The Colour of Sunrise (Part Three of Three)
Credit: http://www.obsidianportal.com/campaigns/the-sorceror-s-sunken-dungeon
Hime moved.
In practiced, steady steps he danced, not in the direct line to his foe but irregularly to the sides and varying his approach vector. His long strides ate the distance quickly. He would be no easy target for a ranged attack.
The stone square exploded in a pool of brilliant blue-white light; a thousand times that of the passage. Hime closed his eyes momentarily, memorising the relative position to his foe even as he surged closer.
The Grey One had turned; his hands still on the book. Hime abandoned his evasive movements in favour of a headlong charge. His right palm was already arranged for the disabling strike. Ten, then five, then three steps left. The warrior monk had a moment when he saw under the depths of the cowl, looking the Grey in the face. The evil wizard's visage was horror to behold - yellowed pus oozed from cracks on it's surface, a host of open wounds bled onto his matted beard.
“The evil wizard’s visage was horror to behold - yellowed pus oozed from cracks on it’s surface, a host of open wounds bled onto the front of his robes.”
The monk chopped his right palm in a practiced blow to the throat. He braced himself for a counter, a personal shield, or an evocation. To his surprise, the Grey One made no sound, even as the iron edge of Hime's trained palm crushed the wizard's windpipe. The stunned caster raised his hand, not to defend himself, but to wave helplessly.
Hime had no time to enjoy his luck, as a lifetime of training kicked in. Disable the vocal spells. Disable his somatic ability. Find and destroy any magical foci.
Hime's other hand came up a half-breath later, the wicked war'rang's bladed edge severing both the Grey's hands in a single blow. The tome could be a focus of power; but it did not seem to be reacting, so Hime struck the wizard again with his palm. Hot blood covered his hand, and the Grey One crumpled.
A magic ward activated. The air filled with a sizzling light and Hime felt his skin, hair and flesh burning. The pain was unbearable, contracting his muscles beyond their limits, boiling his blood, the pain driving all other cognition away.
It was all he could do to take a step back from the still glowing portal.
He stumbled. His last image was the book, sitting open on the pedestal. Then he passed out.
With soft footsteps of her doeskin boots, she crept into the hall. Her blue eyes gleaming bright in a dark hall, she saw the Tjion, his dark skinned form fallen before the portal.
Tiandra had followed him across the plains, stalking him as she would stalk a three-antlered deer. She didn't understand then why she had done so. Why she was compelled to run after this strange warrior monk that had shown her no affection. She had cursed her folly as it took her a week to wind her circuitous around and down to the hidden cave. She had won her stone despite the male warriors saying she could not. That iron resolve, born of famished times and warrior spirit, had seen her here.
To him, in front of the softly glowing portal.
Crumpled, bleeding, broken.
She ran, then, crossing the hall heedlessly and knelt by his side. He was still alive, breathing shallowly. He was dangerously cold. His eyes opened. Looking at her. Then she knew. Without the need for words, his eyes had captured her, as surely as any rabbit snare. This strange, quiet ascetic, so unlike the men she had known. His face was miraculously mostly unaffected, though his lips were cold. He spoke something, too softly for her to hear.
Tiandra leaned close. "Flask" he whispered.
She looked on his person and saw a small vial, finely wrought in bronze. She uncorked the stopper and poured a small amount past his cracked lips, seeing him swallow a small mouthful. She was about to give him the rest, when his hand, seemingly with renewed strength, clenched her thigh and gave her pause.
Before her eyes, his most grievous wounds knitted closed, not healing completely but showing months of recovery in mere seconds. A glow returned to his face; and he smiled as he looked upon her. A miracle not seen since the departure of the White Ones.
Then, miracle upon miracles, she helped him come to his feet. He groaned with bone-deep pain, it was all she could do to hold him up. She tried to make him take more of the miraculous potion, but he would not.
"That is for the future." his words were weak, with none of the smooth intonation she remembered.
She hesitated, then stoppered the flask. She began to turn him toward the entrance.
"No. Book."
He waved her off, standing on his own. He pointed at the book.
"Please... read. Portal. Careful."
Tiandra turned to the book. Behind it, the portal was glowing a soft blue. The book lay open, yellowed pages filled with a fine script. She read out loud to the monk.
"...in our hubris we made a mistake. All our good intent poured into creating faithful, frail man. Our magic, alongside all that was dark, false and evil about our peoples poured into beings of another kind - the Yinchanu - the Grey Ones.
In the centuries that followed, chaos. From the fey planes from which we drew our energies, they poured forth, legion after legion of them." Tiandra paused in her reading, looking at Hime. His face was exhausted, but his manner begged her to read on.
“We had squandered the gift of magic, unable to bequeath it to our children. In our folly, we brought great evil upon our worlds.”
"So there was war. While man dug deep into mountain roots or roamed the endless plains of grass and horse, we duelled with the Grey Ones. We fought them to a standstill, but our magic drew from the same source. Since they were our creation, we took responsibility. We destroyed the Blue Fountains of Nei, the source of magic on this world.
Then came the Great Lessening. So a few of us walked amongst our children, teaching them the ways of battle. It came to be that those students called themselves the Tjion, meaning the chosen. In time, they would grow strong while we and the Greys would weaken. The world would be left to the Enchamen. A final gift."
Hime had moved beside Tiandra, looking down at the book. There was but one passage left of the text. Here, the ink was fresh. Anger filled him as he realised that the Grey One had written in this holy tome.
"And I, Ebellin the Final, humblest of our order - report that the Tjions have been trained well. They have hunted and destroyed all but Uun-gannu the Dark, the avatar himself. For fifty years, I made it my life's quest to hunt him. I have destroyed him. Though I am broken myself, return in honour."
Hime stared at the page. He looked down.
He looked at the cloak of the Grey One, still sprawled on floor. A dirt-stained cloak, threadbare and worn with the years.
A once white robe.
