CHAPTER 9: WHAT STONE ENDURESTHE RESOLVE OF KLAUDIUS KORVALLIS
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It is said in the city of Steinkreis, there is a blind knight they call KORVALLIS
It is said those he chooses to hunt shall never see a cell in BLACKSTONE.
And they say he is not bound within the walls of his city, for he is KNIGHT-ERRANT.
It'll take me a little while to get used to doing this without the stones. Try not to write in the muttering.
Yes, I know I mutter more often than not. You'll figure it out.
Yes, write it exactly as I say it. Or approximate. Don't pretty it up. This doesn't need to be pretty.
And before you say it, 'cause I know you're going to, yes, I know it's ridiculous for a blind man to record his memories on paper. And it's stupid to write anything down that could incriminate me in some way or another.
But I'll not touch those damned psi-stones again. Not again. I gave them up for a reason and now that I have, I'm having a hell of a time remembering why I did in the first place. The memories are hazy sometimes, that I chose to give them. Or maybe all my memories are dulling and they're just more potent loss because I was used to being able to just pluck them out of my pocket and focus on it.
We all know what needs to be remembered. I am Klaudius Korvallis, fifth of my line, Knight-Errant of Steinkreis. I love my city and I will die for it. By the blessing or curse of those ancient stones and the magic of countless Sword Coast zealots, I may even die for my city a few times. I will suffer and bleed, but I will not break. Because I am Steinkreis. I am Stone. And like these, I endure.
I know it may be strange. Me, supposed-loyalist of Arderak, Goddess of the Wind and Rain and Storm, saying things like "I am stone". But I am. Arderak lives in my weapons, watches over my battles, but I am a man of my city first. I think she knows that and I doubt she cares. If she's even close enough to us to "know" or "care" about anything. She is the wind, after all. Hard to predict.
Anyway. If this is going to work, if this is how I'm going to take it all down, we're going to need to make a deal.
We don't talk about Karter. Not anymore.
I wish the boy the best. I taught him everything I could. But I was made what I am by more than my father. But his life and mine are different. Our paths diverge. I will fight and die in this uniform. He has his own path. I don't know what it is, and I don't think he knows either. He'll find his way. There's really no alternative.
What are you laughing about, anyway? It's a word. It means 'to bestow' or 'to give' or somethin'. Write. Please.
I've said before I try not to keep friends. I made an exception for Carter, because the man is practically my brother. The amount of blood we've shed beside and for one another is staggering. The horrors we've witnessed and the battlefields we've crossed would be dismissed as tavern fantasy by anyone but ourselves. I would kill for that man and ask why only when the smoke cleared. That's not a choice I would make for just anyone.
Brotherhood in battle is earned through sacrifice and challenge. It's knowing that no matter how long until the next sunrise, until the next call to arms, you will always know the side you're on. I trust no one. I expect everyone to Fall. But Gideon Carter would never make illusions about where that line was. If it came to blows between us, if steel had to cross, we would face each other. I believe that, I really do.
Which brings us to Lomir, who I mention far less often. Lomir, a mage. A living example of the fire that consumes. Walking the line between insanity and obsession. "Normalcy" and "calm" were never on the table for him. He is a resurrected servant of an elemental goddess that looks for a bigger picture in everything. If it can be said in a word, Lomir will say it in a hundred. He would kill a man for a bookmark, if the mood took him.
And yet, Lomir Kelmont, the crimson-clad bastard, long-winded bastard, spell-crazed bastard, tactics-damning bastard, is as much my brother as Gideon. His mania, his drive, his passion, is for knowledge, but the city is his home. He has sacrificed for this city while I languished in prison. He has served powers darker than I dare to consider and he has made it his mission to hold back darker powers still. I don't consider Lomir's crusade to be the work of mad paranoia. I consider it above my scope. I am a man that fights monsters. I am a man that keeps the walls. I am a man that defends the innocent.
Lomir Kelmont is a man that fights gods, keeps the planes themselves, and defends the peoples' very souls. He fights the intangible, the unseen. I'm terrified of what he could become, but I won't make light of his struggle.
Lomir Kelmont endures, because he is as much a soldier as the rest of us.
Lomir Kelmont endures, and I respect that.
A mad archmage named me "Keeper of the Arkhive". Protector of an ancient tome that holds a million secrets I will never comprehend. Every story and legend of my enduring city and the ancient one that came before it. Things above my scope. I asked three things of that book and three things only. "What is this page", "what is that page", and "How did Karmine Korvallis die?".
It answered all of my questions. It's a book, it deserves a better keeper than a blind illiterate.
It deserves to be carried by someone that can comprehend it.
I have no actual power to give honors or titles to the warriors of this island that I call my brothers and sisters. Instead, all I have are those two familial words. 'Brother'. 'Sister'.
But Keeper of the Arkhive is -my- title. It is -my- honor. And it is -my- right to hand it to a man more suitable.
The trick to listening to a wizard talk is ignoring them. Some of it is garbage, most of it is theory, the rest is made up on the spot. Unfortunately, if rains long enough on something, nothing turns out to be waterproof. Meaning if he talks long enough, eventually something seeps through that makes a frustrating amount of sense.
I don't mind him being right, occasionally, mind you, but I -hate- being wrong.
Lomir's rant that day was at the Crossroads fire. Him and me, and fittingly, it was raining. I was sitting, something I don't prefer to do (you ever tried to fire a composite bow from a sitting position?), but I was tired. It showed, and he decided to impart some of his wizardly wisdom because I was too tired to run as fast as I could in the opposite direction the minute he took in one of those gonna-start-a-rant breaths.
He was talkin' about boats and tow lines. I forget the exact words but I got the message (meaning I made him dumb it down for me). His point was that we can't concern ourselves with the things we can't reach (yes, Lomir was the one talking) and have to focus on what we can do, what we can fight. That overthinking things and never stopping to rest will eventually kill me.
I know that, mind you. Battle fatigue is a real and killer problem. My ribs don't hurt as much as they once did and I don't need as much medicine as I used to, and yes, I know, you hate it when I call myself "old", but I am aging. Wearing down.
Lomir's advice was to stop once and awhile. Just... stop. Relax in some way. Find something that isn't the job.
On the surface, I hate the idea. If I lay down my bow for a minute and the city comes under fire, how do I know I can get there in time? How do I know I won't go soft, can't put someone down as fast as I need to, can't keep up with them on pursuit? And who gives a damn if I press against the grindstone until I'm worn down to nothing? That's what we do. Me, Carter, every Steinkreis soldier. We bleed, we burn, we suffer, we struggle, and one day, we die. We die and the city stands. We give everything for it and ask for nothing.
... we're supposed to, anyway. In my opinion.
I have heard this suggestion from others. Plenty of others. The healers I can dismiss as not knowing what it means to be a warrior. The adventurers I can dismiss as self-serving shitbags desperate to get the living inconvenience that is my scowling self off the field. A rare few, mostly women, I -think- were insinuating I should shack up and punt out some kids that I will almost certainly screw up in raising somewhere before, during, or after driving the poor girl who helps me spawn 'em to an early grave. Maybe they were volunteering. 'course, the only women to ever proposition me are clearly off in the head or just lookin' for belt notches, so its probably safest to ignore what they have to say.
But it's not just them. Soldiers of other settlements, true soldiers, have expressed concern. The rare few mercenaries I don't dismiss as ignorant or petty have similar words. The Knight-goddamned-Commander himself has tried more than once to get me to settle behind a desk and leave the fighting to younger -- sorry, healthier -- troops. He has a heart, my Commander...
... and yeah, you. I know you said it too. Let me finish my thought before you lecture me again.
Maybe it is true. Maybe I do need to hang up the weapons even for a rare hour, on my own terms, to sleep and eat and not get stabbed and beaten and blasted across caves and crushed into walls and imploded and set on fire and poisoned and drugged and sapped by curses and ...
... I have had moments of peace. I enjoy the opera. I get lost in the songs. More so, now. More than ever. I think if I did know how to relax, then music might be just the thing for it. Let my wounds heal. Catch my breath. Get myself a little bit farther from the Fall, be it death or insanity.
There's a production on right now of Knaves of the West. It's a little fast-paced in parts but it's a worthy escape, distraction, somethin'. I've heard parts of it but never the full run. I could lose the armor for a little bit, find my uniform dress, throw some water on my head, and just go.
I don't know what possessed me to decide the sword-and-shield needed a revisit. I always considered a shield to be several pounds of steel I didn't need to be lugging around, something of no use to an archer. Then something of no use to a knight with a greatsword. I wear brigandine so I can move around when I need to. Stick to my shadows. Stay out of the way.
But one too many times in the field I found myself our front line. Shadowdancers and sorcerers, mages and minstrels, all lining up behind me. In the old days if I felt too much heat or pressure I'd just duck into the dark for a minute and come up behind the poor bastard after my rear line. I didn't try to take those hits, didn't try to to get in the way. Didn't care enough to.
But when I fought alone, when I was caught on the front, I paid for it. My leather stopped the blades but not the breaking bones. My ribs got dusted more than once in more fights than I cared to count. The healers told me I needed to be more careful, but how was I supposed to do that, exactly? Retire? Sooner be dead. Which was in fact the deal I had my heart set on for a long damn time.
But somehow I talked myself out of that. Somehow, I got talked out of that. Like we've covered, I'm coming to terms with the fact my city needs me a little longer than I was ready to give it. That I need to play it safer. That my body needs to last me just a few more days, maybe a full year, that maybe, just maybe, I don't need to lay down my life tomorrow to save one person. Maybe more people will be saved if I stay standing.
Maybe I need to take better care.
Maybe I need to guard myself a little better.
I mean, when I set out from prison I didn't think I could be a swordsman, stringy little shit that I was. I could run in chainmail, but under the plate I struggled and sweated and prayed Rittermark didn't notice (which of course he did). But I learned. I got stronger. I can pull a bow now that's more metal than wood and let fly shots that can split stone and pierce armor. My shoulders can support the uniform plate. I can't drop into the dark worth a damn wearing it, but that's not the point of the uniform. It's a symbol, and it's the symbol my city asked me to be. I took up the sword of my great-great grandfather, of my uncle, and it's -my- sword. I can carry that sword for hours before I start to feel it.
I went to my lockup the other day. Where I keep the old gear I've since retired. My black-and-white surcoat modelled after the Knights' banner. My replica of the beast mask I wore when I ranged outside the boundaries of my city, when I first started hunting in the dark. The adamantine chain that protected me early into my career, the one the adventurers called 'rusty' and put my blood to boil from jilted pride.
And my sword. Not my greatsword forged by Morren's hand, but a simple weapon that was meant to be decorative, to hang off my side when I was at court. Blade of mithral, about three-feet long. In my mind I might've needed it for a duel, or if I lost my bow, but I hated drawing that weapon. If I drew that blade it meant my front line was gone or I was fighting alone. It meant I was where I didn't want to be; in the front, in danger, where everyone could see me, where anyone could fight me. Where I couldn't run or reposition as I wanted. Sword to sword.
... funny thing about mithral. Even made to be decorative, its still sharp as sin and hard as any mortal steel. Even left for so long, forgotten in the dust, it slides out of the scabbard almost eagerly. The weapon has a song in its blade, a song of swords and shields and symbols and heroes that I am surely not and will never be.
But I was named a knight-errant nonetheless. I was called upon to be a symbol for reasons I can't begin to comprehend. Maybe the wrong ones; its whispered where people think I can't hear that my promotion was an act of sympathy for a useless cripple, a shred of kindness from a knight-commander burdened by guilt to see what his orders wrought in some wretched soul.
But damn the reasons. Shields are heavy, but I'm strong.
The people need a shield.
And by the enduring stone to which I'm sworn, I'm going to do my damnedest not to disappoint.
... and don't you worry about me throwin' myself onto the front line.
'Sword coast zealots' I call them. One of the most dangerous parts of the adventurer horde; the ones that believe they're immortal, untouchable, above judgment and beyond reproach, because something we can't see or comprehend allegedly said so. An adventurer that pretends to serve a cause or duty when its all about personal gain is one thing. One that genuinely believes they're some god's gift? ... dangerous.
I say that, of course, but more than one of the foreign devout has done an about-face and locked heels beside me, shield raised to face off with threats to my city. A few even made it -their- city. The knights don't take outside faiths into their ranks for a lot of good reasons, but that doesn't stop the faithful from signing on with the Knaves. Officially, the Knaves are knights-in-training, our future elite, but these clerics and paladins and whatnot don't seem concerned. Maybe they think we'll make an exception. Maybe they just feel for all its flaws, for all its muck, for all its troubles, Steinkreis is a rock. A point of stability in a storm. Without it, Thain gets a little less stable.
Or its less deep than that and they just want to protect the innocent people inside our walls. Or there's just no better alternative.
Or... hell, I don't know. The more I think about it, the more ingrateful it feels. Because despite all my shit-talking, soldiers of Tyr and Tempus and Torm and Helm have all fought on the right side of more than one battle. And if there's any way to get me to stop complaining for a few minutes and think about whether or not someone might not be so bad, that's the way to do it.
So I take the help. For a long time I thought if the Stone Circle couldn't fix me, then it wasn't worth indebting myself to the foreign powers. Except the Stone Circle tries to indebt me to the Light. Funny thing about that -- the Light ain't so fond of shadowdancers. I don't know if you can imagine healing magic expressing disdain, but its there. Like the energies are offended to be touching me. And it burns -- not like I'm a demon or a devil or a shadow (well I am kind of a shadow) but I mean it feels like there's a fire in my eye sockets that won't go out.
I get that less from the offshore soldier's gods. Maybe a little bit of ringing in my ears and an ache where my eyes used to be from the more goodly-goods, but its manageable. And there's a few Celestial hymns that are far less taxing on me overrall. The singing doesn't do much for the long-term damage but it helps with the pain. Over time, almost makes me forget its there. Thanks for that, by the way.
So I've "opened my heart", I suppose. Converted? Hardly. And I know full well that these foreign hoodoo priests may call on me one day to do some service for their gods. I expect that, I accept that. I've done worse in the line of duty, what's a god of guardians or justice going to ask of me that I won't already do? Hell, some priests have straight up told me just by being what I am, I have their god's support.
What I am. Tch. What does that even mean?
But I accept the prayers now. The "Tyr guide you", "Helm shield you".
And that fleeting one. Subtle. Easily dismissed. Almost vague seeming.
In the grand scope of things, I dislike more things than not. Even though I'm a poor excuse for an alchemist, I understand everything boils down to an essence, and the essence of most things is toxic, corrosive, infectious, diseased. This isn't an opening to some 'and I will purify the world' bullshit, but I mean that. Nothing melts down without sending off some fumes you shouldn't be breathing. Nothing burns without staining everything around it. Nothing ---
--- the hell do you mean where am I going with this?
No. No, I'm sorry. I am. I'm sorry. Let me start over.
... hell, yeah, that was dark.
What I was building to is I don't hate everything. I like that warm feeling I got in my chest the first time I put myself in harms' way for an innocent soul. I remember the hot meal I was given right after that incident and I remember that no bread or stew or meat has ever been so filling. I like those fleeting moments between each battle, long and short, where I can catch my breath. I remember the first time I took in a lungful of air while wrapped in the uniform of my city and how amazed I was at that breath, like I had been taking shallow breaths my entire life, like I was stronger and more durable than I had ever been. I like taking stock after a battle and knowing me and mine are all still standing, that I played a part in their survival and they played a part in mine. I remember every time I've stared (or whatever the staring equivalent of listening is) at someone and realized "Stone and thunder damn it all, I've found a sibling soul". A brother of the battlefield. A sister in service. A friend under fire. Someone I would fight, kill, and die for. I like ---
--- what? I can feel you staring at me. I'm allowed to wax poetic, damn it.
The hell was I saying, even?
I like simpler things too, is what I'm trying to say. Music. Songs. Poetry. Maybe a joke or two, well-timed, well-phrased. When people call me "Sir" without that snotty, ironic tone (rare as it is). Nights with soft wind off the mountains. The feel of stone under my greaves. The ---
...
No, you didn't do anything wrong. I'm thinking, this time.
I don't hate everything. I like some things. Not a lot of things. But some things.
... thanks for the shield, by the way. The shield you got me. With the gilded pattern on the front. You heard me talking about needing a shield and you got me one and I appreciate that. I don't think I thanked you. I should have.
I like the shield, is part of what I'm saying, but what I'm getting at is --
Have I mentioned I hate stage plays? Well, maybe not hate. Nah, not really hate at all, I mean, the music is usually good, and I don't mind poetry, but scenes are lost on me these days and a lot of the recurring themes annoy me. Adventurers act this shit out for me at the Crossroads on a daily basis, I don't need it.
I mean the impractical things. Things like a knight splitting a battle formation and keeping his favored lady with him instead of evenly distributing his forces (archer, healer, defender, striker, even balance, c'mon). Or breaking formation for some show of glory so he has something to brag about when he gets back. Oh, and when he gets back, first thing he does, embraces his paramour for a kiss, you know, nevermind he's wearing gauntlets (wouldn't they catch in hair?) and covered in monster blood (curses, diseases, poisons). And lets not forget the famous "night of passion" following a valorous mauling! Oh no, we can't have a stage play without one of those damned things. Overlooking that if a guy got gored by a dragon and was a step away from death, not only should he not be able to preform, but if he did, he should be dead by morning.
It's impractical, and it doesn't make sense.
... I can't actually say when it started. A stage production would claim it started when "first we laid eyes". Hell, I even had eyes then. Not that I didn't notice the beauty thing but I sort of had a lot of other problems and big heaping dose of realism to keep those kinds of thoughts suppressed. Probably doesn't help that our first encounter was "well, you're not the mercs I wanted but you'll do" shortly followed by a triple-stacked field rout and a scorched pile of bodies that neither one of us would let the other take the blame for. My mission, my fault, I thought, and so did the other arguing party. Practically killing each other on the first day to try and take the blame for a serious emotional burden, to manage the guilt of that many dead.
Hell of an uplifting start, isn't it?
Never you mind I never once considered myself a contender for -anyone's- affections, you know, being a sarcastic, scowling, scavenger of a man. Exactly one woman on record has gone after my armor straps, and she did so in the field, because I happened to get between her and a goblin arrow. Arrow. Singular. Of course it could have also been a clumsy attempt on my life, now that I think about it. Lot of people were trying to kill me then, on some fairly flimsy reasoning, like "I don't like your rusty chainmail" and "because its funny". To date, one (maybe two) women have tried to make me uncomfortable with their advances and I believe one or two succeeded. Once they drew blood they backed off, because that was the game. The rest of the time its dry commentary from adventurers, as adventurers are wont to do, and if that counts, then I've flirted more with Gideon, Bats, and Lomir than any woman on the island.
... yeah, okay, take a minute, laugh it off.
(did you just write that)
(you don't have to write literally everything I say)
(I can hear that)
...
But for all my thoughts of impracticality and unsuitability I have always had a soft spot for music and people that stand beside me on the field. There's a trust that forms of letting someone heal me, too, accepting that they know how to use their powers carefully enough not to wake up the scar tissue where my eyes used to be. What started as professional courtesy and military camaraderie developed. I don't know who it hit first or who got hit harder. I try to think about the moment I was dead to rights and I don't know. I try to think about the moment I knew this is what I wanted, and I don't know that either. There were no bent knees, no choked speeches, no gaspy "but we simply -can't-" or fainting spells or propositions disguised in plays-on-words. No singular crash to make the walls come tumbling down or seal it all.
It happened in pieces. One of us waiting a moment too long before heading out the door. Staring (or listening) a little too hard. Me watching a hand rise in the shadow, lingering in the air, like I can't see in the dark and I'm just going to overlook it. And the words, so many words, that we bit back and chewed down and didn't let out not because we were denying it but because the first words on the mind were just so, so stupid.
But one night it was just right. Neither of us said anything ridiculous. We just went to the opera house. The next morning we looked at each other (well, one of us did) and we were both okay with that.
That much took us, what, a year since meeting? Two? Hard to keep track. We were both "away" in a sense. Dealing with our own problems, facing our own selves. Reunited against the common enemy with our radically different approaches but reunited all the same. The soldier and the singer.
Of course that couldn't be the clean end of it. Of course problems arose, as they do, between the adventurers and the battles and the chaos and ---
--- yes I know I'm going down an alphabet count ---
--- no I don't have one for every letter ---
--- I mean, I could if I put my mind to it.
No, hang on. I had something. I was going somewhere with this.
...
But that's the thing, isn't it? Back and forth, circling, always circling, almost connecting, backing off again. If we were doing a stage production the audience would hate us before the end of the first act. It took us two years to get to a night at the opera, how damn long until it goes farther?
It was a secret for awhile. Honestly I think people suspected before it was a secret, though, considering all the times we corresponded to discuss legitimate business and people jumped to adventurer conclusions. Now they run around like they solved some big mystery, maybe expecting some dramatic overture or feeble lies. But its out now, because luck can be fickle, and every good turn has a bad turn. People on both sides got it confirmed and now we're both at risk. Even before it was true I suppose we were both at risk. But if I'm going to get sapped and kidnapped and ransomed, in the very least I'd like for all that to happen over the truth rather than some misunderstanding.
...
Yeah, that got heavy. Sorry.
...
Funny how patterns repeat. No long speeches, no negotiations, no fumbled meanings, no arguing or emotional blowouts or jealous tirades leading to some climactic moment.
As before. A simple thing. "Stay with me tonight" were the words. That's what happened. Circling, ever circling, and then a quiet agreement. And in the morning we were both okay with that.
My name is Klaudius Korvallis. I am a prisoner of Blackrock -- Blackstone? Blackstone. Is it? I can't --
What do you mean I'm not? I -- what badge? I'm not a --
...
My name is Klaudius Korvallis. I am a Knight-Errant in service to -- Steinkreis endures, Steinkreis is stone, Steinkreis is steel, Steinkreis is invincible, Steinkreis is unbreakable, and I am a stone in its wall, I am a soldier on its streets, I am the shield --
I'm told that --
I'm told that --
You said -- Xavia said -- writing this down, having it written down, will help me remember.
Except its not remembering I'm having problems with. Just keeping the memories straight.
I'm going to the Underdark. I need to go to the Underdark to do recon. I need to check the ground for a mission. I'll be careful, I'll use the shadows, and I'll be safe. I used to do this all the time. Me and Anne would go -- I remember Anne, she was -- she taught me --
I went to the Underdark? I did. Yes. I already went. I got the recon.
-- no I didn't. Something -- something --
I'll be careful, is what I said. i'll be careful and I'll be fine. I'll come home. I promise, I swear.
Not alone -- not alone -- not alone -- NEVER ALONE -- NEVER AGAIN
I used to go down there with Anne. Anne and I made a promise to each other. If they took her... I wasn't allowed to miss. I had to kill her. I had to put an arrow through her mask. I always miss my first shot, you know, I'd told you that. Even when I was putting down men in Lowtown, even when I was cleaning up the dark mess of my shadow and my father's shadow and the things I had to do before this badge and --
I always miss the first shot. I stood over more wounded men than I could count to deliver my second. Qui Vive, elves, tell me a master archer learns to hit a target from a foot away before he can master a shot from a hundred feet. I'm not a master archer. But I can kill from a foot away. I often had to.
But there shall be no murder. I murdered, but there shall be no murder. I murdered, but --
-- I --
-- where? Where are --
-- me? I'm Klaudius Korvallis. Fifth of his line. Knight in service to --- Errand what?
Errant. What is?
Me?
Knight-Errant of Steinkreis.
What about Anne?
-- she and I did used to go down to the mind flayers, yeah. We had a promise. If she was taken, I had to --
-- I said?
-- what about me?
-- well it went both ways. If I was taken, she was supposed to take everything --
-- take everything.
-- take everything so they couldn't get it.
-- they --
I need -- I needed to go to the Underdark, I needed to do some recon.
I went alone -- never alone again, never, I'm sorry, I promise -- I went alone and I used the shadows.
They saw, they smelled, they knew. A thrall here, a flayer there. I had my wards. I put them down. The cell in my head, the one I was taught to go to, the one Anne taught me to use, it kept me safe. They couldn't take my mind from me, and they wasted their time trying. Time I needed to kill them.
Mostly, they didn't see me.
Mostly.
Mostly they didn't.
I went to the Underdark. I went alone.
That was reckless.
I'm sorry.
They --
-- my head hurts. My head, it --
-- stop it, stop, stop asking me, it --
-- I can't, I can't, I don't want to --
-- Anne, she was supposed to kill me, this wasn't supposed to --
-- where --
-- they -- tendrils on my head, I was fighting and I was trying and they were everywhere --
-- wasn't just one they all came at once, six from every side, thralls all around, cutting and stabbing and shoving but not killing me, why wouldn't they kill me, unless --
-- around my head, around my neck, they got me, they -bit- me, they bit -deep- and it hurt, it HURT --
Thank Bats for me if I forget to. Stop me if I say it too many times. The spells are helping.
They are helping. I mean that. I know I'm not better. I know I have a long way to go. Sometimes I start talking and don't realize it. Other times I don't talk at all. Words are hard. They make my head hurt, unless its in a fight. I can manage a few callouts. Only time my head doesn't hurt is if I'm fighting. Or asleep. I mean, it might hurt when I'm asleep, I don't know. I wouldn't know, because I was asleep. I think. Would I know?
Aren't we supposed to be somewhere? I feel like I need to be somewhere. Like I'm forgetting something --
-- guess what I keep forgetting is that I'm not forgetting something. But my legs itch. I can't sit still. I keep feeling like there's an alarm bell calling me and I need to get back out there. It's hard to rest, hard to calm down, hard to catch my breath. Best times for me, right now, are when I can forget that. So, when I sleep. Sometimes for a song. I can't remember when I sleep, can't remember when I'm calm, but I have to be calm sometimes, or I'd be falling apart.
I'm only human after all.
... don't feel it sometimes. Skirted the line of monster and adventurer for so long and crossed over it more than once. I always come crawling back because I'm a stubborn, scrappy rat of a man.
Don't you correct me, you'll throw me off. This once let me just use deprecating terms.
And no, before you say it, this not some elaborate ploy to get away with talking shit until someone wises up.
I know you didn't say that. You were thinking it. I saw it.
... yeah, my sense of humor's here. I mean, sort of. I don't find much funny. Having a hard time smiling? Not sure why that is.
The spells are helping. I said that? Well they are. Bats is right, a full scale healing might do more harm than good, not sure how it'll react to the cursed ruin of my eyes. The spells put my mental defenses back together so at least I'm semi-coherent. I've got a few tinctures that give me a minute of clarity when I need it, be it to remember something important to actually shut myself up before I spill all my state secrets.
Ha ha, jokes on whoever tries that shit. I don't have state secrets. I'm just a blind wreck of a soldier with a hole in his head. One more injury to carry and work my way around. It'll be fine.
I'm fine.
Why are you asking --
...
...
...
...
The spells are helping. Tell Bats --
The hell do you mean I already said that? I -know- what I said.
I know --
I --
...
Listen to me. Listen. No. Listen. I need the black vial -- black vial's poison, poison -- no, don't -- I need that vial. I need a needle fit to it. Give it -- give it to me.
...
...
Don't start. Please don't. I need you to listen. This stuff makes my head hurt worse but I need you to listen.
Tell Lomir -- tell the others -- I need something, I need a step, we need to do something.
I'm coming apart -- no, I already have. You told me, and I know. I almost killed good people the other day when the flayers got through to me. Dug a nice little sapper's tunnel into my cell. Just reached right in and pulled. I can't fight them again.
I almost killed -you-.
We have to try something. I don't care if it hurts, I don't care if it takes time, I don't care.
This island needs me -- this city needs me -- they need me -- you --
-- I can fight like this. I can. But I need to do more than fight.
I don't have goons. I'm not a leader. But I'm something.
Hell if I know what it is, but I'm something.
Please. Listen to me.
I'm --
-- I don't know how much the spells are helping.
-- I don't --
-- I don't know.
...
...
The hell are we sitting here for? Don't we have to be somewhere --
[ The Island of Thain ]
For Kreis' Sake [KOMPLETE]