.

. . .. … …..

[In a fiery dungeon]

Winston: I call you devil! I call you unholy!

Krin: I call myself righteous, priest. And you have had no quarrel with my power before.

Winston: But, this is too much. Sweet Celanon, laid low and risen by your foul magics. It is not done, Krin!

Krin: I Say tis done. And he complains not at all [evil cackle]. He was my true cousin and your murder of him was a thing I could not abide.

Winston: Murder, you say, but all souls live to be weighed and his was dark indeed. He was the one that took your Lovely! Your suspicions poisoned out bond, you who I would call brother!

Krin: You are no brother of mine, speaker of lies. It was you who killed Vox in the catacombs of the mountain king! I saw you speak his death with my own eyes!

[fire explosions, rumbling of cavein]

Winston: It was more than he deserved. For his crimes, he should suffer worse hells.

Krin: Then we must be enemies, you and I. Our friendship in the dirt. Our fellowship only ashes.

Winston: I cast thee out, then. By my power and your true name, I banish you. Mine is the power of the glory of the god of coin and his might is rich indeed!

Krin: Ah, but you have forgotten!

[pulls a box from under his mottled rotted robes]

Krin: I have the heart of the Prince here. Plucked from his chest while you ran from your petty crimes and murders. And the heart of a Prince is the power that moves the heavens. SONA-SHO-KA-KALIKAS!!!

[Streams of gold silk fall in ribbons over Winston]

Winston: Nooooo! What have you done?

Krin: I have bound your God to my will, for I am more powerful than any god. He will wash my feet and sup of my scraps. And you are now powerless to stop it.

Winston: You may have ensnared the Profit Lord, but you will never ensnare me! Mercy, away!

[Mercy, the magic horse, swoops in and carries Winston away]

Winston: I will revenge myself one day, I swear it!

Krin: Good riddance, this new kingdom of mine could do with fewer oiled men in pretty clothes. I like naught but the tatters. They remind me of the flesh I rend from the weak. [cackles]

[Krin beckons his servants close as he sits on his skull throne]

Krin: Heed me, worms. I will now flex my bony fingers and ensnare the world. Wait… what?

[lights from all around hit Krin from lanterns]

Krin: No!

[Celanon crumbles to the ground and after wiping his face quickly on sleeve, looks healthy and alive again]

Celanon: Cousin!

Krin: You cannot be alive! Winston murdered you!

Celanon: I have been called to the skies, cousin. I have repented my sins. It was I who killed dear Lovely. I took from you all your joy. I may not have raised the sword myself, but I killed her as surely as if I had.

Krin: Why now? Why tell me now?

[Celanon rising]

Celanon: To tell you it is not too late. The gods will judge you Krin, for binding one of their own. Repent and you may be saved.

Krin: I can never be saved!

Celanon: You can! Pass me the rope, cuz… I’ll hold on tight for you.

[Krin searches for rope, but finds only frayed and rotted strands]

Krin: I have none. I cannot go. What will become of me?

[Booming voice of the gods from offstage]

Gods: You are cursed, Krin the Unclean, the Arcane, the Dark… we return your curse upon you and free our brother the Landlord. You sought to bind, and now be bound yourself. Your prison shall be this place where you betrayed your own. And for your only company, you shall have the one who killed your love and he shall never die—to remind you of your folly.

[Vox walks in, armor rusted and dented]

Gods: These things we visit on you. That all may know your crimes.

. . .. … …..

The playhouse was quiet in the hour before opening night of “The Tale of Vronn and McDashingstash”. Burbages was filled to the brim with people, the only sounds in the darkened theater being the wheeze of the wind through the attic crawlspace high above the stage.

Kingsley was backstage, doubled over with one hand on the old soft boards. His knees pressed hard into the floor. His body shaking, blood from where his left eye used to be streaming down his cheek and kissing his lips.

Wyatt was out on stage, Face down, wearing ornate robes of fake gold. Eighty-four people lay in their seats, bleeding from their eyes and noses and mouths, staring off into nothing—the stillness of death.

The large armored figure moved slowly, dragging his foot. Kingsly thought he was being mocked, but the dark figure made his way slowly toward him with no humor evident behind that plated exterior.

The gutteral whisper echoed from deep inside the metal shell.

“Unclean.”

The sword slipped quietly through the air and took Kingsly’s head off.

Fade to black. A playhouse on fire.

My mission has taken from one side of the land to the other and back again. I have gathered little information about this great evil. The Dark One is an elusive one and leaves very little behind to follow. I still don’t even know if this evil is made of flesh or some godly creature. All I have is assumptions of who he might be, Krin the Arcane. I do not know if this is him or not but this is the man or thing I am looking for know for it is the only being the fits the profile. If it is not, I shall destroy his wicked ways anyway.

This being is slowly taking a toll on my party. One by one each is losing faith. We have completely lost the wizard known as Astrid. She has had a taste of what she thinks is power and isn’t thinking clearly anymore. Last I heard of her she is destroying boats in the ocean under false pretenses of surrender. Flynn has given up altogether on his condition and decided to embrace the unnatural ways for the night. I can still use him for the benefit of good. He has great power and sometimes you need to fight fire with fire. They want to fight with undead powers, then I will use their tactics against them and bring an undead of my own. This will be their undoing. Brand was a cheerful guy once, until he came back from a meeting with his church. He meet with a council to discuss a matter he has been following most his life, brought them solid evidence and instead of backing him, they decide to mock him. From the sound of it this rot has not affected all but for it to be in the churches is very tragic. I will see how far this rot has gone in the churches and cleanse the land of impurities. As for Odom, my Half-orc friend, he is a kind one but it is only a matter of time before his orc side takes over and he starts rapeing everything in sight.

As for me, I am not clean myself. I have not protected my party against the rot that infects this land, strong undead villains to escaped and the Dark One to gain far too much influence amongst the land. I see these as failures on my behalf. I shall not fail this land. I will not. Drastic times call for drastic measures. I will not allow any longer let the ones aligned with the Dark One live. I will remove the corruption by force and the corrupted will be destroyed. I am a defender of my woodland palace. My enemy made a grave mistake threatening my home. Their lives will be sufficient enough for atonement.

The big priest was still in a bad mood three days after he met with the council. “Look at you.” “Dressed in your armor, and your weapons.” “The Riftmaster would be displeased with you.” Keyholder Gregor had said as much in front of the others. He called Brand a liar, and a fool for chasing myths and legends. Brand walked out of that council chamber utterly deflated. It was all for nothing. None of this mattered.

When Brand left the church to go out and seek the truth of all of this, he had done so with the eyes of a child. He saw the best in people. He gave them the benefit of the doubt. He would always try and do things the right way. The way his father would have done things. However, when he returned to tell of his deeds, and seek the approval of his seniors, he left that council chamber with the jaded eyes of one who sees the world for what it is. Full of cowards and greedy men. Nothing but liars and disappointment.

He had single handedly discovered one of the greatest legends of not only his church, but of the Church of the Landlord as well. What was his reward? Being called crazy and a liar. Being branded as a heretic and one who doesn’t worship his god the right way. Did these old priests forget about balance? Did they forget that the great Riftmaster requires his servants to strive for balance in ALL things? This is why he devoted himself to steel as well as fire. This is why he dressed the way he did. This was the reason he studied the art of combat as well as magic.

Maybe it was the adventure itself that was taking a toll, but Brand could feel it. He could feel the unease and the tension in himself. He could feel the jovial, always smiling nature slowly being discarded. He could see how he was becoming harder. Colder. Odom didn’t seem that bothered by all of it. He was still as headstrong as ever, and his heart was still in the right place. Who knew what Diogenes thought about all of this? The druid was as hard to read as anyone he had ever met.

Flynn had lost faith in him. That was clear. He talked to the Bard many times about his condition, and tried his best to convince Flynn that he could fix it. It didn’t matter in the end. Just like all things in this world his friend had been corrupted. Turned into one of those gods damned creatures they were fighting so hard to rid the world of. They spent a month or more in that hellish place of skulls and death. Cursing it. Destroying it in the end, but not really accomplishing anything at all. For all that they had done, Flynn still chose to go over to that side even though Brand had assured him that it could be fixed. After all they had been through, and all the talks they had, Flynn, in the end, didn’t trust him, and chose to go it alone.

It was becoming all too clear to the big priest. Trust was not something anyone in his world was interested in. The priests of his church were corrupted, or didn’t care. Flynn was no longer Flynn, and Brands activities in the church got him nothing but scorn. His father would always say that “good guys always win.” This was a man who had never seen anything outside of a small town in Brandobia. Of course he thought that. “I am glad you never got to see any other parts of this dark world old man. At least you left it with your spirit in tact.” Brand was done with his classes for the night and walked wearily to his chambers. He fought sleep for a long while that night and couldn’t push the thought from his mind. “In this world, maybe good guys don’t win.”

Flynn wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, dropping the still-twitching corpse of the rat over the side of the boat. As he heard the drained remnants of dinner hit the water with a splash, he held his hand up, and considered the moonlight reflecting off the crimson stains clinging to his skin.

The bard had once considered himself able to see the beauty in all things, but here, in this very moment, he realized how blind he’d truly been. He had merely looked at beautiful things before. He had not SEEN them. Stood here, alone on the deck, the cold night air sweeping around him, he understood what beauty truly was. Beauty was that first moment of freedom each evening, after hiding from the Sun in a box for twelve hours. Beauty was that first drop of warm blood, chasing down the bread and the ale that tasted as dust on his tongue. Beauty was the night, for the days had been taken from him. Beauty is death, for only through death had Flynn become able to appreciate those small glimmers of life left to him.

If his recent transition had brought him one other gift, it was clarity. The dreaming had stopped. The memories of other men no longer flowed unbidden into his mind, as they had while his heart still beat. He was no longer visited by visions of Krinn, Nadirin, Vox, Winston, or the people they slaughtered. He could still remember much of what they did, but he was no longer forced to witness it all, his eyes pried open. Ironic… because so much of what they did no longer seemed to bother him. He could recall Nadirin shooting fleeing gnomes in the back, he could see The Arcane burn cities to the ground, and he could sense the exact moment in which the tip of Vox’s sword delicately pierced an innocent tradesman’s eyeball, but imagery that once turned his stomach now seemed so… mundane.

Flynn Flashwood was still a good man. He was certain of this. He’d followed the ritual to the letter, and it ensured that he was still himself, but his resolved had most definitely hardened. He knew what was right, and he wanted to do what was right, but he felt compelled by no conscience. There wasn’t that burning pit of guilt that always tugged at his soul in times past. Well, he supposed he didn’t have a soul to tug anymore.

In some twisted way, Flynn reasoned, he was a more moral being as a result of all this. After all, he was unfettered by shame, free of obligation to gods or the civilization that now would spurn him. People did good because it was a compulsion. It was in their nature, governed by guilty thoughts, and reinforced by society’s subjective idea of justice.

But that wasn’t Flynn. He didn’t feel guilty anymore, and what society would have him now? He wasn’t an animal, spurred by instinct toward good behavior, and he wasn’t a puppet on a string, dancing to the rules of the self-proclaimed righteous. He had what no mortal could claim to have – TRUE free will. TRUE choice.

Flynn Flashwood could choose his own way, and his way would be more righteous than any other.

And they call vampires the unholy ones.

The bard smiled to himself, briefly, before he thought of his friends once more. Their reactions still ate at him, gnawed at his dead heart like so many worms. They didn’t see things his way, he knew. His feelings on this were… complicated. Flynn was incapable of feeling remorse for what he’d done, unable to be ashamed of himself, and logically he saw no cause to feel that way in the first place. Even so… he did not enjoy the way they looked at him, and he especially hated the disappointment in Brand’s eyes every time they spoke. He could always see it, behind the keyholder’s face, that ghost of pity glaring back at him. He found the druid’s open contempt more palatable than Brand’s pity.

For why should Flynn be pitied? If only they knew how this felt. If only could understand why he did what he did, if they could stop for one second and ask themselves what they would do, truly, in his position? If only they could taste this power. The fools!

“Now now,” reprimanded Flynn. “That’s how villains think. You’re a hero, and so are they. They’re all just confused right now. They don’t see things as clearly as you do.”

He had to prove to his friends that he was still a good man. They’d understand, if they could open their minds and give him a chance. All it would take is time.

And Flynn Flashwood, the vampire lutist, had so much time.

Flynn struggled in the chair, the vines binding his wrists to the armrests refusing to yield. He pulled with his considerable strength, every muscle in my body screaming in desperation, but to no avail. His eyes darted left and right, panicked, as the horrible little creatures waddled forward, the larger among them carrying a huge blade. The reality of what was about to happen dawned on him and he tried with the last of his strength to break free.

The blade cut clean through his arm, and as the agony coursed through him, he woke up.

Flynn sat bolt upright, cold sweat clinging to his face, breath ragged. He grasped at his hand – still attached. He was not in the great garden. He had not fought ethereal spiders, nor become the fancy of horrific bodily mutation. He was not with the greedy cleric or the dread necromancer. He was not the Lendelwood Butcher.

The bard could not adequately explain what had happened, for there was no way he could convey the experience to any of his companions. How could they hope to understand? In one single instance, Flynn’s mind had been torn open as the combined experiences of Brandobia’s greatest monsters forced their way in. He could see it all… he could FEEL it all. Some nights he could sense the chill touch of the hobgoblin general snaking its way into his very soul, his very being. Some nights he would be dragged into that leering green mouth, sucked into the very essence of nothingness. Some nights he heard the Earth Spider whisper, as it did to Krinn – words unintelligible, motives unspeakable, the very music of madness. This night it was Vox, a being so vile that his kind dared speak of him only as a fairytale. But he was real. Flynn knew he was real, for Flynn had held the whip, tightened the screws, twisted the blade. He had been the Profane. He had been all of these… creatures.

Whatever happened when Flynn had cast the spell on that golden finger, something unplanned had happened. It was… too much. No riddles, no visions, no mere strands of information. When he thought of those men, those murderers and malcontents looking for any port in a storm to ravage, it was as if he’d been there, among them.

As Mercy had been… that bastard. That lying, treacherous…

Flynn sighed. No good would come of cursing his ancestor now. Living as Mercy must surely had been curse enough. What mattered was the present – Flynn Flashwood had seen things buried by history, things deliberately and carefully hidden from civilization’s records. He had, indeed, seen things that no man was meant to see. He wished he could unsee it all. He feared going back to sleep, back to that world of fire and blood and anguish.

Perhaps he should stay up, just this night. It was quiet, after all. This strange marshland was been eerily peaceful, and they were safe in the hut. Yes, Flynn would work on a new song, maybe, to put his mind at rest.

“Flaaaaash… wooooood.”

The voice echoed mockingly through the dark, dark night air.

Oh dear.

Flynn Flashwood had done it. By the Gods, he’d actually done it. From Zoa to Brandobia, the youngest of the Flashwoods had traveled halfway across the world, survived the dead and the dragons, and done what no Bastard of Mercy had ever done. He had taken the map, he had used the map, and he had discovered the fabled treasure promised to his people by B’sar Ebonflowerwood himself. He thought of cousin Fel’dwyn’s smug boasts, and uncle Saeren Fogchildwood, who always sneered when Flynn defended his family branch’s honor. He thought of them and laughed.

“Dearest family member,” Flynn scratched into the cave wall, above the deflated body of the recently slain Beholder. "I am Flynn Flashwood, and if that name sounds familiar, you’re probably here because of Mercy’s map. Well, Flynn was here first. He came, he saw, and he spent it all. Give my regards to the rest of the family, and from the bottom of my heart… fuck you.

Love,
B’sar Ebonflowerwood’s ballsiest descendant."

Once he got back to civilization, Flynn planned to arrange to send the map back home. Maybe none of them would ever try and do what he had done, but he hoped they would. The joke was too delicious to waste.

So that was that. Flynn Flashwood had stolen a map, joined a military company, became an accidental folk hero, met an unlikely band of warriors, had completed his life’s goal. And he was barely a man grown! What else was there to do? Flynn did not know, but the possibilities excited him. Though his companions were sometimes petty, and more than a little combative, they were fire-forged allies and he just knew in his bones that destiny had more in store for them. In the name of history, he had to see what they’d all do next. Someone had to be there to record their exploits, compose great songs of their deeds, and maybe spend a little of the gold they’d surely make.

On the boat back to Cosdal, Flynn sat quietly below decks, lute in hand, as he picked out a simple melody. He was composing The Liar’s Island, a tale of five adventurers who sought treasure in a frozen isle of illusions. The song would have great battles, conflicts between friends, and end in rousing victory. Through the night, Flynn sang of Brand the giant killer, a man of God who fought with both book and blade. He sang of Odom, the savage half-orc with a gentle heart. He sang of Astrid, a powerful mage who kissed death and danced with dark secrets. He sang of Diogenes, the stern and stoic druid. And he sang of their final companion, who shielded them from evil and lifted their spirits when things looked dark. He sang of Verene.

They would be the five who brought a new legend to the Kingdoms of Kalamar. Brand, Odom, Astrid, Diogenes, and Verene.

“Forgive me, Verene.”

Brand was still awake as the sun was topping the glacier. It was false dawn, and the others were still asleep, or meditating. That was good, they would need their rest. After today, it was a small wonder that any of them could sleep. He donned his small clothes and his great cloak, and stepped out of the tiny magic-dome. Flynn’s hut had served them well on their journey so far. It was warm, and comfortable, and one could feel relatively safe in its confines. Flynn assured him time and again that nothing would penetrate it; even spells. Brand put that to the test one night when he was sure no one was watching and sure enough, his holy bolt just bounced off of the thing without even a sound. Apparently no one on the inside could hear it either.

It was below freezing outside, and Brand crunched snow as he made his way back to the edge of the cliff. He looked out over the icy waters, and produced a small flame to keep himself alive. He knew he could only stay out here minutes, but he couldn’t be in there with them. Not right now.

For some reason these people accepted him as some kind of leader. He found that he was making more and more decisions for the group. He bought the supplies, and picked the routes. Odom, the half-orc who had been with this little traveling party the longest was quick to get rid of his authority and even asked on one occasion “You are the leader, where are we going?” This was not what he signed up for. How could he, a lowly keyholder, be responsible for these people? It was something he thought much about in the last week or so.

These people were slowly becoming friends. They laughed together, and ate together. He sang songs with Flynn, and learned from Diogenes. Brand had a terrible singing voice, but the Bard always acted like it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard when Brand got into the drink and actually started belting words to songs he half knew. The druid was a silent guardian. Never taking any credit for the wondrous things he did, but somehow he always managed to get them out of trouble. He respected Odom for his huge heart, and the way he was always easy to smile. He had just gotten to know Astrid, but there was a spark of friendship there as well. These people had told him that Astrid was power hungry and self serving. While this was true, he also saw something else in her. Power, sure, but deeper than that was the want for acceptance. She needed a channel for her great power. She needed a release.

The wind was getting stronger and the cold even colder. As he thought about these people, and the deeds they had done he sunk to his knees. Brand wept. Alone, in the cold he sobbed and clutched at his little holy symbol. He almost let her die. The weight of her limp, cold body was still fresh in his mind. The way the others were so quite when he pulled her from the water. They knew. So did he. She was dead. She had frozen to death right there in front of everyone. She almost made the swim. The druid turned into a fish and swam his way out. Flynn hit a chord on his lute and disappeared. When it happened, Brand smiled. He had seen that trick before, and knew the Bard was safely outside. He went last, and he was glad he did. In front of him he could see Astrid struggling. The rest of the swim was a blur. He remembered carrying her body up the cliff face as fast as he could. He remembered calling to his god and begging for her life.

Brand sobbed in the snow as he thought about himself. He was a boy. How could he keep this up? He had no experience with these things. Brand cried there in the snow for what seemed like hours. This was weakness, and he knew it. He clutched at his symbol, and thought back to his days in the Temple. Thought about his mission and clenched his jaw. “No”, he said outloud. “I will not let this happen again.” Brand clenched his fist around his holy symbol and stood. He raised his head high and his thoughts went to the others in his group. The ones who had been through so much with him. He thought about the great weight of his mission should he succeed. He screamed for all the Gods of Tellene to hear. “I will be the hammer that shapes this world.” “I will be the light that shines in the darkness.” “I will be the rock that the waves cannot smash.” “I am magic!” The boy was dead.