Vengeance

The Climb

“Damn!” Lazare curses under his breath. The torches leading up the hill to the grand gates of Daggerfall City cast a flickering tight upon the massive wooden doors, now closed shut until Dawn.

Not eager to spend another night camped in the cold Glenumbrian wilds, he looks about for any guards manning the city walls but sees none, the guard stations and parapets dark as the skies above. “Strange." he thinks. Political tension is gripping the realm, the threat of invasion a constant companion, and not a single guard posted at the city gates? He puts these troubled thoughts aside. With no other options in sight, the way forward is clear.

Pacing the walls for some time, he settles on a spot to climb. From his pack he produces a coiled rope and grapnel. Dropping the coil by his feet, he gives himself some lead, grapnel dangling out to his side. With a twist of his wrist, eyes cast to the parapets above, it begins to spin. This would not be an easy throw.

The whoosh of the spinning metal hook grows to a whirring whistle as it picks up speed, now a blur in the dim moonlight. He waits for just the right angle… then releases.

The grapnel sails up high overhead into the darkness above. Relying only on luck and intuition, he grips the still-uncoiling rope and tugs down hard. The rope quivers and tautens with an audible clink from above. Metal bites hard into stone. He gives a few cursory tugs, putting some weight onto the rope. The rawhide creaks in protest, but the hook holds. Feet braced against the wall; he begins his ascent.

A quarter up, then halfway. His muscles begin to burn, the cold night air chilling his sweat slick face. As they are wont to do in moments of great vulnerability, his thoughts turn to what would happen at the slightest twist of leverage in the wrong direction, a flash of the blade of a malicious guard lying in wait above. Seeking to avoid a bone-shattering fall to the ground below, he redoubles his pace, gritting his teeth in strain.

After many tense moments, he lies flat on his back atop the great walls of Daggerfall City, lungs aflame with cold fire. On his left, the city-side wall holds a narrow set of stone stairs leading down to the streets…

The Restless King

The streets and markets of the city, so bustling and lively in the day, are utterly deserted in the midnight frost. The crunch of his footsteps is like the pounding of hammer on anvil in the oppressive silence. No beggars huddle away from the cold, no guardsmen patrol the roads, no drunken revelers stumble their way home from the taverns. Something is wrong here.

The warning from Lady Brisienna at last returns to him, “The ghost of Lysandus terrorizes the streets of Daggerfall at night…” In his haste to return to city walls and a warm bed, he had been a fool.

He quickens his pace towards the guildhall, hyper aware of the sensation of being watched. Every darkened doorway and lightless alley hold the promise of unknown terror. Fighting down the urge to panic and break into a dead sprint, he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, eyes fliting from side to side and jumping at every shadow.

At the center of a plaza near the harbor district stands a statue of Goddess Kynareth carved from pink stone. The familiar visage of the patron deity of Daggerfall brings Lazare comfort, safety is close.

But not close enough. He shivers as the chilly night air grows even colder around him. Kynareth’s mercurial expression becomes completely illegible beneath a layer of unnatural frost. He is not alone. From all about comes a host of malevolent voices whispering words of sorrow and blood. The darkness around him seems to lurch and crawl with life of its own, coalescing into a dark shape before him.

Looming above Lazare is a ghastly shade, darker than the blackest night, colder than the deepest Winter. All is shadow and murk but the eyes, burning deepest red with anger and rage, the dread spirit of Lysandus. From behind the shade, more shadowy figures appear, ghosts of servants and soldiers long dead, clutching the memories of swords and spears.

Lazare is frozen in fear, every instinct in him screaming to turn and flee this evil, but the body is unwilling. The shade slowly reaches out a crepuscular hand, and from the night itself comes one word, groaning in dread magnificence, “VENGEANCE.”

The spell breaks and Lazare turns and runs, faster than he has ever run before. He wastes no thought turning about to check for pursuers, but he knows they are there. “VENGEANCE.” The shapes of homes and taverns and trees blur by him in his haste, the rush of cold air watering his eyes. “VENGEANCE.” Every disembodied recitation is louder in his ears, nearly buffeting him to his knees. “VENGEANCE.”

At last, he sees it. The house, the pig pen, the carved symbol. He runs pell-mell to the door and twists the handle. Locked. Again and again, he pounds on the threshold, never once daring to look back. He feels blood, slick within his leather gauntlet along the heel of his fist, but he doesn’t stop. He cannot stop. At last, fortune prevails, the lock slides open, and he bursts into the door while slamming it shut behind him in a single motion.

He slumps to his haunches against the door, a feeble barrier against the terror of the night behind him. But nothing comes, and he is safe.

The urgency of the past few weeks had done much to put Uriel’s quest out of mind, and there was still much to be done before he could truly begin. But the questions burn within him. What malice fuels this ghastly shade? What horrors of his final days keep him from his eternal rest? To what end, and to whose, drives this call for VENGEANCE?