Chapter Two

“23^rd of Sarenith, 4758 AR

Oleg and Sventlana, the proprietors of this small post have proven amiable enough. Their prices are fair, and the beds free of vermin…but they have been plagued with problems of their own, into which our motley band seems to have been pulled.

Evidently, this place has been allowed to run lawless against bandits that have been sheltered by the fear of their victims and the trees of the woods into which Princess Solvana would have us explore. When petitioned for help, we agreed to aid in the defense of the ancient and unkempt keep.

I was able to repair one of the ballistae that were rotting atop the posts towers, but two of them proved beyond repair to mine or Glade’s skills with wood and chord.

Our plan of attack was rash, but we had the necessary manpower to see it successful. As it seems to be my plague in life, our tactics were only subverted by the inability of others to follow orders or keep their word.

Our plan was simple: to entrap the bandits inside the keep, and use the buildings and natural obstructions of the trading post to drive them to surrender or defeat. It was at the same time both unexpected and attainable…or so I thought.

The execution of the trap was flawless; the cart blockage to the main door did exactly what it was intended. Glade was able to work magic from his rooftop and entrap many of the bandits before they had time to flood the keep. Their numbers were far more than we expected, but the plan was still with our grasp.

It was a driveling stain of a man that caused the greatest difficulty to our fight. His and Solvana’s job was to man the ballista, using the ancient weapon to attack from above and, failing that, use their crossbows to rain bolts down from a safe vantage. Upon seeing the numbers of the bandits, the cut-throat fled, and flung himself from the walls. In her inexperience and foolishness, Solvana followed, launching only one ineffective siege missile before leaving the rest of us to fight for ourselves, unaided.

I rode out and the Battlehorn brothers plugged the alleys with their hammers and axes, doing what Dwarves do best. They fought bravely and with honor. In my haste I rode out before clearing a path of escape, and in doing so doomed my horse. I was able to escape roofward, then to drop and plug another alley.

The battle raged, brief but violent. When all seemed lost…when their numbers seemed to great for our small band…that is when something happened I cannot explain.

I have felt the power of the Gray Lady course through me before…and it is not a foreign experience to me…but this time was different. I felt a strength previously unknown or experienced as I traded steel and shield with the bandits.

And then, as I faced their leader, I called upon the Lady, and I felt a power unlike anything I have ever wielded…a grim veil dropped over my vision, and I saw as she sees…men slowly waiting to die. In their eyes I saw terror and fear, and in a breath the feeling was gone, and the bandits had thrown down their arms.

Upon questioning the rogues, we discovered that they serve a man called, “The Staglord” who leads the bandits of the region from deep in the south of the wildwood. If this man is allowed to continue his reign of lawlessness and terror, then all of Princess Solvana’s actions will be in vain. I feel as through our paths are going to draw together…to the destruction of either he or us.

The bandits whom we captured were questioned and then executed, as per the missive given to the Princess. She was not firm in these executions, and I fear she may need guidance in keeping a firm rule in the time to come. A Queen cannot afford to bend and flex at every story or tear…or she will have no kingdom to defend.

To the Lady and the Path, to whom I pledge heart and arm.”

Yvall paused as he read, a stain of curiosity spreading from his eyes to cover the whole of his shadowed face. He carefully flipped the pages back and forth, rereading the words of the one after whom he had modeled his whole career.

“Strange…his tactics, they seem so…” he let his voice trail off, and his last word echoed around the room and faded into the shadows that circled his huddled frame.

It was strange to Yvaal to put a voice to a figure her knew only as legend. As youths, the quires told tales of Gregor Fogg…the champion of Pharasma, and chosen of the Gray Lady. His philosophies and guidance had given birth to an order that was known far and wide across Golaren, and yet to read these words felt at the same time glorious and sacrilegious.

He once again came to the page that described the battle at the Trading Post.

“He locked them inside? Bold yes…but…” he chewed the words in his mouth before finally uttering what his mind could not help but think.

“But so foolish…”

Yvaal unconsciously traced a spiral over his heart and glanced skyward, despite only shadows hanging over his head. He reclined slightly in his stool, and rubbed his leg once more through his robes.

“It’s not the only time you will think that!” The voice that shattered the silence came from the depths of the shadows behind Yvaal. It was cracked with age, and grated atonally as the high pitched words danced out at the startled squire.

“What in the name of…” Yvaal fell backwards off his stool, landing painfully on the floor. The pages rustled gently around him like so much snow, and the torchlight made their shadows dance. In the silence that followed, only Yvaal’s ragged breaths and raging heartbeat filled his ears.

After what seemed an eternity of frantic glances into shadow, Yvaal heard the scrape and rustle of robes and soft feet from the darkness to his left. He scrambled back as a figure emerged from the inky black. 

Robed in gray and black, stooped of frame and leaning heavily upon a carven staff, the man was ancient. His face was a pallid sheet of deep-lined, sunken flesh that hung loose about his angular features. His hair was white and flowed from behind his ears down over his shoulders.

Yvaal then noticed the that old man’s eyes were milky white, and then a heavy scar ran down over his face, through his left eye, and then trailed down into a thick mass of gray-purple tissue at his throat.

Despite his obvious blindness, the ancient figure leveled his unseeing eyes on Yvaal.

“Only a fool thinks that a man cannot make foolish mistakes, child.” He smiled mirthlessly, and Yvaal felt a cold knot gather in his gut.

“As you shall see this night!”