It is night. The sounds of Lakeshire Inn are muted and light, interrupted by the gentle lapping of Lake Everstill just outside the front door. Hunched near the dying embers of a large fire, a lone figure leans close in the fading light and flips through an ancient tome. Though aged beyond the imagination of time, the blackened leather bound book is still in excellent condition. The edge of each page is still gilded in gold and are not yet brittle to the touch.
The lone figure reads, and remembers … … …
Coldeve 7, 11 PY // 64.12N x 23.48E
I am Sorba of Zaikhal … the Cursed; I bid thee, good day.
There is death in the air, and it seeps from my bones. Its foulness has settled about my person as a fetid cloak; indeed were it not for its malicious kindliness, I would be dead again, if not dying from this frigid moutain air. I have been found out here, these leagues from my native Ispar, and it would seem my Curse is no less potent than before.
Have you forgotten my geis, this affliction bestowed for deeds done in honour? I was guilty of the same. By now, there should be small wonder, this condition. To be certain, my Curse is alive and well, and blankets my soul with its putrid tendrils of dominion. I am unearthed and remanded to wander in exile even here on Dereth. There is yet little that remains of my hope and but scant joy to buoy my soul. I tire of this repetition. Thus my refrain, “My strength has perished, and so has my hope been slain.”
Somehow, it is fitting this tome be re-opened with word of the brutality brought to bear upon me by the very force that requires my recollection herein. I have long been burdened with the weight of this Journal and only since my arrival to Dereth have I not been compelled by its creed. That is, until today.
I am, you see, betrayed.
I reel from the blow of this treachery; my hands shake with the effort to contain this overwhelming loneliness and tumult of grief. I would not have delivered such to mine enemies, much less to the beloved in my House. It is quite clear they are not bound by the same compunction as I. My House — they in my family, they in my heart of hearts — they have turned their face from me and have absented themselves from my company. My House has been evicted from my care and they have delighted in the affair.
I am, of course, speaking of the Thornes.
They have, each in their fashion revealed marvelous secrets to me: the secrets of love, and companionship, and brotherhood. I was brought among them when still young in the ways of my office and nurtured into the King of Fools I am today. Against my wishes and better judgment, I was placed upon their pedestal, allowed not only to be amongst them, but to sup as head of their table, to feast in defiance of all I was when banished from Ispar. Oft I would remark upon the prowess of one, or praise another in the execution of their office — each were brilliant and thusly skilled much beyond the mundane — only to have hilt-turned-upon-blade to give homage to my leadership. I was all things with them in that I was Monarch, Patron, confidant, father, brother, and of utmost esteem — I was friend; lo there, my Curse doth carry me on.
From my post as Monarch, there were two lieutenants through which authority in the Thorne Dynasty flowed. My First was Trinidy, prodigious Axer who knew defeat only in matters of her heart. My brother of blood, Erich Thorne, was Second, and as seemed appropriate, victor over Trinidy’s heart. The “Crown of Thorne” quartet was made complete by my faithful compatriot Beq, the Royal Scribe. From them, the House took on the legions appropriate to the task of supporting a Dynasty of our construct.
Beneath Trinidy we formed “Fist of Thorne” placing the swaggering brute, Reddrik Thorne in charge of that post. What Reddrik lacks in wit he makes up for in might. Few can withstand a direct onslaught of his prowess. We balanced his command staff with Lady Kaizla as his First, herself an accomplished bowyer and well schooled in the martial arts.
Under Erich, we stood “Mind of Thorne.” Stewarding “Mind” was Valakai, our grossly endowed mage who knew no boundaries in his flippant execution of Derethian ley. As his First, we placed Tyren, sometimes warriour, sometimes mage, and quite often one’s last visage before claimed by another resurrection. Beneath these and fleshing out the ranks could be found the Piker, Jericho Thorne; Vagabond, Pscyclone the Nomad; and Blademistress Rollergirl.
All have fallen away, like leaves from a tree in winter, leaving me naked and barren, a mere heartbeat from oblivion. Presently, I sit near this smoldering campfire, feeling the Darktide chill with nothing between my flesh and the night, having all my accoutrements stripped from my person. Any moment I am certain, the beasts of this region will overcome their trepidation for this dying flame, and finish the job my House — that is to say, the Thornes, started.
For all their assurances, all claims to the contrary, none could withstand the malevolent intent of my Curse once it again laid claim to me. Point of fact, when my Curse engulfed their spirits, they made little effort to resist, gladdened to be excused from my presence. Even the mightiest among them were as brittle bone against the sway of heavy stone, and I have been resonantly shattered within their embrace.
In consideration of days past, I should have recognized the precursors of my Curse and the imminence of its approach. Foolish and comfortable I was, and willingly blinded to the obviousness of its return. In the bliss of romance, I lay with Lady Kaizla, as was our wont in desire. There was no secret made of our affair, nor was there any reason to make it so. As Erich and Trinidy before us, Lady Kaizla and I explored the depths of our hearts, and intertwined our purpose, one to the other. We did so willingly, and with the support of our House.
It happened last night, here in these hills near Stonehold, that Lady Kaizla made known the truest nature of her devotion. Words of adoration flowed unbidden from her lips and tasted to my ears like sweet wine in the morning. She cried of her confession to me, not in sadness, but in release and acknowledgement of nothing more absolute in her love than what she held for me. We lay then as kindred in spirit, not simply in flesh, and knew each other in the way of husband and wife. My Curse — naught but a dream.
Then from dream awakened, I found the Lady Kaizla away from me and absent our tent. Not just her presence, mind you, but her effects as well. Confused and unable to focus because of it, I searched the surrounding countryside for fear some animal had spirited her away in the night. Again, I must say I was not thinking as myself — indeed, why would an animal so removing Lady Kaizla pause its frenzy to return for her effects? Whereupon I returned to our encampment, did I find her emerging from Reddrik’s tent, he shortly thereafter, they embracing and cooing in a manner reserved for lovers. As the rest of the camp awakened to meet the day, there were none the wiser, none knowing or remembering the previous months of my courtship with her. To all it seemed natural and proper she be with Reddrik, and he with her. Yet, there upon my finger was a token of her heart, now the silent mockery of my Curse gloating in triumph.
Still, in the face of these events, I denied my Curse, refusing consideration of its rebirth. I was inane in my denial, and I have been made a sacrifice to it. You see, it is a facet of my Curse that she who proclaims her love for me will be ripped from my embrace, awakening in the arms of he who abhors me the most. It was a double-edged sword that pared my heart, seeing Kaizla with Reddrik. The razor’s edge, her new love for him; the jagged edge, his hatred for me.
I made no attempt to confront them, some level of my being acknowledging the inevitable. Perhaps that is why I returned to the Thornes after departing to hunt. Perhaps it was the silent memory of what would follow that brought me back, choosing to face the iterative consequences at the hands of my family instead of some raucous mob. With much haste, I made myself ready and entered the wilderness, hunting our supper, and weeping my loss. As the twilight loomed and my pack weighed heavy, I moved in the direction of our camp.
I knew my folly. I knew my fate. Yet I returned to them. How much more intelligent to turn tail and run, to disappear into the Direlands without so much as a hint of my flight. I had faith in them though. I felt in my heart and believed with my soul they would find a way to usurp my Curse, if not completely, then at least to the point of a reasonable dismissal. They were my family, you see, kindred and dear, close to my heart as only relations of blood can be, and in my faith of their forbearance, I would stand loyal to them.
When entering our encampment I exclaimed my hail, as was our tradition. It became immediately apparent I had foolishly decided in their favour. From across the campfire, I was abruptly met by the new couple, Reddrik and Kaizla.
“There is nothing here for you Sorba,” exclaimed Kaizla, “yet you return. Do you wish to be slain?” Her face was no longer filled with adoration for me. To the contrary, there was only disgust and a boiling hate.
“There walks an oaf!” proclaimed Reddrik, pounding his chest, “Beg now for mercy from the mighty Reddrik!”
Gently, I hung my kill from our dressing hook, and disarmed myself, laying my swords to the ground at my feet. Still, I would face my House with the same trust and honour, Kaizla in my embrace or not.
I replied, “Perhaps you could tell me what I have done to elicit such animosity from you and your — ” I choked on the final word, for my heart still held unabiding love for Kaizla, ” — betrothed.”
“You are in no position to command anyone’s actions!” exclaimed Trinidy. “In fact, you are in no position at all! I renounce my fealty allegiance, and do so with prejudice!”
Each in turn repeated the oath, crumbling the bedrock upon which our House was built. In sheer defiance and sly comeuppance, they reformed the House under Trinidy, each swearing featly allegiance to her. I moved to gather my things and depart, believing the resolve of the Thornes would not allow my Curse any further influence.
It was Erich that spoke, sweeping aside what remained of my illusions. “Shall we show Sorba what the House of Thorne is capable of?”
There was a general murmur of assent before I was set upon like a rabid cur trapped in madness. My blood was let at once, flowing from numerous scratches, gouges, and cuts. I did not resist them at first, thinking — foolishly thinking — their senses would return forthwith and they would turn away from their cruelty. But my Curse was mighty upon them, and they would not turn from it.
As their solitary target of interest, I found the pain of it too intense to stand defenseless. I was of a mind to flee, but avenues of escape were quickly closed off, leaving me no choice but to receive what they wished upon me. Summarily stripped and given no quarter, they smote me from Dereth a half dozen times before they grew weary of dragging my new body from the Lifestone to their encampment. Though the distance from their camp was not far, there were fellows who stood ready at the ‘Stone for my resurrection to prevent my escape. To save those from missing any of the revelry, it was wordlessly decided to take up their activities within proximity of the ‘Stone. Thus, beaten and bound, I was drug by my hair to within its shadow.
Refracting light cast varying shades of azure gloom over my body, already greatly weakened and encumbered. Still, the tumult continued. I was struck down repeatedly, in a steadily more vulgar and obtuse manner. Each resurrection only gave them more sport, they casting lots over the very act of my rebirth. When the House of Thorne paused their vile pursuits, I lay naked at the base of the LIfestone’s supports, deeply scarred and bruised. So beaten was I, even the Lifestone’s magic could not completely heal my wounds upon restoration. But more than this, came what may upon my flesh, my soul was scored the deepest, and I fear I shall never again be the same.
They had their way with my body, each according to their will, and my blood muddied the earth. I lay as I had been tossed, only to be retrieved to be abused and maligned again. If they heard my cries of anguish, they paid them little mind. If they saw my love for them behind the tears and blood they scorned me for foolishness. I became quite mad then, seeing such daemonic revelry in those I held dear. Had I been of sound mind I could repel the tidal forces of my emotion, but having so many that meant so much do as they did, I could not.
For a moment then, a silence fell. The only sounds were those misery forced from my lips. Fragile and faint, I lay trembling in the night, naked and lamenting at the base of the Lifestone, trapped under the feet of my former compatriots. I wept the frustration of an innocent convicted without cause; of a love lost beyond measure of recompense; of a man knowing wisdom in the way of the fool. I felt them feeding off my torment, relishing the despair that choked from my throat, unable to be contained. They drank deeply my privation and rejoiced my defeat.
Before delivering the final of a long string of killing blows, Trinidy hauled my head from the earth, roughly entangling her fingers in my blood-soaked hair. “I want to play this realm as it was meant to be played — by might, magic, or mayhem!”
Throwing my head to the ground with such force my skull collapsed from the impact, she stood, shouting in mockery, “Come, O House of Thorne, pay respects to our ‘Monarch,’ our “Patron,” “lover,” and “friend!” Show the truest nature of your heart for this, our hero! Then let us seek our fortunes and what adventure awaits!”
Her words were met with raised weapons and drunken bays from the gathered multitude.
Still reeling and dying from her previous blow, I did not see her gauntleted hand to my brow. Even had I been aware of its approach, I could not have moved in my own defense. The force of it split my palate, and severed my tongue at the root. I felt moistness on my right cheek and moved to wipe it away. What I mistook for tears was the viscous fluid from within my ruptured eye. Blood filled my mouth, leaking through my sinuses and tasting of sour copper. Her blow sent the world spinning and slipping away from me. Before succumbing yet again to the Lifestone’s embrace, each member of the House of Thorne passed by, jeering and taunting, laughing and reveling, and spat upon my dying flesh.
When resurrected once more, I collapsed in a ball to the ground in an effort to protect myself. I knew they would rudely accost me again, but I could not help trying to lessen the impact of their blows. Shivering from fear and chill, I waited, certain they toyed with me. Only a cramp in my back compelled me to move and when I did try to rise, I promptly fell again to the ground. After so many deaths and resurrections, I was unable to support my own weight. Realizing I was alone forced the floodgates of my sorrow open, and it flowed from me freely. For how long I lie at the base of that Lifestone and wept, smiting the earth and cursing the fruit of my parent’s love, I cannot say. I weep even now, in recollection of these events.
Through the underbrush, I crawled back to our — that is, the Thorne’s — encampment, hoping to find some of my equipment in decent repair. Efficient as always, they had cindered all my gear and each of my carcasses. Only this Journal remains intact, though it is evident they tried to destroy it, as well. Another aspect of my Curse is this Journal. I am never far from it, nor can I labour long without adding to it, and it cannot be removed from my possession. The very fact of its presence in my life should serve as overt reminder I am under this geis, yet until today, I overlooked the fundamental reason for its existence.
My compulsion to write herein is not swayed by circumstance. Instead of tending to my survival and knowing I am barely moments from freezing to death, still I sit near these embers and compose this requiem of disdain. But I am vexed. My armour and weapons are gone and I am so weak I cannot support my weight to stand. I have no idea how I am to overcome a drudge, much less a banderling or skeleton. A reedshark pup would undoubtedly hand me my posterior in gleeful request for seconds — – –
Pardon the interruption, but I have been discovered. A small band of gypsies heard my cries in the distance and have come offering what comfort they may. When I have regained more of myself, I will write again.
