IntoTheMouthOfRavness

There we were, Petru, Ephraim and I, cradling our unfortunate Symeon who had tempted the gods of fire a second time by walking straight into an arcane booby trap. His beloved Morninglord failed to heed the call on this occasion, leaving his most faithful servant to experience the full brunt of the magical blaze. It was then, at that precise moment when we set his injured body down on the floor of the catacombs that everything faded to black. I do not mean that our torches failed or that my lantern surrendered its light. No, it was a sensation that lasted a mere fraction of a moment, like a cool kerchief being set over your eyes during a fever; a kind of moist tranquility, a gradual loss of substance. Everything around us, simply ceased to exist, and Hunadora, the world even, simply disappeared. Pure rubbish, you say? I feel a sincere temptation to concur. But alas I lived it, and the memory of it remains until today as kind of stern reminder not to ever dismiss what you cannot explain.

When I awoke it was to the familiar darkness and stench of captivity. Somehow, inexplicably, transported to another place, subdued, bound and confined to the trappings of a dungeon cell. All my instincts exploded at once, my childhood traumas crying out in concert in protest of this violation. But the thick chains that held me fast like those depictions of captured Sri Raji elephants, soon sapped my strength, which had somehow decreased by fatigue (I first thought). I had no choice but to hang there, powerless and ashamed. I imagined myself displayed like a living trophy, hanging on the hunting lodge wall, waiting anxiously to meet my hosts that I may personally give them my regards for their hospitality. When the light finally poured into my holding cell, I was positively watering at the mouth for the promise of justifiable homicide. Imagine my shock and surprise when a bunch of Falkovnians came through the door and instead of ripping them to shreds the second that my irons were off, I cowered like a starved rat and obeyed their every command. Some other oddities fell upon me as I caught a glimpse of myself in one soldier’s helmet glare; my remaining hair had fallen out completely and unless the distorted reflection was fooling me, I had somehow gotten at least 4 stone lighter in the arms, torso and legs. By Jove I looked almost human in proportion!

They unchained me, seemingly without fear of reprisal, and led me at sword’s length (good to see that some things were still the same!) through a series of corridors, then up a set of spiraling stairs to a portal that would lead us to open ground. As if things couldn’t get more deuced perplexing, when the light of day and fresh air washed over my face, I came to the conclusion that some months must have gone by. We were now well into summer months by the feel of it, yet when my compatriots and I had ventured into Hunadora, the chill of winter had been still upon us. There was no doubting it now, we had been abducted or rendered unconscious by some wicked incantation, and transported, or perhaps sold off into slavery while our minds were elsewhere. I had so many questions at that moment that my eyes began to swell, but they would have to wait until later, for in the distance I saw another group of prisoners being led outside, and among their numbers I counted my dear friends and compatriots, disheveled and as confused as I, but otherwise none worse for wear.

We were, by all the markings of it, prisoners of a small mountain mining facility. There were three hastily erected guard post towers to our east, west and south, maned by two crossbowmen each. A guard barracks lay unceremoniously built near the mouth of a mine shaft that we had all presumably contributed to furthering. By the behavior of the other prisoners and the guards, it seemed like this was simply another routine day of work in the name of the glorious empire of Falkovnia. I could tell however that my companions had experienced the same traumatic displacement as I, and despite all appearances, we all felt on the brink of losing our wits to this incomprehensible madness. When we finally managed to consult on the matter (as we were put to work like common slaves), we all agreed that something well distanced from all things natural had transpired to bring us into this sordid state of affairs. We had only questions unfortunately, and few answers to meet them. In the end we agreed to concentrate on the more immediate tasks at hand; that being the exact circumstances of imminent our escape.

Under Symeon’s advisement, we took stock of our surroundings, and tried as best as we could to gather information from the others for the better part of a week before deciding on a tactic. I grew more and more impatient during those days, wanting desperately to visit my vengeance upon those that so unfairly dismantled us, and those that now held the other end of the whips. In the end, for all our planning, it was a random act of brutality that sparked the flames of rebellion within our ranks. A guard that lost his patience with an elderly slave who dared to protest the indignities forced upon him. With a swift strike of his blade the Falkovnian silenced the old petitioner, and unknowingly rekindled the fires of our collective retribution. I was upon the bastard before he could draw breath, and my brothers wasted no time to support my initiative. Symeon unleashed a cloud of mist from his hands and mouth, frightening the prisoners around him half to death and obfuscating our uprisal from the tower vigils. Like a pair of trained panthers, Ephraim and Petru slipped into the embrace of the mists and made short work of our captors with cunning and expert swordsmanship. Soon our numbers swelled as the death cries of the Falkovnians brought some of the more troublesome prisoners to life, and they began to make themselves useful to our revolution. Symeon had a plan by the looks of it, and when I saw him head for the gate mechanism, my mission became clear: to neutralize the crossbowmen before they could cause us considerable harm from their fortified vantage points. I’m happy to report that our bloody revolt met with significant success. Despite some heavy losses on our side, ones that I don’t necessarily mourn as much as Symeon says I should, they turned the tide with their lives I suppose, and that deserve some recognition at the end of the day. We didn’t waste too much time celebrating as we did our best to organize and supply the survivors with rations and clothes from the barracks, and proceeded to beat a hasty retreat from the mining fortress, bound for the Musarde river.

Our destination was Dementlieu, a place I had visited before and taken quite a liking to. So much of that wondrous city reminded me of home; a cleaner, brighter, slightly-less-sophisticated Paridon. Dementlieu could have been my homeland once upon a time, before the famines and the infestation of our sewers (and our Parliament!). I was the one that pushed for us to flee in that direction for reasons that only became clear to me as I sneaked across the Falkovnian limits. I didn’t tell my companions this, but while I was separated from their ranks (so they could cross the border without incident), I came across a Falkovnian scout dragging a slain elf back to what I presumed was his base camp. I avoided detection despite my temptation to add one more falconhead to my list of crimes, but I did observe him for a while and came to a few conclusions that now seem completely irrelevant to the scout and his prey.

There is a formula to humanity. A series of patterns, building blocks, if you will, that make men what they are. My father understood this and he sought to take things a step further. I cannot condone or forgive what he has done to me; the normalcy that he denied me, the price that his manipulations exacted on my mother. And while I may never fully understand what was done to me, and the exact purpose behind my conception, I now believe that with study, with careful consideration and experimentation, I can unlock the secrets of my existence, and make right the terrible wrongs that have been committed against me. In short I plan to undertake the greatest task that had ever been undertaken by one quasi-man; I plan to finish what my father started, and reclaim my humanity in the same stroke. How, you ask? Impossible! Preposterous! Indeed, a fool’s errand by any measure. Folly stacked upon madness, served up on a platter of insanity. But I am confident that it can be done. I have the key to this knowledge encoded within my very being. There is a formula to my inhumanity, and come hell or high water, by all the power vested in me, I will break this secret code and become more than anyone, even the High Templars of the Circle, even my own creator could ever fathom. Ah, but all great endeavors must be birthed in humility and careful planning, and I have so little of either right at this moment.

When we finally reached civilization in Dementlieu, even Ephraim didn’t protest when we all promptly shot through the doors of the first tavern in sight (alas he still wouldn’t drink a drop of the real stuff that blasted stubborn man!). We took some time to unwind and to try to make sense of the bizarre events that had unfolded in the past weeks. Our questions merely led to more questions again, and as much as I wanted to know the truth about our mystical transplantation from Hunadora to the mountains of Falkovnia, I was just glad to be done with the whole mess and ready to put it well behind me. As Fate often does, something unexpected jammed the door to the past right as I was planning to bolt it shut.

Of all the people I thought we would run into again at some juncture or other, Lord Brass of Mordentshire was not one of them. The enigmatic aristocratic entrepreneur had happened upon us for the second time now, and I could see in Petru’s eyes that he shared all of my suspicions. His Lordship was kind enough to share a meal with us and extend an invitation to the grand opening of his new “gentleman’s club”, which we accepted with mixed attitudes. I had suggested to Symeon and the others that we should give the Lord the benefit of the doubt based on our past business with him (which did yield us sizable reward), and also I shared with them a curious idea that I had had while reflecting on our recent misadventures in Falkovnia. Namely that we take advantage of our developed surroundings and search around for what some call a “mentalist” or “hypnotist” back in my homeland. Finding such a specialist, in my opinion, could potentially help us unlock some more immediate mysteries I would think. More food for thought.

We visited Brass’ new establishment the following evening with the best of intentions, and everything seemed prim and proper until a curious and somewhat familiar scent caught my nose on our way up to the lounging area. Blast it all, that conniving scoundrel Brass had opened Dementlieu’s first opium den! I had to contain my laughter when I looked at the expressions on the faces of my companions. Ephraim, true to his calling immediately understood the depravity of the place, and while he could not make sense of all of it, he could detect the decadence and corruption making they way up his nostrils and turned on heels with a wave of the hand to go back to our inn. Symeon and Petru, to my eternal delight and entertainment, looked like a couple of lost children at a carnival, wide-eyed and unable to decide if they should be joining the festivities or running for their lives. Fortunately for them, they had a host with experience among them, and despite the fact that I’ve always suspected opium of being detrimental to one’s health, this was too much of an opportunity for entertainment to pass up. Before we knew it, the three of us were laid out like freshly peeled fur with euphoric smiles, giggling like newborn babes in the arms of their favorite parent. What fools were were, what an idiot I allowed myself to become.

When I awoke from my dream-state, I was alone in the room. Syemon and Petru were gone and had left no message or trace of their whereabouts to me. The servant girl confirmed this, and I should have rung her little deceitful twig of a neck right then and there for being so transparent. Alas, my wits had not fully completed their return trip and I dismissed the whole affair as some sort of misunderstanding. I was bloody thirsty too and famished beyond belief, and decided to indulge in a square meal with a pitcher of cool Lamordian beer, followed by a good cigar or two. Lord Barss’ club had seduced me by all appearances, otherwise I would have never walked, talked or feasted so plainly in sight of regulars. Surprisingly they did not react to me with the customary revulsion, and one fellow named Henry (like the half-blind mouse I kept as pet when I was a young ling) even sat down with me for a game of cards and some polite conversation. I should have suspected that something was up, I was plainly having more fun than any one man, thing, whatever, should be allowed to have. It was almost with a quiet understanding that I turned to face my friend Petru as he limped through the club’s threshold with one eye shut and swollen, dried blood caking his hair and lips and what seemed like a fractured forearm. His ribs, I later discovered had been abused as well, and he showed me three of his aft teeth that had been actually crushed from the vicious thrashing that he had experienced earlier that night while I lay oblivious and dreaming in the den upstairs. Petru was in a complete funk as one’ might expect, sword at his hip and ready to commit justice most foul on the one’s responsible (or anyone connected with the incident for that matter). Symeon, he told me, had gotten it even worse that Petru and he now rested unconscious back at the inn with a shattered nose, cracked sternum and 4 broken fingers. I should like to have a word or to with this Morniglord and that Ezra character regarding the intricacies of tending to one’s faithful flock; perhaps bring a matter or two to their exalted attention.

The next day Ephraim and I investigated the attack; Petru and Symeon described three large ruffians that reportedly snatched them right from their couches at the club and brought them to a nearby alley to work on them. Ephraim took the direct approach and questioned a certain Charles that claimed to be the caretaker of Brass’ club in the absence of his lordship, while I skulked and intruded upon the establishment by way of its roof, and gave Charles a bit of a scare as I interrogated him in my practiced fashion (I pulled him into the curtain and threatened his life if he didn’t tell me everything he knew). His answers surprised me to say the least, he had apparently no knowledge of the attackers or how they had been allowed to commit such an offense under the noses of his competent staff, but he was good enough to point out a secret passage in the building that the ruffians very likely used to make their exit. He was real sport actually, compliant and wise enough to answer directly without attempting to catch a glance of his oppressor. Charles was the kind of man that made being a monster an almost respectable line of work. My business concluded, I helped myself to some sensitive documents from the upstairs office, including a copy of the club’s deed that might shed light into this nefarious occurrence, and perhaps allow us to deliver the culprits to Petru’s vengeance. I would very much like to see someone else deal out swift justice for once.