A Call to Arms

[RevenantsKnight]

Greetings, everyone. This story's a series that I have on The Dark Library (http://tdl.diabloii.net) to which I will soon be adding more chapters (well, one for the moment, but more if things go well.) I'm going to post a new chapter every couple of days so that forum-only people don't feel overloaded; if you want to read ahead, for lack of a better term, you can check out the chapters at TDL. New stuff will appear in maybe a week, so if you've been following along already and don't have time/want to make any comments, this thread might be a little boring for a while. Comments are welcome, though; despite the fact that these are already posted, I'm still looking to improve these pieces if I can. Anyway, I hope you enjoy these, and thanks for your time!

N.B.: Chapter One was written originally as a standalone piece, and about a year before the other three chapters, so if it feels much different from my other posts and the rest of the story, that's because it was essentially written by a different writer. Despite this, I've been unable to read it in the right frame of mind for editing, so I apologize in advance for any errors that I missed.

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Chapter One: A Call to Arms

And all was there for us to see...

There were many signs pointing to Diablo’s return to strength, all of them staring us in the face like lidless eyes. I suppose it should have been obvious, but at the time, we were so drunk with our victory over the darkness. Diablo’s apparent death had indeed imbued all in the West with new hope, but that vision of a future was little more than a figure in the mist: one second later, it is gone, enveloped by the swirling tendrils of water and air. We were too blinded by our own joy to recognize the Wanderer for what he was, Diablo’s twisted form made of our nameless savior; as he wove his tendrils of corruption around us, we looked away, telling ourselves that no dark power could possibly hold sway over a great Order that had brought about the fall of a Prime Evil. We did not question him, as we believed he had seen the worst of Hell’s fury, a force far beyond anything a mortal had ever known. Of course, he had, and it was indeed a fell power darker than anyone could have imagined.

When our heroes of the battle beneath the tainted cathedral began to demand more control over the Sisterhood, we acquiesced, and granted their every whim out of gratitude for what they had done against the darkness. We believed they had found a new vision for us, and that if they could defeat the Lord of Terror himself, they could certainly lead us to glory. Their deception of the Order was not quite total, though; a handful of our Sisters, who saw through the haze of joy and euphoria, stood opposed the ascension of the veterans of Tristram, and left the monastery in protest for the eastern lands, or the cities of Westmarch. I am happy for them; they are the lucky ones.

Under the new guidance of the few survivors of the hunt for Diablo, the Sisterhood took a radical turn from our distant influence and careful vigilance of old. The ruling Sisters began to exert increasing control over the region around the monastery, especially the Rogue Pass to Lut Gholein. Those passing through were made to pay a tax, and those who protested, arguing that the highlands west of the great desert had always been a free land, were slain and their goods stolen. When powerful merchants and minor lords challenged our methods, some of our best warriors were sent into the heartland of the fallen kingdom of Khanduras, tasked by our leaders to extend the reach of the followers of the Sightless Eye. Many never returned from these quests, and I now believe they were designed to remove those who most fervently opposed the forces of Chaos, and embraced the true Light with all their hearts.

“We have arrived, my Lady.”

Elarinn turned to face Hallar, the leader of the caravan she had traveled with across the burning sands of Aranoch and through the mountains into the darkened forests of Khanduras. She nodded, and then gazed out over the twisted trees lining the road, down to the black shadow in the distance, like a smear of tar on the horizon. Behind her, the caravan guards conversed among each other in low voices, armed but unready to fight, and the beasts of burden fidgeted anxiously. However, none of this penetrated her consciousness; all her thoughts were focused towards the defiled structure looming ahead, and the fell power that emerged from within.

“Thank you, my good sir. You have courage indeed; no one else would dare come within fifty leagues of the old monastery.”

Hallar shrugged. “I do what I must to get by,” he replied. “Trade is the lifeblood of many in Lut Gholein, and my work is the only way to eat, even in better times.” The lines on his weather-worn face deepened as he frowned. “But why exactly did you ask to come to this old cathedral? If the rumors are to be believed, the very heart of the demonic corruption in the region may be here.”

She smiled grimly at this rather direct inquiry, eyes still fixed on the dark shapes ahead. “You are a bold man, indeed. Some would kill you merely for asking that, you know.”

Hallar mirrored her dark smile. “In my line of work, it often pays to ask such questions, despite the risk involved. Information may be sold or traded, and, like I said, I do what I must to get by.”

The expression of sardonic amusement faded from Elarinn’s face as she spoke, her sight fading out of focus as her mind drifted away from the world, recalling memories of better times. “I once lived here,” she said, her voice taking on the toneless horror of one fascinated and stunned by events past. “I have come to see if anything is left and to avenge what is not.” Her deep brown eyes opened onto her soul, and as Hallar looked in, he saw sorrow and pain crystallize into cold fury. Surprised, he took a quick step back, and regarded her with newfound caution.

“I suppose you are well prepared to do so,” he began slowly. “Unfortunately, I cannot take you any further. I must make haste to Entsteig to deliver my shipment.”

Elarinn nodded again, not taking her gaze from the monastery. “Safe journey, then,” she murmured. Around her, her traveling companions set themselves into motion, almost fleeing for the comparative safety of the wagons. Driven by their leader’s words and their fear of the ancient battlements, the merchants and sell-swords under Hallar’s command moved with haste; in contrast, Elarinn stood motionless, not even turning to acknowledge a final, rushed farewell from Hallar. To her, none of them mattered; they might as well have not existed. All she saw was the shadow in the distance, rising from the earth like the headstone of a giant.

As the sounds of the departing caravan faded into the distance, Elarinn finally managed to wrench her eyes from the black spires of the Order’s home, which darkened the northern horizon with its deep shadows. She opened her traveling pack and pulled out her instruments of war: a suit of hardened leather, worn and light like the cast-off skin of a serpent, a well-used dagger, several quivers of arrows, straight and balanced, and her bow, a supple piece of yew with a bronze grip and glowing glyphs etched into the wood. A good thing that merchant didn’t see these, she thought grimly. They would have made my true affiliation clear, and no traveler would have harbored a Rogue after hearing the many rumors of demonic corruption seeping out from the depths below the cathedral. Many would be quick to judge, and would not consider the possibility that my Sisters are innocent. Most of them, anyway.

Elarinn took her time strapping on her armor and weapons, pulling tight the leather band of her dagger’s wrist sheath and fastening a quiver to her belt with particular care. Brushing a lock of auburn hair out of her face, she repacked the rest of her meager supplies and shouldered the bag. She then pulled an arrow out of the quiver and nocked it to the bowstring, then drew up, pivoted towards a jug of water left behind by the caravan, and released.

The iron-tipped projectile ripped right through the container, spraying tiny beads of water that glittered in the twilight and pinning the flask to a tree. Smiling grimly, Elarinn stepped over and grasped the clay vessel, then pulled her hand away as the object cracked at her touch, and seemed to hang in midair, pieces suspended around the arrow, for a moment before covering the ground beneath with whitish shards. A good shot, and a clean kill, she thought, pity that jug wasn’t a demon’s head. Satisfied that her skills had not atrophied during her stay in the East, Elarinn placed another missile in her bow, took a deep breath, and began down the winding road to the darkened cathedral.

For those of us who were blind to the corruption seeping through the Order of the Sightless Eye, the return of the demonic forces to Khanduras was sudden indeed. Seemingly overnight, the ruling council of Rogues and their supporters became twisted mockeries of their former selves, running rampant through the once-holy grounds of the cathedral, slaughtering those who stood against them. The local creatures, the quill rats and the yetis, began attacking travelers with the ferocity of the possessed.

Some of the survivors fleeing the inner sanctum of the council even say that Lysan, the most outspoken and commanding hero of the battle of Tristram, has taken on a hellish form and may be the embodiment of a demon lord on the mortal plane. Other great warriors, like Battlemaid Sarina and Blood Raven, have also become something other than human and are leading the tides of the enemy against us, as they once led the warriors of the Sightless Eye into the depths of Tristram’s labyrinth. I fear that Hell has sent more than just its legions this time, and that we may not possess sufficient strength to drive them back into the Abyss. What remains of our Order is falling back to the gates of our ancestral home, where we may be able to delay the enemy long enough to let the villagers escape.

The walk to the town on the fringes of the monastery grounds was short; no demonic figures rose from the shadows and trees lining the road to oppose her. And yet, Elarinn couldn’t help feeling very unnerved by the absence of a dark presence, as if the evil that spawned here had sucked this land dry and moved on. She could discern no life at all, no birds, insects, even rats, only a pall of decay and gloom that seemed to hang over the twisted trees. Nothing she had ever known was as oppressing, as consuming, as the brittle grasp of death here in the heartland of Khanduras. She glided over the grassless ground with a careful, fluid stride, warily checking the road and trees for signs of a demonic presence. Only the barest traces of a frown, tugging at her youthful features like the bony hands of tiny goblins, betrayed any sign of stress as she approached the outskirts of the settlement by the monastery gates.

The town itself was completely deserted, as if all the inhabitants had suddenly vanished into the mist, and the same stifling air of lifelessness, omnipresent and suffocating like wet cotton robes, only underscored the lack of human activity. The domiciles on the southern fringes of the community were weathered but mostly intact, their worn hinges creaking like old joints and the tired beams drooping under the weight of ages. All were largely Spartan, with ragged holes for windows and few furnishings, skeletons lacking the heart and vitality their residents would usually provide. Several of them had open doors, and inside, the objects and tools of everyday life lay scattered on the floor.

Elarinn didn’t see that many signs of a struggle; perhaps the townsfolk had fled before the invading legions of Hell. The untouched state of the houses made her suspicious, though. A mass exodus, she thought, would breed panic and destruction, leaving a good deal of the settlement in a state of ruin. Of course, some houses were falling into varying states of disrepair and neglect, like old soldiers do when they age and are forgotten, but such things were normal in country settlements where many of the inhabitants possessed relatively little coin. This was much more eerie, as if every living being had been yanked off the mortal plane by an invisible hand.

As she made her way towards what was once the town square, she heard a multitude of voices, conflicting sounds that fought to overwhelm each other in volume. Creeping silently through the empty streets, she approached cautiously, then flattened herself against a building and listened. What she heard made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and her grip on her bow to tighten: the braying speech of a goat demon. Elarinn managed to make out some of the words the foul creature said, villagers, force, pillage, though most of the creature’s meaning escaped her. Having only a minimal command of several languages of the damned, she could do little more than listen and hope that a familiar word or phrase floated by on the air. A second voice, higher in pitch and faster than the first, stabbed the air with a series of short, sharp outbursts. The two sounds clashed and intertwined, a discordant cacophony of demonic tongues joined soon after by more high-pitched, almost squeaky sounds.

Elarinn risked a glance around the corner of the building, and her gaze fell upon a foul creature that seemed to be half man, half goat, with blood-red fur that seemed to glow in the evening darkness. Next, her attention jumped to the sickly yellow goblin-imps clumped opposite the demon, perhaps six of them, one carrying a large staff and knife, the others armed with swords and axes no greater than her arm’s length. She pulled her head back behind the wall and swore softly. Apparently, the legions of Hell aren’t quite done here, she thought, and grimaced in anger and disgust.

Silently, Elarinn pushed herself off from the building and began to follow a street that circled around the town center. Perhaps, if there were no demons that could come to the aid of those in the plaza, she might try to slay them and discover some clues as to what evil might lurk inside the monastery itself. To her, the group of monsters looked like some sort of scout force, heralding the movement of demonic legions into the town.

As she advanced down the worn cobblestone street, she caught the barest glimpse of a humanoid figure inside a building with the sign of an inn hanging from the roof. Ducking down under the window, she readied her bow and quietly called upon the power of the Sightless Eye. Magical energies surged through her body the moment she spoke the last syllable of the ancient chant, reaching out and opening her mind to the astral plane. She started as her newly augmented senses took in the aura of the figure within: it was as cold and forbidding as an open grave. Gritting her teeth, she forced her mind to focus on the creature’s physical presence, probing it tentatively, as if she was examining a piece of spoiled meat that was several days old to see if there were any parts that still might be edible. Her questing tendrils of thought wrapped around the being, feeling a cold, still heart, empty veins, and decaying flesh. Undead, she thought, probably a former villager.

She concentrated her mental extensions on the foul abomination’s head, counted to two, then jumped up and loosed an arrow towards the glimmering focus of energy. The missile impacted on back of the monster’s head with such force that the creature’s skull ripped apart, spattering the room with fragments of rotting meat. As the rest of the body dropped to the wooden floor with a dull, wet thud, a look of grim satisfaction spread over Elarinn’s young visage. Her dexterous hands placed another arrow into her bow as she glanced around warily, scanning the buildings for more zombies. Seeing none, she continued her circuit around the town square, stopping intermittently and invoking the powers of the Sightless Eye to reveal any enemies.

The rest of the houses along the road were as empty as the others she had seen on the southern fringes of the village, with the same air of abandonment and palpable corruption. Elarinn shook imperceptibly upon seeing the deserted buildings, many of which had been home to friends and filled with the merry ringing of conversation not too long ago. It was, she reflected, almost as if Hell had driven away the mortal residents of this once-peaceful town so its own foul spawn could come and populate the skeletal buildings, making a foul pit of darkness to blight the mortal lands of Sanctuary. The constructions seemed to long for the presence of demon masters, blackened hearts to strengthen dying wood and metal. Her mind reeled at the thought of entire cities of demons spanning the great plains of the West, necropoleis blackening the fertile fields and lakes, rising from the ground like foul pustules.

Shaking her head, Elarinn thrust those gruesome images out of her mind, the muscles of her jaw tightening as she forced herself to remain focused. Enough of this, she told herself. Do not think about what will happen if you fail; there is time for only action now. Her fist clenched around her bow and she bowed her head for an instant, then looked back up, her heart strengthened with a grim resolve.

Soon, she returned to her original point on the south end of the plaza, and looked in once more, scanning the open ground and small piles of debris. The handful of devilkin and the goat demon had been joined by another zombie, but this one was a world apart from the mindless body Elarinn had shot down in the inn. The creature’s skin shone a bright blue-green in the dying light, the color of disease, reminding Elarinn of the gangrenous wounds she had seen among injured soldiers in the army of Khanduras, that battered force returning from its ill-fated war with Westmarch, tattered remains of the last actions of the Black King Leoric before the rise of Terror.

Upon seeing the monstrosity, a wave of horror and dread washed over her, as if the wet blanket of gloom and death closed around her had been wrung out and the foul droplets were seeping into her mind. She saw not one corpse but many, thousands of fallen soldiers, dying for Khanduras and their lord, so much of the West turning into only sweet-smelling decay and death. The torrent of emotions swept her away; she found herself on the verge of crying when she regained her mind, crying for all that was lost and consumed by the forces of Chaos. Gasping, she staunched the hot flow of salty tears with a mighty effort and shook her head viciously, angry that her concentration could be broken by a seemingly trivial occurrence. By the Sightless Eye, she thought, pull yourself together; nobody ever said vengeance came easily.

Tightening her grip on her bow, she peered out again into the gloom of the town square, searching for the best demon to kill first. The goblin-creatures will run when I shoot one of their number, she thought, remembering back to her lessons of battle underneath Tristram, where she was a mere apprentice, hiding from most agents of darkness and watching her Sisters slay entire packs of the enemy in moments. Zombies are a bit slow, so if I kill the goat demon and then the big imp, I should have all the time I need to slay the lot of them. With her plan firmly set into her mind, Elarinn took a deep breath, blew half of it out, stepped into the plaza, and loosed an arrow at the goat, aiming right for the creature’s left eye, a blood-red orb encompassed by rings of black.

The iron-tipped missile whistled through the air and jolted slightly, then fell to the ground, its white fletches and dull grey head tinted with shining black ichor. Howling in pain, the monster dropped its crude scythe and clutched at its head; howling in fury and bloodlust, the gremlin-warriors charged, waving their small swords and axes and leaving the walking corpse standing dumbly in the middle of the square, as if rooted to the spot by the sudden action, such a contrast to the slow death and suffocation of the village. Elarinn yanked a second arrow from her quiver in one practiced motion, drew up, and sank a second whistling spirit of death into the blood-red goat creature’s chest. The demon collapsed, and the Devilkin shrieked in utter terror and ran, howling curses into the still air.

The rest of the fight passed in a blur for Elarinn, one indistinct mass of pulling out arrows, drawing up, shooting, hearing the sounds of pain and fear, just another fight in the tainted cathedral of Tristram. As the cries of the dark creatures filled the empty night, she continued firing, mechanically, as devoid of human life as the blighted town and vacant woods. When she stopped launching arrows, her mind reentered her body, and she collapsed, falling onto the arrow-studded corpse of the goblin-creature with the staff. Elarinn rested there a short while, breathing shallowly, then rose, shaking. Her breaths were labored, as if she were standing on top of Mount Arreat, the night air raking her throat like icy blades, then boiling out, molten steel and flame.

She began searching the town square and bloodied monsters, moving slowly, as if her body had aged thirty years in the last ten minutes. After picking through the corpses of the demons and finding little other than their dropped weapons, all of which she could not use with skill, Elarinn came across a small pile of bags, lying next to the side of the meeting hall. One of them, a leather satchel smelling of herbs and ink, held several slender blue bottles and a sheaf of paper. The tarnished but intricate copper clasp had a delicacy about it; Elarinn thought it looked rather out of place, both on the worn pouch and in this tainted land. After seeing the suffocating emptiness of the town and the gloom of the surrounding trees, nothing in the world around her seemed worthy of such fine craftsmanship and beauty.

She opened the satchel, planning to take the potions, and then, on a whim, took the entire bag and placed it in her traveling pack. Finally, she cast a final glance around the courtyard, empty of life once more. After ensuring that there was no more to be done in the abandoned town, she made her way to the settlement’s north edge, pausing every few minutes to search for any foes. There, standing between worlds of emptiness and death, Elarinn steeled herself, invoked the power of the Sightless Eye, and began down the wide dirt path towards the forbidding, blackened gate of the once-holy monastery.

After an hour of dodging more squads of goat demons and fallen ones, Elarinn finally reached the gates of what had become the tomb of so many of her fellow Rogues. The bushes and grasses surrounding the monastery, once so neat and well trimmed, had grown wild and tall, their leaves and branches twisting over each other like many gnarled arms, all reaching for different things. From a hiding place in the overgrown vegetation, Elarinn peered down the path, shivering in the night’s cold embrace. Rumors and stories passed from merchants and travelers like fleas and coins suggested that many members of the Order had been slaughtered, and many of those who were not became corrupted mockeries of their former selves. However, it appeared as if the Sisters had put up valiant resistance.

Piles of dead demons were everywhere, with arrows protruding from the heaps like needles in gruesome pincushions. There were no dead Rogues to be seen; likely the few survivors had taken the bodies to prevent the forces of Chaos from defiling them and disturbing their eternal rest. A handful of skeletons armed with bows stood guard by the massive, battered wooden doors, their grinning skulls swiveling slowly on their exposed vertebrae. A light breeze swept across the bushes and the path, rustling the leaves; the undead archers seemed to stir as the gentle force of the air brushed over their yellow bones. They act as if they were still alive, Elarinn thought, perhaps they are recently dead and raised. She grimaced at this, wondering if she would soon be fighting the mortal remains of some of her former comrades in arms.

Suddenly, the great doors of the monastery flew open with a bang, and the skeletons’ heads swiveled towards the sound; they stood stock still, bows hanging at their sides, as if to salute a greater demon as it passed by. Now, thought Elarinn, now while they are distracted, and she rose halfway from her prone position, pulling back the shimmering bowstring with ease. And then, she saw the creature, a figure from her oldest and darkest nightmares.

It stood several heads above her, but it massed far more; it could barely manage to move its yellow-orange girth through the opening without running over a skeleton archer. Despite this, it moved with surprising speed, undoubtedly blessed with hellish energies. Muscle and thick rolls of fat swathed its body; a clawed hand waved a massive hammer as it growled and snorted at its undead minions. Two small horns, pointed like miniature daggers, protruded from the top of the creature’s portly head. Elarinn saw none of this; her mind perceived an image from the darkest corners of her memories, a fleshy demon with a blood-spattered apron and a wicked cleaver, slicing through tens of panicked townsfolk armed with pitchforks and torches. No, no, not again, she thought desperately.

This time, the tears flowed uncontrollably, burning her dirty young face and pooling in the hollow of her throat. Through the salty flow and the haze of the past, she saw only death; she stared, horrified, as the world around her whirled into destruction. Only her reflexes from training as a Sister kept her from screaming aloud, throwing down her weapon and fleeing as fast as she could run into the wilderness, seeking only to hide from the beast, from her memories and fears.

When she finally returned to her senses, she stifled her last sobs, wiped the tears from her face, and began looking in her pack for the potions she had found earlier; perhaps they could help her regain control of her mind and body. She yanked out the leather satchel and pulled it open, tearing off the intricate copper clasp in the process; the piece of metal fell back into her pack, clinking quietly against the few coins at the bottom. Moving with the raw speed of passion, she uncorked one of the bottles and sniffed the contents, which held a faintly medicinal odor. This might help, she thought.

After drinking the brew, she felt some of her mental haze clearing, and her connection to the power of the Sightless Eye seemed heightened. I’d better drink the other one too, Elarinn decided, and then I’ll get the hell out of this blighted land. Lut Gholein should be safer; I don't know why I ever decided to come back. Her slender fingers reached out for the second bottle, feeling the worn leather of the bag, and the paper... Elarinn stopped, then grasped the pile of parchment and pulled it out, her sight running over the hasty black scrawl. By the Sightless Eye, I know this handwriting, she realized. This was written by Akara; she must have survived Hell’s onslaught.

Her heart lurched at the description of the Council’s fall and the hopeless battles against the demonic tide, but no tears flowed from her reddened eyes to stain her scratched and worn leather armor. The words seemed to flow from the paper to touch her soul itself, sounding a clarion call to arms, an irresistible force pulling her back into the land of Khanduras to do battle with the onrushing waves of Chaos. Upon reaching the end of the manuscript, her hand tightened around her bow and her jaw set, unmoving, solid as the stone walls of Harrogath. To hell with Lut Gholein; I shall not dishonor my Order and my comrades by running any longer, Elarinn thought grimly. It is time I returned to them and stood side by side against the armies of Hell.

She rose, brushing dead leaves and dirt off of herself, and began gliding from bush to tree, leaving the growls of the demon floating on the air behind her. And as Elarinn slipped away into the overgrown forest, following the faint traces of a desperate flight, she felt the Sightless Eye looking down upon her, lighting her path to vengeance with its all-seeing gaze.

Even if we fail to hold back the tide of Hell’s fury, we must continue our struggle against the forces of darkness; we shall fight from the woods and moors, until the last of us fall. We cannot flee this onslaught; the Three have come for our souls and bodies, not to despoil our lands and corrupt the animals. If we hide, they will never stop hunting until we are found, so we must stand against them while we can and hope to fight them off with the aid of the Light. This is a battle for our very souls, and the Order of the Sightless Eye shall stand firm until the end. May our actions of defiance herald the resistance of all humanity.

[Clarke667]

Comments are welcome, though; despite the fact that these are already posted, I'm still looking to improve these pieces if I can.

I've got a few things to say.

Number one is: Get down with yo' bad self. Which is to say, I really really liked this. A little heavy on the old description, sure, but I can't say that's necessarily problematic. Sometimes it's good to go slightly "overboard"--in a few instances (mostly at the very beginning), it felt a bit bogged down, but the rest of the time I got a very clear sense of thereness, which, of course, is awesome.

Number two is: I may have snared a few errors...

The missile impacted on back of the monster’s head with such force that the creature’s skull ripped apart, spattering the room with fragments of rotting meat.

It's the "on back" that seems to jag the sentence—“on the back", maybe? I know this is a very small problem, but the sentence around it is just so friggin good that it's a shame to have it less than perfect. I hella liked "spattering the room with fragments of rotting meat." Violence is so nifty!

Here's another little bit that grated on me...

It was, she reflected, almost as if Hell had driven away the mortal residents of this once-peaceful town so its own foul spawn could come and populate the skeletal buildings, making a foul pit of darkness to blight the mortal lands of Sanctuary. The constructions seemed to long for the presence of demon masters, blackened hearts to strengthen dying wood and metal. Her mind reeled at the thought of entire cities of demons spanning the great plains of the West, necropoleis blackening the fertile fields and lakes, rising from the ground like foul pustules.

And then, three paragraphs later:

Upon seeing the monstrosity, a wave of horror and dread washed over her, as if the wet blanket of gloom and death closed around her had been wrung out and the foul droplets were seeping into her mind.

So that's "foul" three times. Not an egregious error, sure, but a synonym or two would be nice.

And number three is: You can bet your *** I'll be reading the rest of this. You've really hooked me with this one, and I'll be waiting with baited breath and all that jazz to devour the rest of it. So good show, old chap.

[RevenantsKnight]

Number two is: I may have snared a few errors...

Yes, I think you did. Thanks for catching those.

I hella liked "spattering the room with fragments of rotting meat." Violence is so nifty!

I was actually a little worried at first that this was maybe a touch too graphic, but since I never got a complaint about it...Anyway, if you thought this was the best part, I should warn you in advance that this particular story's not too violent in general, and this is about as much so as it gets. So far, anyway.

So that's "foul" three times. Not an egregious error, sure, but a synonym or two would be nice.

Heh...can you tell that I basically wrote each sentence without looking at the ones around it? This is the sort of thing I meant when I said that I might have missed some errors, so extra thanks for spotting this.

You've really hooked me with this one, and I'll be waiting with baited breath and all that jazz to devour the rest of it. So good show, old chap.

Thanks very much. Hopefully, the rest won't disappoint.

Thank you for your comments and time!

[RevenantsKnight]

Chapter 2: Into the Shadows

It’s so silent here.

Crouched amidst the exposed roots of a giant oak, Elarinn cast a glance ahead of her, and then to her right, probing the gathering darkness for a flicker of movement. Finding none, she pushed off the tree’s rough bark, rose halfway and began to glide forward, her right hand tightening around her dagger’s grip as she padded softly over the leaves and branches carpeting the forest floor. These fallen beings protested quietly at her passing, releasing a faint series of snaps and crunches as her scratched, knee-high boots pushed down upon them. While part of Elarinn winced at the noises, fearing that they would be loud enough for some wandering beast to hear, her tension eased slightly as the sounds reached her ears, filling the empty silence around her.

I never will like this deathly stillness that has possessed the forest, she thought, and frowned in quiet discontent as she reached another great tree and dropped down to the earth once more, holding the honed metal of her weapon ready to strike as her hardened leather jerkin rasped quietly against the dirt.

The air around her was still and cool, rustling no leaves or branches, devoid of life. At least it’s not like being back in the tunnels and caverns under Tristram, since there’s no corpses here.

Despite her revulsion and lasting horror towards those memories, she drew little comfort from her thoughts. Though the warmer fumes that swirled under the blackened cathedral had been heavy with the scent of death and demonic corruption, she had found them strangely invigorating at the time; the presence of a concrete Evil had left her almost eager to seek out her enemy, even if afterwards she found no rest, crying out in the night, awakening from a battle and a death in a cold sweat. Here, among the dead air and these towering trees, made jet black by the Nightlord’s cloak, Elarinn felt as if she had been plucked from the surface of Sanctuary and dropped into another world, alone save for the company of shadows and a nameless fear.

From her cover, she could see the forest extend around and above her into the darkness, the deep shadows of the night merging with each other, forming twisted hands or ghostly specters in her young, unfocused imagination. Gritting her teeth in frustration, she turned her gaze to the tree in front of her and closed her eyes, so as to give herself time to steady her mind and body. That action, born from blind, naïve hope, did nothing to dispel the forest’s gloomy aura, as the lack of bird songs and animal calls assailed her ears once more, the eerie silence as frightening as any shadowy wraith.

Her eyes flew open as she shook her head violently. Damn this silence. There used to be robins everywhere in these woods, singing all day. I walked here once, traveling to this land’s blighted heart with Iris and Feyla, and I remember being cheered by the birds’ pleasant chorus. Feyla and I were at ease here, walking among the trees and verdant leaves, bows hanging at our sides. Iris, being the leader of our little band, stayed alert, using her connection with the Sightless Eye in the place of her own vision, but I could tell that the forest strengthened her spirits as well. That was a good time, before the blackened cathedral became known to me. She began to smile at this happy memory, the ends of her lips twitching upward and then collapsing back into a grim, bloodless line under the weight of the forest’s gravelike silence and her own growing dread.

The stillness of Elarinn’s surroundings did more than instill a sense of loss in her soul; as unnerving as the paucity of birds and beasts was for her, a greater apprehension, one that had taken root in her mind days ago, now began to push its way into her consciousness. Nearly three days ago, as she fled the defiled walls of the Rogues’ ancestral home, she’d drawn upon her connection to the Sightless Eye in an attempt to divine the location of the surviving members of the Order. Instantly, a column of brilliant light seemed to appear in the distance, its incandescence piercing through the black night to guide Elarinn’s steps. She’d followed it cautiously, moving through the deepest clumps of wilderness to hide from roaming demons as she journeyed towards the faraway point over the horizon.

However, as the sun chased the stars overhead in the sky again and again in eternal pursuit and Elarinn grew weary in both body and mind, the light’s strength began to fade. Finally, as the last of Elarinn’s mental links to her celestial lord began to fail, she managed to make out the place under the waning light, a moor bordered on the north by a river and a wood, with open Khanduras plain to the other three sides. From there the path to the base of the light was hidden by a vast expanse of trees and hills, though the river flowed unbroken into the forest.

She’d done her best since then to find that river, seeking another source of guidance to supplant her wearied senses and mind; the stars, hidden by the black trees, were of no use to her, and there were precious few towns in this wilderness, long an empty land rife with bandits. Although she could tell that the water lay somewhere close, the forest seemed to twist around her at all times, almost as if seeking to keep her within its grasp, disorienting her and forcing her to stumble about blindly. I know they are nearby, or were at one time; I only pray to the Sightless Eye that they have not been discovered and overrun.

Elarinn’s grip on her dagger tightened in anger and frustration, the small weapon itself a reminder of the Sisterhood’s and her own weakened state. I never believed I would wield any blade or axe in my beloved bow’s stead, and certainly not this pitiful knife, she reflected, and yet, here I am.

She had long since exhausted the meager supply of arrows she had purchased before leaving on her journey, and even if she had had any, they would have been little help, as her bow had fallen into disrepair and now languished in her pack, unstrung. Without wax to keep the weapon’s string from becoming brittle, her bow was more a liability than an aid in a fight.

Barely a year ago, the Sisters of the Sightless Eye were in every city of the West, a power rivaling kings. Now, in this darkening hour, the few followers of the Order who remain can hardly keep their bows ready for war. Still, as long as leaders like Akara remain, the Sisterhood will stand fast against the dark tide until its last warrior falls. Even though her body may be old, Akara’s faith in the Eye and the Light is unshakable, enough to inspire an army.

She paused for a moment, lying still as her sight probed the twisting shadows ahead, then reached down to a satchel resting beside her left hip and hooked her slender index finger into a ragged hole in the leather, pulling up the flap. Delving into the bag, she carefully took out a sheaf of paper, tattered on the edges, the ink faded slightly. She flipped through the pages slowly, squinting in the darkness, looking over the words that had led her here, into the wild heart of Khanduras, in search of the remnants of her Order. Though Elarinn had read them many times during her flight westward from the monastery, Akara’s writings still lifted her spirits, briefly dispelling the eerie fear that the forest’s gloom and her desperate state had instilled in her.

Her happiness did not last long, though; the cruel truths detailed within the elderly woman’s journal soon crept into Elarinn’s mind. Of course, spiritual strength means little if the Order lacks the soldiers to fight its battles. By her account, most of those who fought at Tristram are dead or corrupted, and those who remain loyal have not seen enough battle...or enough winters, for that matter.

Her eyes closed as she contemplated the grim state of the Sisterhood, and then opened, wet with the tears she withheld, as she thought back to her comrades at Tristram. I do not know what became of Iris and Feyla; both were still tasked to patrol the highlands surrounding the monastery when I left for Aranoch to protest the rise of Lysan’s faction. Iris never joined that group of veterans; although she was a hero of the battle against Diablo in her own right, she did not seek power like they did. As for Feyla, she was still too young to be anything but just another faceless Sister to the council. Hopefully, their distance from those damned traitors kept them from being corrupted. By the Light, I hope they managed to escape that deathtrap. If they didn’t, I pray that they fell in battle at least, instead of turning to the forces of Chaos.

Elarinn paused for a moment, blinking away twin pools of salt water, then shook her head in sad reflection, placed the paper back in her bag, and looked again into the gloom ahead. Finding nothing, she rose to a crouch and then glided forward, her slight figure dancing in and out of the shadows. A patch of thornbushes caught at her traveling pack as she passed; she twisted slightly and broke into a run, the bag coming free with a snapping sound. Driven by fear, she ran, her heart pounding loud in the silence, finally stopping behind another massive tree and taking cover once more.

She then whipped back towards where she had come from, dagger ready in a white-knuckled hand, half expecting an inky outline to leap out of the gloom at her. Her sight took in the collection of dark shapes, great trees and low shrubs made ominous creatures by the night, and her face twisted into a mask of concentration as she gazed around warily. After several minutes of searching, she leaned heavily against the trunk of the tree behind her, shaking with exhaustion, wide awake with dread.

I’ve got to get out of this place soon; I’m beginning to look for hungry beasts in every wood, seeing demons in every shadow. She shook her head again, and slumped downwards, sitting at the base of the tree, the back of her armor rasping over the bark.

It’s a bit like trying to hunt this supposed wanderer, the hero of Tristram. If all the rumors are true, then he’s been seen over the last few weeks in far-off Scosglen, the desert of Aranoch, the Tamoe Mountains, and the city of Kurast itself. At least at Tristram, we knew where our enemy was; despite his minions infesting the cathedral and the warrens below, we could plan a strike against the Lord of Terror himself. This time, we are not ready, and the evil is moving, casting its shadow over the Eastern lands after blighting Khanduras. This wanderer is nowhere to be found, and yet he has spread fear across all of Sanctuary. I felt it, even behind the stout walls of ancient Lut Gholein; rumor and tale passed from person to person in the market, whispers floated through the air of the palace, heralds of the coming storm.

Elarinn sighed as the misery of her thoughts washed over her, and shivered, rubbing cold, tense hands over the sleeves of rough cloth covering her arms. She raised her dagger as if to throw it into a nearby clump of bushes, out of a despondent certainty that it would be useless against any enemy, then tightened her fist around the leather-wrapped handle and let the weapon fall to her side.

I am still alive, she reminded herself firmly, and so are many other Sisters. There is much that we can do still, even in our weakness. With what remains of the Order, and perhaps the remnants of Leoric’s armies, Khanduras might survive to see the end of these black days. And rumor speaks of an army gathering in Westmarch, ready to fight against the Evil on its doorstep. Given time... She sighed again, recognizing the desperation of her hopes, and shook her head. All that is not of the present; the Order is scattered, Khanduras leaderless. And for me, it is not yet a question of what power “we” have, but what strength remains in my body and mind. I believe Akara’s words, trust her that we must fight the forces of Chaos to whatever end awaits, but I can do little alone, without a bow, and lost in this damned forest.

A rustle in the leaves of the trees overhead startled Elarinn out of her reflections, her dagger hand jumping upwards reflexively into a defensive position. Her deep brown eyes danced from side to side, widening as she tried to discern the source of the sound among the many dark silhouettes above. Finally, after several minutes of anxious searching, her sight picked out a shadow flitting among the dying leaves, and she whirled to face it, drawing upon the dregs of her mental energy in an effort to reveal the being’s identity. Her mind, exhausted though it was, managed to focus her remaining contact with the Sightless Eye near the creature, and presently a dim light shimmered into existence, illuminating the dark branches and shriveled brown leaves above.

Elarinn blinked several times as she adjusted to the dull yellow light of the mental torch, then looked up into the trees and beheld a raven. Her eyes widened in recognition as the faint glow played over the animal’s black feathers, and a palpable wave of relief washed over her like a cool breeze. The bird, unlike the many other creatures she had encountered during her trek into the heartland of Khanduras, did not become crazed with bloodlust upon seeing her and swoop to the attack; rather, it canted its head to the right and stared down at her, as if judging what danger she posed.

Cautiously, Elarinn followed the creature’s gaze, and then lowered her weapon and looked back up, though her hand remained wrapped tightly around the dagger’s handle. Apparently satisfied, the raven blinked once, its black head bobbing up and down. It then cawed once, and took to the air with a quiet rustle of feathers and a light push off of its branch. Elarinn chased the bird with her eyes, watching as it flew between two clawlike branches, then landed gently and turned back toward the young Rogue. Its black eyes glittered in the soft glow of the yellow light as it stared back at her again, and then jerked its head back over its shoulder, as if to indicate that she should follow. Seeing her hesitate, it cawed again, this time with a note of what sounded like impatience to Elarinn, and began to flap its wings in short, brisk bursts.

Elarinn’s gaze flickered up and down the creature once more, and then to the waning light of her magic torch and the deepening shadows surrounding her. Although days of hiding from packs of fiends and twisted animals had made her wary of anything that could be a spy of Hell, the bird’s almost human manner reassured her. Perhaps there are forces other than the darkness at work here; for such an untainted creature to exist here means that there is a haven from this cursed land nearby.

Pausing again, she shuddered as her memory recalled Akara’s manuscript; more than anything else, she feared falling to the corruption that took so many of the Order’s greatest warriors. For that reason, she had run from every demon and beast she had encountered on her journey, and slain the few that had the temerity to pursue her. After days spent in shadows, she was now poised to throw all her efforts away and follow a creature into possible damnation.

And yet, if I do nothing, what fate awaits me among this darkness, other than death? She frowned and bent her head slightly, then straightened, her mind made up. She took one step towards the raven, then another, the point of her dagger dancing from side to side as she shifted her guard.

As she neared, the creature took to the air again, and set off into the shadows, its black body almost disappearing into the night. Nervously, Elarinn quickened her pace, her auburn hair swishing around her head noiselessly and caressing her shoulders as she tried to watch the bird ahead and the trees and bushes at her sides all at once. Then, spurred on by the creature’s fading form, she ran, no longer caring about the noise she made or fearing ambush by demons; all that mattered to her now was the raven, and its promise of finding a way out of the forsaken wood. As she ran on, boots crunching against leaves and branches, bushes scraping over her armor, her face took on an expression of pure calm, a peace born of hope, and strengthened by action.

The journey seemed like hours to Elarinn, moment after moment of running over the forest floor littered with holes and branches, of dodging around giant trees and twisted shrubs that seemed to appear out of the darkness of the forest itself, all in pursuit of the barest trace of movement among the branches overhead. In truth, it had been hardly minutes; when she came upon the clearing in the forest, a roughly circular patch of open ground with moonlight spilling through the open space above and casting a pale glow over her surroundings, she found that she was breathing hard, but otherwise felt ready to run a few more miles.

Staring at her from across the clearing was the raven, perched on an oak tree’s branch at head height. Elarinn’s eyes narrowed as she gazed at the bird, wondering why it had led her here; the clearing, though well lit by the moon’s silvery light, felt no different than the forest surrounding it, under the thrall of a great Evil. Stepping into the middle of the open ground, she looked around herself, weapon ready, and then, finding no enemy, upwards to the sky, eyes scanning the stars. There’s still a few more hours of night, at least…Suddenly, a soft crunch sounded among the trees to Elarinn’s left, and she paused for a heartbeat, surprised that the deafening silence had been broken by such a diffident sound. Then her mind seized upon the noise’s meaning as she heard it again, and she whirled, her dagger seemingly appearing in front of her face in a close guard.

The man stood on the edge of the clearing, empty hands dangling by his side in what Elarinn presumed was meant to be a peaceful gesture. A cascade of long, straight blond hair spilled down his back and over his fur cloak, made from some beast’s full pelt, draped over a tunic made of what looked like brown stone. As he moved, parts of the garment changed form, becoming almost fluid, before hardening around his body once more. Below that, he wore heavy leather breeches and boots, though Elarinn saw no metal on his person. She could not make out his face, as it was hidden in the shadows of the trees around him. “I offer my greetings, Sister,” he said, his words spoken slowly and carefully, tinged with an accent that Elarinn had never heard before.

Elarinn nodded in response, and replied, “As do I,” holding back her initial surprise with an effort. “I must wonder, however, who you are and how you know of my allegiance to the Order,” she continued, keeping her weapon raised. His head tilted slightly and his body stiffened at this, then, after a pause, he stepped forward, revealing a pale visage twisted into a wary mask, and two restless light blue eyes. As he did so, the raven cawed, and then flew to the man’s shoulder and perched there.

“My name is Faeldh, priest of the Caoi Dúlra, though your name for my kind appears to be Druid,” he began cautiously. “I have journeyed here from the northlands to fight the corruption that twists the earth and its creatures, though all this should not be news to you.” Elarinn frowned, both puzzled and calmed by his words. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see a fabled earth-shaman here, given the demonic forces at work, she thought. I know little of their kind, only what I have heard from Akara and the other learned Sisters, though I thank the Sightless Eye that he is not an enemy. “Why do you say that I should know who you are?” she asked after a short pause, looking back into the druid’s eyes.

The druid shifted from side to side uneasily upon hearing this, and his brow furrowed as he replied, “You have not seen me or my comrades around the encampment? Odd…” and his voice trailed off as he studied her face, this time much more carefully than before. As he did so, his body tensed ever so slightly, and his right hand curled slowly around a heavy wood cudgel hanging at his side. Simultaneously, the raven took wing once more, resting on a branch to the young Rogue’s right, now staring intently at her with its deep black eyes.

Elarinn noticed none of this, however; she was struck speechless by the stranger’s words, uttered almost as an afterthought. An encampment; there must be others who stand against the darkness nearby. And if he recognizes me as a Rogue, then perhaps some survivors of the Order’s flight are among them…She blinked twice, then let her dagger fall to her side, convinced that it would be of no use to her now. “An encampment,” she repeated slowly, still struggling to accept the avalanche of surprises that the last few minutes had contained. The druid remained still for a few seconds, blue eyes jumping from her face to her lowered weapon and then back again, before nodding slowly. Upon seeing this, Elarinn blurted, “And are my Sisters there?” desperate to learn more of her comrades’ fate.

“There are some,” replied the druid, “though they have not fared well of late. From what I have learned, they were forced to flee-”

“I know, they were driven from the Monastery,” Elarinn finished. “Can you lead me to this encampment?”

The druid held up a hand in response, his face a solemn mask. “I would first know who I am guiding into our haven,” he began. “With the curse of the Burning Hells sweeping through this land, one survives only by caution and the grace of the Light. Given the enchantment’s affinity for your Sisters’ souls...” He let the implicit accusation go unsaid, and his grip on the weapon at his side tightened as he spoke, as if he expected no response from Elarinn other than a hurled blade or a berserk war cry.

She smiled tightly at his reaction, and returned her weapon to the sheath strapped to her left forearm. “I am Elarinn, apprentice warrior of the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye. I was not at the Monastery at the time of its fall; I lived in the Eastern city of Lut Gholein for the last few months.” She paused, awaiting a response, and received none. Clearing her throat, she continued, “I returned here after word of the Order’s corruption crossed Aranoch, and now seek to find my comrades in arms, and intend to stand with them as long as I must.” On an impulse, she added, “I desire neither power nor glory; I merely wish to answer the call of the Sightless Eye and the Light.”

At this, the druid nodded and finally spoke, traces of a smile dancing across his face for an instant. “Behind the Wanderer follows a storm to ravage both nature and humanity alike. We will need the strength of every last believer in the Light if we are to weather this tempest.” With that, he made a motion with his left hand, revealing a scroll of white parchment bound by a blue fabric ribbon. “The encampment is not far from here, but the road is perilous, patrolled by hellspawn and maddened creatures. This is safer, although perhaps unnatural.”

Unraveling the ribbon, he spoke several words that seemed somehow familiar to Elarinn, and suddenly a burst of light filled the clearing, causing her to wince and close her eyes. When she looked back up, she beheld a giant oval of shimmering blue light. Its center, unlike the brilliant edge, was perfect blackness, a bottomless hole that seemed to seize the surrounding light. “An astral gateway,” she breathed, and took a step backwards, eyeing the portal cautiously.

During her time at Tristram, she’d seen Iris, and many other adventurers, use such magical means to travel between the depths under the tainted cathedral and the town itself. Elarinn herself had never crossed over to another plane, and had no desire to now, even if it was only for an instant. Memories of neophyte sorcerers and ignorant mercenaries stumbling out of the ether, gibbering madly in terror, filled her mind’s eye, causing her to shudder violently. And yet, if this is the only way to my Order...

Seeing Elarinn hesitate, Faeldh turned to her, and motioned towards the rift in the air. “We cannot tarry here; demons may be drawn to the energies of the gate. Come, your Sisters wait for your return.” Still, she remained motionless, caught between her fear of the world beyond and her desire to return to her comrades. I swore to myself that I would return to them, although I would be of little use if I arrived insane. And yet...what loyalty to the Order can I claim if I turn away now?

She stared into the ebon void standing in front of her and set her jaw, gathering her resolve. This is merely another test of devotion, she told herself; there is no difference between walking through this gate and taking the oath of the Sisterhood. I am ready; let the outer planes do their worst. They shall not shake my dedication to my comrades, nor my belief in the Sightless Eye. With this thought etched firmly into her mind, Elarinn bit her lip, and then stepped forward into the portal, her body weak with confusion and fatigue, her heart buoyed by a hope that had almost died in the hungry silence of the forest, and now grew stronger with each passing moment.

[Clarke667]

First an apology: I'm half asleep and on strange medication, so this might end up being a bit scatterbrained. Write this tomorrow when you're clear-headed and fully awake, you say? Bah! No fun in that.

Well, you mentioned previously that there wasn't going to be a boatload of keen violence in this story, and quite frankly, that had me worried. But hey, worried for naught; A Call to Arms is hella good, wicked gore or not. Do you think, though, that in the next chapter you could have Elarinn step on a puppy or something?

Kidding.

A few things:

the stars, hidden by the black trees, were of no use to her, and there were precious few towns in this wilderness, long an empty land rife with bandits.

I really don't get this. At first I just thought you wrote "an" when you meant "and", but even then it doesn't make too much sense to me. Did you mean "...and there were precious few towns in this wilderness, a long and empty land rife with bandits"? And even then, it's sort of odd to describe a wilderness as "empty". Isn't a wilderness, by definition, not empty? Or maybe I'm totally missing something here.

I never believed I would wield any blade or axe in my beloved bow’s stead, and certainly not this pitiful knife, she reflected, and yet, here I am.

A small formatting problem: you italicized "she reflected" along with everything else.

Another thing that irked me--pretty much all of Elarinn's thoughts were plot-exposition. I understand that that's what an interior monologue is useful for, but after a while it became sort of weird that every time Elarinn had a thought, she took the time to fully explain it to the audience. Take this bit for example:

There used to be robins everywhere in these woods, singing all day. I walked here once, traveling to this land’s blighted heart with Iris and Feyla, and I remember being cheered by the birds’ pleasant chorus. Feyla and I were at ease here, walking among the trees and verdant leaves, bows hanging at our sides. Iris, being the leader of our little band, stayed alert, using her connection with the Sightless Eye in the place of her own vision, but I could tell that the forest strengthened her spirits as well. That was a good time, before the blackened cathedral became known to me.

Near the middle of this, it really stops looking like the girl is actually thinking to herself, and starts looking more like a Shakespearian soliloquy. The downside of this is that it really pulls you out of the story and makes you realize you're, well, reading a story. Kind of like seeing the ace tucked in the magician's sleeve, you know?

But what comes after it, though...

She began to smile at this happy memory, the ends of her lips twitching upward and then collapsing back into a grim, bloodless line under the weight of the forest’s gravelike silence and her own growing dread.

I really liked this bit. I don't want to seem like I'm totally ragging on your work here, because by and large I loved it. Take the above sentence: it's a great little image, and moreover, it's well executed. It's passages like that that will most likely keep me reading this story, even though Elarinn is probably not going to step on a puppy anytime soon.

[RevenantsKnight]

Clarke667: Thanks for your comments and suggestions. Here're some thoughts of my own:

I really don't get this. Did you mean "...and there were precious few towns in this wilderness, a long and empty land rife with bandits"? And even then, it's sort of odd to describe a wilderness as "empty". Isn't a wilderness, by definition, not empty?

I actually meant that to be as is; the last clause is supposed to be a synonym of sorts to this particular "wilderness," so the sentence could read "...and there were precious few towns in this empty land, rife with bandits" or something like that. As for "wilderness" and "empty," by definition there aren't a lot of people in wildernesses, so that's what the "empty" refers to: the lack of other humans, not the lack of...stuff. Maybe I'll take out the "empty," actually...sounds a bit redundant...

Another thing that irked me--pretty much all of Elarinn's thoughts were plot-exposition. I understand that that's what an interior monologue is useful for, but after a while it became sort of weird that every time Elarinn had a thought, she took the time to fully explain it to the audience. The downside of this is that it really pulls you out of the story and makes you realize you're, well, reading a story. Kind of like seeing the ace tucked in the magician's sleeve, you know?

Yeah...this did occur to me when I read it over again prior to posting. I guess it was my way to try and get information across in the absence of a second character. I'll probably tinker with it more, and this shouldn't happen again, since...well, you'll see.

I don't want to seem like I'm totally ragging on your work here, because by and large I loved it.

Frankly, when I write criticisms of other works, I tend to highlight almost only mistakes, and assume that the author realizes that I think the rest of it's good (unless I make a general statement otherwise.) This thinking goes the other way, too, so I didn't think you were "ragging on my work." (In retrospect, this might be a bad assumption, but oh well.) Thanks for the words of encouragement, though. :)

[RevenantsKnight]

Chapter 3: Homecoming

“Traveling through the astral plane is a truly unnerving experience, or rather the first time you do it is, anyway. When you step through the gate, everything seems to freeze; for a moment, you can look around in all directions and see nothing, no rock or dirt or grass beneath you, no sky above your head. You feel free, as though you were hovering above the earth on a windless, perfect night. Then your destination rushes up from the blackness to surround you, like water closing around a stone dropped into a pool, your brief mastery of Time fades, and your foot falls and touches the ground. You’ll get used to it if you do it enough.”

Iris’s words came to Elarinn’s mind as she hung in the empty blackness, caught in mid-step. She closed her eyes, holding back a sudden rush of panic, and winced as a vibrant blur of blue and green shot skyward around her, then stumbled forward and squinted as the world came into focus.

Gritting her teeth to steady herself, she looked around at her new surroundings, eyes moving from the ruined lengths of some stone wall scattered across the green of the grass to the black shadows of a taller, more recent wooden palisade that, with the river behind her, enclosed a significant portion of land. Next, her vision took in a cluster of tents to her right, and then the glow of a fire ahead. She could make out the dark outlines of perhaps a score of people standing by the pile of burning wood, and the sounds of flowing river water and their conversation mingled to create a quiet murmur Elarinn found most welcome after long days spent in the silent, cursed forest. She judged most of them to be traders by their manner, except for a few cloaked figures who were scattered around the edge of the circle, most of whom held bows. The druid wasn’t lying, then; there are likely some Sisters here at this rough encampment of traveling merchants.

Trying to walk towards the firelight, she found that she had not yet reclaimed her sense of balance from the Ether, and stopped quickly, bending at her knees and waist and letting her traveling pack slide off her shoulders in order to stay on her feet, before her dizziness grew overwhelming. I don’t know how the hell you ever got used to this, Iris, she thought, her initial discomfort giving way to mild annoyance. She shook her head and blinked a few times, then turned her head towards the towering blue oval behind her. The shimmering gate of blue light rippled as Faeldh stepped through and looked around, then nodded to her. “This way, Sister,” he murmured quietly, pointing towards the tents. Still fighting to stay upright, Elarinn shouldered her bag and followed slowly, eyes dancing from the people around the fire to Faeldh’s form, fading into the gloom ahead.

The dozen or so tents were obviously structures born with the haste of necessity. Only three were true tents, of the kind used by an army on the move; the others were fashioned from a patchwork of canvas, cloth and leather and looked as if they would collapse in a heavy rain. As they approached, a familiar sensation began to creep up Elarinn’s spine, causing her to stiffen and reach down to her dagger out of reflex. She’d learned long ago how to use the Sightless Eye’s power to sense danger, especially devices such as arrow launchers or magic triggers. Now, she could feel several such mechanisms among the remains of a stone wall ahead, each holding ashwood messengers of death.

The druid stopped short of the cluster of tents, apparently aware of this as well, and called out into the night, “I have someone you must see, my lady.”

Presently the soft glow of a torch reached Elarinn’s eyes, and two figures formed from the darkness. One was slightly bent with age, her face hidden by a cowl. She walked forward slowly, but had about her an aura of power and calm despite her small stature. The other, illuminated by the light of the torch she carried, was doubtless one of Elarinn’s sisters in arms, her tall, lithe form made angular at the shoulders by her suit of leather armor, similar to Elarinn’s in design. Elarinn paused for a heartbeat, squinting against the gloom at the approaching pair, then strode forward as she recognized the older woman. She came within three paces and then dropped to one knee, head bowed, heart pounding. “See only Truth,” she recited, and then looked up into the shadows cast by the torchlight, the dark shapes concealing the woman’s cowled face.

A pair of thin, weathered hands reached up and let the hood fall, revealing a lined, worn visage and graying hair. “Serve only Light,” the old woman finished in a slow, time-worn voice, and motioned for Elarinn to rise. She did so slowly, so as to ease the burden on her exhausted, burning muscles, and managed her first genuine smile in weeks. “Akara,” she began, and then faltered, overcome by emotion.

Akara stepped forward and grasped Elarinn’s hands with her own, steadying her as Elarinn fought to regain control of her voice. “It is good to see you again, child,” she whispered, her words made shaky by her own relief and joy. At a loss for words, Elarinn instead squeezed Akara’s hands, and she mirrored the action gently, but with a firmness that reassured Elarinn. “You’re safe here, child,” the old woman smiled, hope glowing in her eyes. “Welcome home.”



Elarinn shivered as she walked into the tent after her two comrades, though she had long since grown used to the chill of a Khanduras night. Her discomfort stemmed instead from the scents that hung in the air, a sickly, cloying sweetness mixed with the sharp odor of herbs. Smells like the healer’s house, back at Tristram, she thought, and grimaced as images of maimed townsfolk and bloodied adventurers filled her mind’s eye.

Clenching her teeth, she pushed those thoughts back with an effort and forced herself to look around. In the darkness, she could make out the black shape of a table, and upon it a number of jars, bowls and other vessels. In another corner of the tent stood several low beds, which Akara indicated with a motion of her hand. “Rest here tonight, child. I will return later; I have other things to attend to.” With that, she left, accompanied by the Sister holding the torch, who, Elarinn noticed, had slightly puffy fingers, smooth, unmarked arms, and an earnest, almost awed, expression on her face. Elarinn shook her head and sighed, then pushed up her sleeves and looked down to her own arms and hands, at the patch of skin just behind her left wrist, hardened by countless passes of her bowstring across her forearm.

That child is hardly old enough to begin the training of the Sisterhood, and yet she wears the armor of a warrior. She sighed again, and let her sleeve fall, not wishing to be reminded of the battles in the tainted cathedral that she had fought, only months ago.

Returning to the present, she slowly peeled off her armor and traveling outfit, piling them in a corner of the tent and changing into a sleeping gown she found draped over one of the beds. Next, she padded over to the table and rubbed her face and neck with a wet cloth from one of the buckets on the floor nearby. The rag, a whitish gray before, came away streaked with brown dirt and grime, and she smiled slightly as she folded it up and placed it neatly on the table.

These tasks completed, Elarinn then crawled into one of the beds, wrapping the threadbare covers around her, and let her head fall backwards, savoring the softness of the pillow. Having not slept in a real bed for weeks, she found even the thin mattress a great comfort, and her eyes closed as she let herself fall into sleep’s embrace.

Despite her exhaustion, Elarinn did not sleep peacefully. For the first time since the apparent death of the Lord of Terror, her dreams were gripped by a cold, wordless fear, an alien horror that few mortals had ever felt, and none had ever been meant to know. Once again, she was within the blackened forest, running, acutely aware that some being watched her every move from the maze of shadows around her. She could not make out the form of her pursuer, whether it was demon or beast or spirit, but she felt its malign intent like an icy wind at her back, driving her forward, always present no matter how fast she ran. Finally, she jerked awake, gasping, the blanket around her drenched in sweat.

After lying still for several moments, she closed her eyes, urged back into her realm of nightmares by exhaustion, then started in surprise and opened them again. In the bed to her left, which had been empty when she arrived, she made out a figure, sitting upright against the low board at the bed’s end with the covers over her unmoving legs, silhouetted by the wan light of a candle. Her neighbor, Elarinn noted, wore a robe similar to her own, and her hair, made dark by the dim light, was drawn back into a ponytail in the manner of the older Sisters. Her back was turned to Elarinn, and she appeared to be reading over a large piece of parchment intently, shivering occasionally, perhaps from the chill of the night.

Squinting against the gloom, Elarinn pushed herself up on her arms, trying to get a better look at both her companion and the paper she read. Without turning towards Elarinn, the woman slowly placed the parchment in a small bag on her bed and uttered in a soft, almost sad voice, “You should be asleep. Tomorrow will be far harder on you if you are not rested.”

Her words caused Elarinn to sit up straight in her bed and freeze as shock ran through her. A second later, the surprise gave way to a sort of nascent wonder and hope, as her mind began to grasp what she had just heard. I know that voice. It has to be; I knew she didn’t die at the monastery. Turning towards her neighbor, who remained facing the dirty cloth wall of the tent, Elarinn opened her mouth to speak, but no sound emerged to fill the void of seemingly perfect silence that surrounded them both. “Is it…?” she finally managed, still staring at the back of the silhouette like a soul bewitched.

The head of the figure nodded in reply, in spite of the fact that Elarinn had barely said anything. “I’m still here,” she said quietly, her words almost lost among the rustling of fabric as the ethereal hands of a breeze began to tug on the tent. As she said this, her left hand reached out to close the clasp on the bag next to her and place it on the low table in the corner. Then, using her right arm to hold her weight, she turned at her waist towards Elarinn, looking over her shoulder, covered by the robe’s thin cloth, and smiled wanly.

Elarinn paused for a heartbeat, her sight playing over the older woman’s features, before leaping out of her bed and enfolding her in a hug that used the last of her waning strength. “I knew you had to have made it,” she breathed, closing her eyes and reveling in a pure joy that she had not felt since the nameless Wanderer had staggered out of the befouled cathedral, holding his bloody sword aloft in a grim, but fitting, victory salute.

“It’s good to see you, too,” the other whispered, and tightened her hug momentarily before letting her arms fall to her sides. Elarinn relaxed her hold and took a step back, straightening up as a grin spread across her face.

As she let go, her companion, no longer held up by friendly arms, slumped back against the board of the bed, and then slid down into a prone position, looking up at her with the same smile as before, causing Elarinn to frown inwardly. She’d known Iris for years, and even though she’d been away for the last few months, she could tell that there was something other than the loss of the monastery and the weakened state of the Order that plagued her. Something seems wrong here...Iris was always careful to keep up an appearance of control during the battles in Tristram, for the other adventurers’ sake as well as ours. Even when we were all in danger of dying, she was ready to lead, fighting as if our victory was assured.

Iris must have noticed her hesitation, because she propped herself back up on her arms and her smile broadened, though Elarinn thought it looked a bit forced. “So you made it back from the East,” she laughed, “quite impressive for a Sister who once ran from even the walking dead.” Although her words were pointed, her voice carried no malice, only a mixture of wonder and silent pride.

Elarinn couldn’t hold back a small smile at her words, and nodded a bit sheepishly. “You know, Iris, there were a few times when I wasn’t sure I was going to get by,” she began, only to stop when the elder Rogue shook her head, her happy expression freezing on her face for an instant. “Stop, Elarinn. I don’t think I should hear your tale, at least not just yet.” Elarinn halted in mid-sentence, and then, dumbstruck, stared at Iris as she continued, her smile gone.

“Kashya will want to know all about your journey back to us, in more detail than you will ever care to remember,” Iris warned, frowning slightly. “Ever since we fled the Monastery, she’s taken to keeping our remaining Sisters close to the encampment, and has become very protective of this place’s secrecy. If she thinks you were followed here, or even to wherever that Druid opened the astral gate…” Iris paused at this and pursed her lips, unwilling to go on.

“Anyway,” she continued after a short pause, “it’s probably better if I hear your story for the first time when she does; Kashya’s very good at reading people, so she’d probably realize quickly if I already knew what you were going to say, and then she might become more…aggressive…in her questioning.”

Surprise filled Elarinn as she heard these words, though not because of Iris’s warning. I never doubted for a second that whoever took over command of the Order would hide away those who remain until we can regain our strength; it’s just that… She furrowed her brow for a minute, thinking, and then looked directly at Iris, her brown eyes focused on her companion’s. “One moment, Iris; is Kashya in command now? I know she led us at Tristram with Lysan and the others, but…”

Her voice trailed off as her respect for the battle-hardened elder warrior overcame her desire to ask the question that burned in her mind; seeing this, Iris queried softly, “What is it, Elarinn? Tell me; it’s better you have all your questions answered now, before you say your piece to the rest of the Order.”

Elarinn sighed, then looked down and gritted her teeth. This is not going to sound good. Taking a deep breath, she replied, “Well…I just assumed that since Kashya had more or less given up on leading the Sisterhood when she declined Lysan’s offer to join her ruling council, back before I left, that you’d take the position, seeing as you’re a hero of Tristram in your own right, and she’s getting too old to lead warriors into battle now.” She winced as the last word faded from her lips; criticizing a Sister so much senior to her went against the teachings of the Sightless Eye as well as her personal sense of honor, and Iris looked rather unfavorably on anything she saw as unnecessary flattery.

She had been right about one thing; Iris’s face turned into a stony, expressionless mask at her words. Elarinn waited in silence for a few moments, dreading her friend’s response. Finally, the older woman smiled wryly, causing the tension gripping Elarinn’s throat to recede. “Kashya’s still got a good bit of fight in her, even if her body isn’t keeping up with her spirit. Besides, we lost many of our best archers at the monastery, so anyone who shoots as well as she does is now a great asset. As for her …retirement, she hadn’t anticipated the events that came to pass. None of us did, after all, so when they did happen, she stepped back up to lead us.”

With the mood in the tent no longer edgy, Elarinn took a moment to look over Iris, letting another wave of relief wash over her. It’s so good to be back with my friends, she reflected, casting her gaze over the other’s visage, which was still young by most standards, though her eyes had an ever-present sense of distance to them, almost as if she wasn’t looking at anything in particular. She’d seen such a look before, in the eyes of some veteran soldiers returning from the ill-starred war against Westmarch, a campaign soaked with hopelessness and horrific defeats for the men of Khanduras.

I don’t remember Iris being like that, even after the fight against Diablo. I shudder to think of what she saw when the monastery fell to the forces of Hell; hopefully it hasn’t changed- She froze, shock evident on her face as a thought surfaced in her mind. “Iris,” she began slowly, turning to her comrade, “where’s Feyla? Did she make it out of the monastery?” Please tell me she survived; she’s even younger than me, almost a child still…

Iris bit her lip, eyes dancing from side to side as she thought. “I do not know where Feyla is now; she has not been at this encampment when I’ve been here, otherwise, she probably would have sought me out. I did see her, though, right before we sounded the retreat. She wasn’t hurt, just exhausted, so I’m pretty sure she made it into the forests surrounding the monastery. Given the changing nature of those lands, though, she could have wandered anywhere. With luck, one of the outlanders will find her and bring her back. Otherwise…”

Elarinn nodded grimly at this, then looked back up as another question rose to the top of her mind like a bubble breaking the placid surface a lake. “Do you know what the Druid, Faeldh, is doing? He said he was here because of the demonic corruption, and that there were others like him here as well, but I don’t know what he’s doing to fight the curse of the Hells. Do you think they could find a way to undo the blackening of the Order?”

Iris shook her head in response, relaxing ever so slightly as Elarinn changed the subject. “I have no idea if the earth-shamans know the nature of the sorcery Diablo cast over this land. I have seen his kin, though; at least six were here two days ago, before they all ventured out into the wilds. There have been other outlanders as well; the tents of a group of Northland warriors are at the far side of the encampment, near the smithy, and there are two other bands near the entrance, one of witches who call themselves Zann Esu, and the other of archers and spear-women from the Sea of Light. Even several death-mages, Necromancers from the East, have been here recently, though they moved on after only a few hours, thank the Eye.” She shuddered at the thought of the bone wizards, and reached down with one hand to pull the blanket up.

“Apparently, they’re all here to find the Wanderer, but they’ve been of help to us.” Indicating the entrance to the camp with a jerk of her head, Iris continued, “There’s a cave just outside here that used to be full of the walking dead and those little imp-things that used to infest the cathedral at Tristram. Some of the northerners went in there and killed them all; now, we’re no longer under constant threat of attack.”

“A cave?” Elarinn repeated, somewhat surprised. “I thought there weren’t any caves east of the Andulon,” she mused, her mind’s eye roving over memories of walking in that underground web of tunnels connecting the woods surrounding the monastery with the plains to the west. Then, seeing the frown on Iris’s face, she asked warily, “Where are we, exactly?”

Iris paused, trying to decide how much she should tell Elarinn, then shrugged and replied, “This is, apparently, what remains of an old Horadric outpost in the region, constructed during their hunt for Diablo ages ago. Akara knew about it, and advised Kashya to bring the survivors here after the battle at the monastery. From what I gather, we’re near to the elder graveyard of the Sisterhood, the one used before the catacombs under monastery were finished.”

“So that’s why the Druid could create an astral gate to this camp,” Elarinn said slowly, thinking out loud. “An old Horadric fortress would likely have some sort of pathway leading to it through the ether.” Iris nodded, and continued, “This place does have some properties of that sort; there’s some kind of enchanted circle carved into a patch of stone at the north end of the encampment. Some of the outlanders have used it to travel to other places well beyond a day’s journey in the blink of an eye.”

As she said this, Elarinn chanced to look down at her arms, which were held behind her back and pushing against the thin mattress, shaking from the effort. “Really, Iris,” she began in a tone of friendly amusement, “I don’t care if you lie down; you’re probably as tired as me.” When Iris merely smiled tightly in reply, Elarinn continued, “Well, then at least sit up or something; that looks almost painful.”

At this, Iris’s face froze again, and this time she didn’t bother to hide her anger. Surprised, Elarinn took a step backwards, unwilling to look upon her companion’s blank expression and burning eyes. By the Light, what’s wrong with her? I make one suggestion, and she turns cold, as if I’m mocking her. I’m not, dammit; I’m sure she can sit up in a bed in... Her jaw fell open as a revelation, enlightening and terrible, filled her mind. “The healer’s tent,” she finished slowly, saying the last part of her reflection out loud. Then, as she began to comprehend the full horror of her thoughts, she fell to her knees, shaking as she held back a torrent of sobs. “No...it’s not possible,” she choked out between gasps, and looked up into Iris’s face, now molded by a resigned sorrow and frustration. “You’re...not...” Elarinn stopped, her tongue failing her, and Iris reached down and threw back the bedcovers before letting herself fall prone upon the bed.

Elarinn rose and looked towards the foot of the bed, then turned away with a gasp. A patch of wrinkled black skin marred Iris’s pale right leg, bare from the mid-thigh down, and from it radiated lines of raised, graying flesh that spread like a foul spider’s web over her body. These dead rivulets also seemed to have jumped to her other leg, where they formed thick ribbons of puckered skin. Although Iris’s legs remained motionless, the dark web seemed to throb, as though it were a parasite wrapped around her. “It’s from an enchanted arrow,” Iris told Elarinn, her voice grim but level again. “I got shot during the retreat, and this curse had time to take root. Akara managed to devise a counterspell, but not before it spread across both my legs.” Elarinn still kept her head turned, fighting a sudden urge to be sick. “What...is it?” she gasped.

Iris shook her head tiredly, a motion Elarinn caught with the corner of her eye. “Akara had some idea as to its nature, but frankly, I don’t care. All I know is that I cannot move my legs.” She spoke much more calmly than Elarinn thought possible, given the circumstances, but underneath her even tone of control was a note of barely suppressed emotion. Is that sorrow, perhaps, or frustration? Frankly, I hope I never find out. Elarinn closed her eyes, the better to hold back her tears, and let out a deep breath as a sensation of abject exhaustion ran through her body, the burst of energy she managed upon seeing Iris again utterly spent. By the Sightless Eye...the monastery is taken, the Order scattered, a great hero like Iris crippled. So much has disappeared in the space of months; is there no end to Hell’s nightmares? We defeated armies of dark servants underneath Tristram; why do we fall now to such a state? Where is the protection of the Light in our darkest hour, so we may rise once more?

“Elarinn.” Iris’s voice shook Elarinn from her lamentations, and she turned, trying not to look at her friend’s tortured legs. “I would ask two favors of you,” Iris continued, her tone quiet and slow, causing Elarinn to wince inwardly. She could tell it was hard for Iris to say those words, after spending so much time at her side. Her refusal to show helplessness during Tristram always seemed to stem from something personal, a deeper reason than just for our morale. That's got to hurt her pride worse than any wound. “Whatever you need, Iris,” she responded quickly, hoping to end Iris’s discomfort as soon as possible. “First, would you pull the blankets back up over me?” Iris asked, smiling wryly and waving towards the crumpled pile of fabric at the foot of the bed.

Smiling to cover her misery, Elarinn bent down and grasped the hem of the bedcovers, and pulled them taut before letting them go and watching them fall over Iris’s prone form. She blinked away another stream of tears as her friend caught the edge of the blankets and gathered them around her. “Second,” Iris whispered, her voice almost too soft for Elarinn to hear, “get some rest. You’ll need it tomorrow.” She then turned away and closed her eyes, letting her head sink into the meager softness of the pillow.

Looking down at her mentor, Elarinn thought she looked somehow smaller than before, like a young girl curled up in her bed, drifting off to sleep on her mother’s words. She’s so...helpless; for the first time that I’ve known her, she seems mortal. At this thought, she let loose the salt rain of her eyes, the droplets running alongside her nose in twin channels and crossing the ravine of her silent mouth before falling to moisten the ground. Finally, after what seemed like ages, she blinked, halting the warm flow of water, and, after a last look at Iris’s sleeping form, climbed back into her own bed, feeling more lost amid the world than ever before.

[0xDEADCAFE]

It took me three separate tries to get through the opening of this story. Not the italicized parts, all of which I thought worked well, throughout the story, but the first page after that. Once the hero got into things it got better and then it continued to get better for the rest of the chapter. But, once again, as with Farewell, I almost never got to read the good parts because of the start.

Now, part of the problems that I have with your stories may just be due to your style and pacing. You take your time with scenes, not hurrying, giving your writing, as Clarke667 put it, a "thereness" which is both riveting and memorable. So it could be just that when I start reading your stories, I need to settle down, and get in sync with pace, and that would explain the feeling I have that they are rough at the beginning and then get better.

But I think there is more to it. I'm now going to assert (and please start imagining gigantic IMHO's virtually everywhere) that you have a kind of habitual wordiness that, on top of your very descriptive style, gives your writing a kind of laborious quality. Or it could be the result of too many revisions. Well I guess I'd better get specific before you bring out the pitchforks.

First, some basic comments, I'll get back to my "wordiness" assertion in a bit:

Their deception of the Order was not quite total, though; a handful of our Sisters, who saw through the haze of joy and euphoria, stood opposed the ascension of the veterans of Tristram
"stood opposed" - shouldn't this either be "stood opposed to" or just "opposed"?

...and left the monastery in protest for the eastern lands, or the cities of Westmarch. I am happy for them; they are the lucky ones. I'm sure you mean they "left in protest" ... "for the eastern lands", but on first read it came off as if their protest had something to do with the eastern lands. This is an example of a sentence that gets better the more times you read it, but on first read it was awkward. Maybe: "...and, in protest, left the..." - I know that introduces a pause but "protest for the eastern lands" is just confusing.


and I now believe they were designed to remove those who most fervently opposed the forces of Chaos, and embraced the true Light with all their hearts. The comma after Chaos suggested to me that "embraced" was in parallel with "designed", which of course makes no sense. Since both "fervently opposed" and "embraced" pertain to "those", I think you should remove the comma; you really want everything after "those" to run together as if it were one thing.


She nodded, and then gazed out over the twisted trees lining the road, down to the black shadow in the distance, like a smear of tar on the horizon. Referential confusion: she "gazed out", she "gazed...down", but she certainly didn't "gaze...like a smear". Inserting a "which" after distance would clarify the reference. Although another word would also be needed, perhaps something like "the black shadow in the distance, which ran like a smear..."


Behind her, the caravan guards conversed among each other in low voices, armed but unready to fight, and the beasts of burden fidgeted anxiously. Okay, here's my first examples of unnecessary wordiness.
- "among each other" seems quite redundant. Consider "the caravan guards conversed in low voices". What's missing? Does this suggest anything other than conversing among themselves?
- "in low voices", while stylistically it might be what you want, perhaps "conversed quietly" would work just as well.
- "armed but unready to fight" - a nice touch but an awkward aside in this sentence. Maybe drop "to fight". Maybe something like: "the armed but unready guards..." I don't think it would hurt the sentence to leave the meaning of "unready" a bit ambiguous. Ambiguity, used in small measure, can increase interest, allowing the reader's mind to wander a bit. In this case, since it is such a non-essential detail, you don't need to be so explicit about it.
- "beasts of burden" - could it be "horses"
- "fidgeted anxously" - how else does one fidget?

To remove all this would leave only: "Behind her, the armed but unready guards conversed quietly, and the horses fidgeted." Is it better? Who knows; maybe it's worse, who can say? Sometimes less is more. It's pretty subjective, but, for me, this is a perfect example of what it is about your writing that makes me want to stop reading.


However, none of this penetrated her consciousness; all her thoughts were focused towards the defiled structure looming ahead, and the fell power that emerged from within. Consider: "None of this penetrated her thoughts, focused on the fell power emerging from the defiled structure that loomed ahead." I'm not saying this sentence is necessarily better, but it is less wordy, has fewer breaks and,as a result I think, reads more smoothly. The real questions is: how essential is it to break "conciousness" and "thoughts" into separate clauses, separated by an essential pause. How important is it to indicate the tower first and then modify it with afterwards with "from within" clause?

This paragraph is another prime example of one that I think could be improved without losing any of your stylish touches or your attention to description. Take out non-essential words, sometimes re-structuring to avoid the need to insert referential phrases like "from within."


All she saw was the shadow in the distance, rising from the earth like the headstone of a giant. Seems to be a confused simile. I can easily imagine the tower and the shadow of a tower, but is it not the tower that rises like a headstone, rather than the shadow?


She opened her traveling pack and pulled out her instruments of war: a suit of hardened leather, worn and light like the cast-off skin of a serpent Since a "suit" can be "worn" (as in someone wore it) it's a confusing placement: is it verb or adjective? The reader doesn't find out until after the fact, which forces a kind mental double-taking.

This is also an example of an aspect of your style which may detract from readability. Consider: "a worn suit" versus "a suit, worn". It's a stylistic choice, but one is clearly smoother than another.

Let me generalize and say that it seems to be a characteristic of your writing to lay out descriptions in a serial fashion; rather than saying "a cold, hard blade" you will tend to say "a blade, cold with..., hard as ..." The latter option allows much more descriptive expressiveness (one of your strengths), but keep in mind that part of the reader's experienceis whether they feel they are getting enough descriptive bang for their reading-time buck. It might help to drop the occasional "cold, hard blade" into the mix, just to keep things moving.

- "skin of a serpent" - another habit seems to be your use of "of a" forms. Ask yourself why "skin of a serpent" is better than "serpent's skin" or "serpent skin"? The latter forms are easier to read, and mimizing the occurence of "of a" / "of the" forms will lend emphasis to the ones you choose to keep.


a well-used dagger, several quivers of arrows, straight and balanced, and her bow, a supple piece of yew with a bronze grip and glowing glyphs etched into the wood. Blah, blah, blah... "straight and balanced" - did we reallly need to know that? "her bow, a supple piece of yew", etc. Consider: "an old dagger, many arrows, and a supple yew bow with a bronze grip, etched with glowing glyphs." Again, not saying this is better (or even good) but there are really only two words in that whole description that really belong in the story: "glowing glyphs", that's really a nice touch. Everything else can go. If you later describe her as using a bow, we will assume she has arrows, that she has as many as she uses, that they are straight, etc. If you write that she stabs with a dagger we will just assume she has one. Get the point? (pun intended) Passages like these are baggage that just detract from all the good stuff.


A good thing that merchant didn’t see these, she thought grimly. They would have made my true affiliation clear, What is the antecedent for "these" and "They"? The glyphs or the whole set of armaments? I also had a momentary pause at "They" thinking it might refer to "merchant(s)"

I'm beginning to think there is a connection between what I perceive as wordiness and frequent referential confusion. It could be that they are linked. It might help to structure sentences in a way that avoids the need for awkward refrence in the first place. Again, the "cold, hard blade" rather than the "blade, cold references blade, hard reference blade/cold, etc."


I'll cease up the blow-by-blow assault at this point. I think you might have used iron-tipped more than once, and she seems to tighten her grip on her bow rather too often, but the bottom line, is that despite my hopefully-not-unfair criticisms above, I really liked the story. In particular, the scene with the Smith and the recollection of the Butcher is etched in my memory.

I was a bit surprised by her outbursts of emotion. Not that you don't set the stage well, she is revisiting her former home and finding horrors at every turn, but the opening scene with the caravan leader left me thinking of her as seasoned, steady, mature, and then later she seems too easily and too completely overcome by emotion. But I still liked those parts. I did not quite believe, however, this part:
and she collapsed, falling onto the arrow-studded corpse of the goblin-creature with the staff. Elarinn rested there a short while, She actually rested willingly on the dead goblin? Or was she so wiped-out that she couldn't move?

I very much liked your treatment of the Rogue "inner-sight" (is that what it's called?) power. The battles were well done. The story was exciting and I am now interested in Elarinn so I'll be reading more.

(BTW, please let me know if I have gone too far with my criticisms. I hope it didn't come across as too preachy or hypocritical, I truly intend this in the spirit of constructive criticism. Much of it may be wrong, but it's all honest. Also I would hate to get you mad at me and lose your valuable commentary on my work, so if you want me to tone it down just say the word.)

[RevenantsKnight]

But, once again, as with Farewell, I almost never got to read the good parts because of the start.

D'oh! You can probably tell that the beginnnings and endings of stories are the hardest for me to work out...it's not uncommon for me to spend three weeks on a starting scene, and then finish the rest in two days.

I'm now going to assert (and please start imagining gigantic IMHO's virtually everywhere) that you have a kind of habitual wordiness that, on top of your very descriptive style, gives your writing a kind of laborious quality.

I agree with you totally on this count. Personally, I like the varied structures and phrasings that accompany this wordiness, but that's because I'm writing the thing, and I can definitely see where you're coming from. I'll be looking for this more in the future.


"stood opposed" - shouldn't this either be "stood opposed to" or just "opposed"?

[expletive deleted] typos. Thanks for the catch.

I'm sure you mean they "left in protest" ... "for the eastern lands", but on first read it came off as if their protest had something to do with the eastern lands.

Check. I'll take another look at it.


The comma after Chaos suggested to me that "embraced" was in parallel with "designed", which of course makes no sense. Since both "fervently opposed" and "embraced" pertain to "those", I think you should remove the comma; you really want everything after "those" to run together as if it were one thing.

Yeah...the "embraced" bit got added after the rest of the paragraph was done, and I tacked it on the end as a separate clause without really looking. Serves me right for being lazy.

Referential confusion: she "gazed out", she "gazed...down", but she certainly didn't "gaze...like a smear". Inserting a "which" after distance would clarify the reference. Although another word would also be needed, perhaps something like "the black shadow in the distance, which ran like a smear..."

Thanks. This sort of thing tends to fly under my radar, since I know what I'm talking about and it makes perfect sense to me. That's why resources like this forum are useful. :)


Okay, here's my first examples of unnecessary wordiness.

Excellent points all, though no, they're not "horses." That was a part I wanted ambiguous, since Hallar is based out of Lut Gholein and might use more...unusual creatures. Thanks much.

This paragraph is another prime example of one that I think could be improved without losing any of your stylish touches or your attention to description. Take out non-essential words, sometimes re-structuring to avoid the need to insert referential phrases like "from within."

Yeah, you're probably right here. I'll read it over in my next round of revisions.


Seems to be a confused simile. I can easily imagine the tower and the shadow of a tower, but is it not the tower that rises like a headstone, rather than the shadow?

I tried to use a little artistic freedom in this paragraph; "shadow" refers not to the one cast by the cathedral but the cathedral itself, since I wanted it to have a bit of an otherworldly feel. Guess that didn't work...

It might help to drop the occasional "cold, hard blade" into the mix, just to keep things moving.

I'll definitely keep this in mind. Thanks.

"skin of a serpent" - another habit seems to be your use of "of a" forms. Ask yourself why "skin of a serpent" is better than "serpent's skin" or "serpent skin"? The latter forms are easier to read, and mimizing the occurence of "of a" / "of the" forms will lend emphasis to the ones you choose to keep.

Yeah...that is one of my habitual writing things. I think it's rooted in my love of phrasings such as this one:

"Darkness crept back into the forests of the world. Rumor grew of a shadow to the east, whispers of a nameless fear." (from the movie Lord of the Rings: the Fellowship of the Ring.)


If you later describe her as using a bow, we will assume she has arrows, that she has as many as she uses, that they are straight, etc. If you write that she stabs with a dagger we will just assume she has one.

I'm a much bigger fan of this sort of thing than most people (remember that comment I made on Love at First Fight regarding my confusion over where that dagger came from?) While I do value your comments, I think that I'd find a version that assumes she as a dagger, etc. just as hard to write as you find this to read. I'll probably cut out a few things ("straight and balanced" comes to mind,) but I'd call the rest a part of my style and leave it as is unless a lot of people start pointing it out. Thanks for the comments, though, since they help me figure out what others like/dislike about writing in general.


What is the antecedent for "these" and "They"? The glyphs or the whole set of armaments? I also had a momentary pause at "They" thinking it might refer to "merchant(s)"

Since this is thought by Elarinn, not said by the narrator, I made it intentionally incomplete in that way; adding antecedents to that sentence would make it wordy in my eyes, as it's all perfectly clear to her.

I think you might have used iron-tipped more than once, and she seems to tighten her grip on her bow rather too often, but the bottom line, is that despite my hopefully-not-unfair criticisms above, I really liked the story.

-That was semi-intentional. I didn't plan for that to happen, but after I read it over, I felt that it worked to keep the description the same for arrows each time. Thanks for flagging this; I'll probably change it.

-That was definitely intentional. It was supposed (and will probably continue) to be one of her tics when she gets nervous or needs to focus herself.

-I'm glad you enjoyed it. At least it wasn't a total waste of time, right? :P

I was a bit surprised by her outbursts of emotion. Not that you don't set the stage well, she is revisiting her former home and finding horrors at every turn, but the opening scene with the caravan leader left me thinking of her as seasoned, steady, mature, and then later she seems too easily and too completely overcome by emotion.

Hrm...what I was driving at was that she's perfectly capable of dealing with any human, but that the whole demon and undead thing has a horrific quality far beyond fighting a soldier or scaring a merchant into wetting himself. I personally imagine that even Fallen or other weak demons, being native to a different world, would have a different air to them that would unnerve many competent soldiers. While Elarinn did deal with this at Tristram, she wasn't alone at the time, so it's a lot harder for her to fight these unnatural enemies without someone else to inspire her.


She actually rested willingly on the dead goblin? Or was she so wiped-out that she couldn't move?

Whoops. I'll definitely fix that.

(BTW, please let me know if I have gone too far with my criticisms. I hope it didn't come across as too preachy or hypocritical, I truly intend this in the spirit of constructive criticism. Much of it may be wrong, but it's all honest. Also I would hate to get you mad at me and lose your valuable commentary on my work, so if you want me to tone it down just say the word.)

Eh, if it's wrong, I don't know the difference. Also, you haven't gone too far (in my mind) if everything you say has reasonable evidence behind it, or unless your comments degenerate into name calling or other insults. Finally, I will never stop commenting on someone's work just because they didn't like mine, because that feels childish to me.

Whew...that was a long bit of insanity. Well, thanks for your comments and your time, and I hope you enjoy the rest of this!

[RevenantsKnight]

This is the last chapter I have for now, and the only one that's not at TDL in some form. With any luck, I'll get another chapter out sorta soon, but I've switched projects for a bit, so maybe not...anyway, I look forward to any comments or criticisms, and I hope you enjoy this!

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Chapter 4: Darkest Hour

Elarinn woke late the following morning, not leaving her nightmares until the sun’s bright rays fell almost straight down from the sky to touch the earth. She would have fled the dark shadows and ghostly voices that filled her mind long before, but the arduous days spent crossing the wilderness and the events of the previous night had drained her in both body and soul. As well, part of her dreaded returning to the present as much as it feared the phantoms of the past; with her closest friends missing or crippled, Elarinn could no longer hope that the lot of her Sisters was better than what she had seen. Without that dream, she spent half an hour staring up at the tent’s canvas ceiling. I kept myself going at times just by thinking that everything would be all right once I found my comrades. I know it’s naive, and I knew that then, but it worked. Doing that did catch up to me, though...blast. No matter what I do, things just don’t get better. Seems like Fate bears me only ill will.

Eventually, Elarinn managed to rise and go through the motions of an orderly life, bathing quickly in a wooden tub of water she found by her bed and then brushing back her auburn hair with a small comb. These familiar actions helped bring her back into the present, focusing her mind on the tasks that lay ahead. Iris said something last night about speaking to the rest of the Order, so I’d assume that there’ll be an audience when Kashya, or whoever ends up as the inquisitor, starts picking through my mind for a fell presence. Her hands, searching for another distraction from the misery she had fled, moved to the sleeping gown around her body; a few minutes later, Elarinn finished securing the last straps on her leather armor, and she felt a surge of defiance rise in her breast to meet her depression. I’m still alive, despite the hellspawn that infest the woodlands and the curse that has befallen my Sisters. Hell hasn’t won yet.

Reaching down to her stomach, Elarinn brushed dirt from her armor, then tugged lightly at her traveling shirt’s sleeves, pulling out a few wrinkles in the worn fabric. It’d probably add weight to my words if I arrive presentable, she thought sardonically, though it hardly matters if they believe me or not. It sounds like the Sisterhood’s too short on soldiers as it is; unless they truly believe I am tainted by the curse, I’ll probably be assigned a post at the wall before the day’s out.

Looking over at the cot next to her, she noted that Iris had already risen, as the covers on her bed lay thrown aside. Elarinn frowned for a second, wondering how her wounded friend had managed to leave the tent in her state, and then spotted a shallow trail scraped into the dirt floor, the indentation creating the impression that a giant snake had slithered from the bed to the encampment outside. She closed her eyes and sighed unhappily, the weight of last night’s horrors returning to burden her mind. She’s so blasted stubborn, acting as if she doesn’t need help from anyone after all that she’s been through. It’d be just like her if she left when it was still dark, so she wouldn’t be seen. Merely seeing the cursed wounds that marred the elder Sister’s legs had shaken Elarinn’s mind; imagining Iris dragging half of her body across the camp in the predawn gloom tore at her heart like emotional claws.

Clenching her hands into fists, Elarinn forced herself to keep busy. She scooped up her dagger and wrist sheath from the dirt floor, then paused and placed them back on the ground. I probably shouldn’t bring any weapons to the council if I want to help convince them that I remain in control of my mind. I better not need them, anyway...Finally ready, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, mentally beseeching the Sightless Eye for strength. May the others see Truth with your aid. Then, she let her breath out and held aside the tent flap, stepping into the midday light outside.

The encampment seemed much smaller and meager when viewed with the painful clarity provided by the sun, though it was by no means cramped. The tall wooden palisade, with the help of the river, enclosed a fair parcel of land, the earth mostly solid for its location in the middle of a moor. Several large traveling wagons were scattered seemingly at random throughout the camp, and chickens could be seen peeking out of them every now and again. Elarinn noted with some satisfaction that the Sisterhood’s tents and a cleared patch of ground with several wooden racks and an anvil nearby, which she took to be the camp’s forge, dominated the haven, taking up nearly half the space inside the sturdy walls. It looks like we’re in command here, instead of hiding behind the protection of merchants and sell-swords. Good.

Gathered by the fire pit at the encampment’s heart were nearly two score of her Sisters. Among them, Elarinn recognized Akara and Kashya conversing quietly off to the side, and across from them Iris, seated on a rough wooden chair. From this distance, Iris could have been mistaken for her old self, quiet and in control, but Elarinn could just make out the straining muscles in her arms as she fought to hold herself upright. Several of the other faces seemed vaguely familiar, but she could not match them with names. I don’t recognize most of these Sisters; they must have joined after I left for Aranoch. Not good.

As she approached, those on the fringes of the group turned to look, and then quieted upon seeing her. Their silence spread outwards like ripples in a pond disturbed by a stone, and in seconds, the last conversations faded as the women turned one by one to face the new arrival. Some of them fingered the bows they held or let their hands stray to their quivers as they eyed Elarinn, causing her to sigh to herself. Well, at least they aren’t shooting yet. I’d better be direct, or else we’ll be standing here all day. She strode forward into the crowd with a steady, even gait, eyes fixed on the two leaders. The assembled Sisters parted before her, and Kashya turned slowly, her expression grim and unafraid, as Elarinn advanced.

Halting the customary three paces in front of the senior Rogue, Elarinn knelt and let her head dip in deference, only to stop at Kashya’s sudden command. “Enough,” she rapped out, the words hard and aggressive, “do not speak the greeting of our Order. That can wait until after we decide whether or not to execute you as a deserter.”

...Or maybe direct was a bad idea. Direct words, anyway; I should have tried a punch. Elarinn scrambled to her feet, balled fists snapping up into a guard by reflex, head rising defiantly to meet the taller woman’s glare. Then, after a moment, she let her body mimic the attention stance of a Khanduras soldier, staring directly ahead as distant memories filled her mind. Oops. Bring your arms down. Don’t act like you want to slam her face into the fire pit. She forced her hands open with a visible effort, holding them steady at her sides. In retrospect, the icy reception wasn’t too shocking; she’d known that Kashya, and many other officers of the Sisterhood, favored a rather blunt approach when searching for demonic taint. Right...anger the host and see if it lets the darkness take over. That one’s straight from interrogation training.

The taut muscles in Kashya’s cheek relaxed slightly as her gaze played over Elarinn’s unmoving form, though the hard mask remained. “Perhaps you have forgotten, fool, but you left this Order months ago, scuttling away to hide in the desert wastelands. Now you return, seeking to join with us once more. Why? Did you fail at robbery like the incompetent you are? Are you hiding from bounty hunters after your head?” Her scarlet cape swished behind her angrily as she stalked around Elarinn, her penetrating stare burning holes in the younger woman’s skull. “Never forget,” she continued, her voice still dripping poison, “that you are a traitor to the Sightless Eye, and all she holds dear. As such, a creature lower than the scum we slay, you will never be welcome among us again.”

A traitor. I betrayed nothing by leaving, you gray-haired harpy. I didn’t hide and tell myself that the Sightless Eye would make things right; I went and tried to follow her teachings. And I can probably shoot almost as well as you can now...Clenching her jaw to keep her wounded pride from lashing out, Elarinn stood silent through her leader’s acerbic hail of insults. Hold it in, Elarinn...

Keeping her sight focused straight ahead, Elarinn worked her face into a calm, blank mask, hiding at first a scowl and then a sardonic grin as she noticed a young Sister to her right. The girl’s eyes were wide with shock, disbelief evident at her commander’s apparent hatred and Elarinn’s defiant composure. Get used to it, little one. You’ll face this too, eventually. That is, if you don’t die first.

Kashya finally ceased her circling, stopping in front of Elarinn and leaning forward towards her with the air of a wolf after a crippled deer. “You are silent,” she hissed, and smiled, a vicious, feral expression that showed more teeth than cheer. “That is because you know the truth; you are our enemy.”

Ha...got you! Eyes sparkling, Elarinn let out a short, victorious laugh. “No, my Lady,” she answered levelly, “I do not know Truth, nor do you. That is the possession of our liege, and it is only by her grace that we are allowed to make it ours for an instant.”

Another piece of Kashya’s mask fell away as the hatred in her eyes softened to a tentative hope. Still, her face contorted with disdain, as if Elarinn had just confessed to knowing nothing of the Sightless Eye, and she shot back angrily, “Fool! Are we not able to call upon her power at will, and for as long as we desire? Or did it seem as though the Sightless Eye was willful with you because you were too weak harness her power?”

“Her power is a blessing given to those deemed worthy; hence, it is only by her kindness that we can know Truth,” Elarinn riposted, noting with some satisfaction a flash of distant recognition across the face of the child behind Kashya. You’d better remember this; everything’s straight from Akara’s mouth from here on. “And her gift is only fleeting, as it passes to another upon the spirit’s departure from this world.”

Kashya paused upon hearing this, surprise wiping away the scorn on her face. “Are you suggesting,” she began slowly, as if she had just stumbled upon an epiphany, “that we are being deceived by the Sightless Eye? Should we demand to know all she sees, so that we may better carry out her will?”

It’s about time she got to the end. This game’s getting bloody annoying, and if she keeps this up, one of the younger Sisters might take a shot at me, or maybe at her if they don’t recognize the act. “No, our ignorance is a test of our faith,” replied Elarinn. “Many mortals would serve the Sightless Eye in exchange for knowledge of the future, but only true believers will follow her teachings without such assurance.” With that, she took two steps back and dropped to one knee again, her auburn hair hanging in a veil around her bowed head. “See only Truth.” There. I’m sane enough to pick up on your cues and remember the code of the Sightless Eye. That had better be enough.

Kashya paused for a moment, letting Elarinn’s words hang in the air. Then, she smiled slightly and let her body relax, no longer a furious predator in human form. “Serve only Light,” she finished, the fingers of her right hand flicking skywards in silent command. As Elarinn obeyed, rising back to her feet, the older woman’s gaze shifted past her, and she turned to follow it with her eyes. She saw a nod pass between Iris and the Order’s steward, the former barely holding back what looked like a grin of immense relief.

“Warriors of the Sightless Eye,” Kashya announced, breaking the nascent silence, “this is our Sister Elarinn, returned from the Eastern deserts to stand with us once again. Let us greet her as friends and sisters in arms!”

A cry of “Hail!” rang from forty throats as the assembled women thrust their bows skyward in salute to their newest comrade. Vaguely unnerved by this display, Elarinn turned back to face Kashya. Something about this seems wrong, she thought, eyes dancing from Kashya to Iris, though she couldn’t translate her worries into words. Her mentor’s face betrayed nothing other than the same suppressed happiness, causing Elarinn to frown inwardly.

“Return to your posts, warriors. You will hear our Sister’s tale later, after nightfall. Elarinn, follow me.” Kashya rapped out new orders, and the meeting ended as abruptly as it had begun. Almost all of the Sisters ran to the palisade’s wooden walls, which, Elarinn noticed, had previously been defended by a motley assortment of hulking men armed with all kinds of axes, blades, and spears. Those must be the Northerners Iris told me about, judging by their appearance and weaponry. Getting them to guard the camp while we had our little face-off must have been expensive, or else Kashya’s got more pull with these adventurers than I thought. What in the name of the Black King is going on? Shaking her head, she hurried after her commander, fighting back the sudden unease that seeped into her thoughts.

Kashya led Elarinn to a large tent near the center of the Rogues’ camp, and motioned for her to enter. Ducking to pass through the opening in the canvas, Elarinn squinted as her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and then blinked in surprise. Sitting on a table inside was an object from her most distant memories, a simple silver circlet with the symbol of the Sightless Eye etched into the band’s forehead. Hmm...I would have thought that this would have been lost, considering...

“I took this from the cathedral altar myself, just after Lysan and the others showed their true intent.” Kashya’s voice sounded behind her, echoing loudly amid the confines of the tent. “You recognize it, then?”

She could see my surprise in this gloom? Elarinn nodded, stepping aside to let the elder woman enter. “I remember wearing it when I first swore the oath of the Order, maybe seven winters ago. The Crown of Truth, is it?”

“Indeed.” Kashya reached down to a stand by the entrance and lit a fresh candle, then walked to the table and picked the crafted metal up, turning it over in her hands. “I am sure, now, that you are in control of both your body and mind. However, I still do not know how you crossed the wilderness and found us, other than the few bits told to me by Akara and the Druid.”

“So you want to hear it from me,” Elarinn finished slowly. “And the Crown is to ensure my honesty.”

“Exactly.” Kashya extended the silver circlet to Elarinn, who accepted it with a quick bow.

Placing it around her head, Elarinn walked to the chair her superior indicated, then paused. Wait...this feels out of place, somehow...“My Lady...when I