The world breaks everyone…
The journey began with half of the group rescuing the other half. The group has expanded since then, members got called to different paths, discovering what the fates have written for all of them. Amidst the discoveries and victories, the once loosely organized group of mercenaries became friends.
The Lords of Lance Rock. A moniker they took from a fallen villain, a title that would have been a name that evoked terror and fear became a name for good and strength. A name they bore with pride.
Now, as the dust settle, as the storm passes and the rumble of thunder recedes into the distance, as the heroes stand among the ruins of those that they hold dear, what does fate hold for them?
In the end all comes back to one lesson…
Garamond stood below the infinite midnight sky of the feywilds. Andraste is peacefully napping among the large cotton blooms nearby. Around him was a sight of wonder. The threads of fate unraveled like yarn threads made of pure starlight.
He slowly turns in place as his eyes follow the threads as they crisscross, sometimes forming intricate knots, or just merely touching another, or follow the same line in parallels. He gazed upon them with awe.
As a diviner, this is the first time he was able to study the very threads themselves. Often times, all people like him can do is glimpse at the threads as they unravel through time. But to see them go and be made in their entirety, the tapestry of history in its raw and unwoven form, this was something even the very gods rarely have to see.
He approaches the area where the threads of the lives he knows twist together to form a single, stronger thread. He touched it and visions flood into his mind. He chuckles as he ran his finger along the threads, seeing the memories he knows all too well. He takes his finger off.
It took him some time but he found it eventually. Each of the threads that are intertwined glowed with purpose. Several other threads also join in or run in parallel to the twine. Garamond absentmindedly smiles as he runs his finger along the length, seeing all the memories and events the threads had. That was when something else caught his eye.
A tangle. A tangle of several hundred threads, all converging into one point where the twine of threads he is tracing is headed to. And as he stood there, he watched a thousand threads form and add up to the tangle. He could sense the waves of emotions and memories radiating from it like an open furnace door.
He nearly ran towards it when he started to see threads fall off, cut and ended. He grasped one and he immediately felt the pain of a hundred arrows piercing his body. Tears began flowing from his eyes as he took another thread that fell, this time feeling the jagged longsword rending his flesh.
Tham
Vritz
Another thread fall off. It grazes his arm and he felt the burning spear pierce his heart.
Yalantha
He could hear the screams in his head. He looks up to the great tangle, tracing the path it took. He tried to sense the passage of time, to the point where it is still the weakest. Where there was still time for him to intervene.
He sees it. With the fire of determination filling the pit of despair that he had moments ago he stood up and started to walk towards Andraste.
He found the twins standing between him and the Herald. His water blurred eyes question their expressionless faces.
“Not every thing you see can be corrected, diviner,” Pessi tells him. Garamond still took his step. Opti places a hand on his arm. Garamond felt the entire pressure of the ocean keeping him from walking. He looked at them and asked.
“Why?”
Pessi sighs and replied, “The world breaks everyone. It is not our place as guardians of the threads to change it, for it is the natural course of things.”
“Some things are meant to happen, diviner,” Opti says, “The prime material plane is a beautiful place, but part of that beauty is loss.”
“You know this more than most,” Pessi says.
Garamond’s mind is suddenly filled with the images of his past. Of the helplessness he felt then, not so different with what he feels now.
“I have time,” his words came out bitter and angry, “I can still change the outcome.”
Pessi looks at him straight, “We showed you the threads not because we want you to change them.”
Opti steps back as Garamond falls onto his knees, “We showed you the threads so you may understand why events happen as they happen.”
Garamond rubs the tears away, “What’s the use of knowing if you have no power to influence it?”
Opti points towards the tangle, “You see this and your mind begin focusing there. Do that and you fail to see these,” as she gestures at the endless threads crisscrossing in the night sky.
“Every tangle, every knot, every thread that twines lead to a pattern. Every choice, every opportunity, lends its color to the greater scheme of things,” Pessi says.
The twins hold hands and in unison continued.
“What you see here is just the fringes of the greater weave. Every birth and every death contributes to its making.
“A masterpiece woven since the dawn of time, before the Architect ever drew the mountains, before the Shaper molded the plains, and before the Carver created the deserts.
“Before the founding of the great hosts of heaven and hell, before the rise of the first titan. Before the fey awoken and shaped the seasons, before the heralding of the mortal races.
“Before all that you know, the weave has existed and has set the world in its course.”
Garamond looks up and saw it. Grander than the stars in a moonless night, far more glorious than the sunrise, and as intricate as the arcane energies that bind life. He gazed at the great weave as the threads fall into place.
“It is not our place to change what the weave has determined,” Pessi says.
Garamond turns back at the tangle as another thread falls. He reaches for it before it disappears. He closed his eyes as the vision floods his mind.
“All we can do, what anyone can do, is take the threads we have and weave the best we can,” Opti says.
The infinite midnight sky stood quiet as the threads of fate weaved through. Garamond stood among the threads, studying them as they untwine.
“The world breaks everyone.”
Lance Rock, two days before the Battle for Red Larch
Oier strode through the stone halls of Lance Rock. His leather heels echoing through the halls. He stops by the common room to admire the portraits there. He smiles a small smile as he looks at each of the figures of the Lords. His hand tracing the frames that Ray kept meticulously dust free.
He then proceeds to the gallery and back into the stone corridors. It’s quiet now, all the Lords off to whatever errand and quest they are into. His hand nonchalantly rested on his rapier handle.
It’s been quite some time since he felt like this, he thought to himself as he entered the barracks. He sits down on the desk Ray provided for him in one corner of the barracks. He took out an inkwell, a quill, and some parchment. Dipping the quill in the ink and letting the excess ink flow back into the small bottle, he started writing.
My dear Esmeralda
He laughed a small laugh as he looked at her name. It almost seems like yesterday when he bid her farewell to look for the student his heart seems to long for. He turns to the small facsimile of the larger painting in the common room. In it are the residents of Lance Rock. He looks at the faces of those he taught. He continued writing.
I am writing to you from the a place I never thought I will be in.
I have travelled far east and have met the most outstanding people in the world.
They remind me of you back in the days when I was still courting you. Headstrong. Determined. Talented.
I taught them of the honor of protecting those who cannot protect themselves. That the sword is an instrument for good and not their own selfishness. That true nobility lies in one’s noble heart and not in one’s birth.
One day, these men and women will change the world. Maybe even save it. I only hope that when the time comes, when the world seems to be at its bleakest, when the darkness that they face begin to surround them, they will remember me and my lessons, and they will stand strong with honor and nobility no origin of birth can ever deny. They are the heroes this world needed, and I helped shape them to be the heroes they are now. And for that I am eternally grateful.
One day, I would want you to meet them for they are the most colorful group you will ever meet. One day, I would tell you of the exploits and heroism of the Lords of Lance Rock. Of my students, Nieves, Xenn, Merem, Gocosi, Horace. Of the tenacious Dari. Of Ray, Clarissa, Ririria Even Grund!
Oier laughed out loud as he wrote the letter.
My dear, I set out to find a student but I was blessed to find more than what I sought.
My task is nearly done here.
I am coming home.
Yearning to see you once again, my love.
Oier sighs as he signed the letter. He heated the sealing wax over a candle as he thought of the journey that brought him here. The fates have indeed blessed him with more than what he expected to find here.
The quiet halls of Lance Rock silently echoes the memories as an old swordsman folded his letter and started reminiscing about the days he spent there. He started singing a song of the old Euskara.
Red Larch, one week before the Battle for Red Larch
Yalantha Dreen silently ground the dried seeds with her pestle. Her eyes slightly glazed over as she conducted her task. She inspects the ground seeds if they were fine enough. She decided to grind them a bit more.
She stood up a minute later and stretched her aching bones. She reached for her pipe and pipe weed. As she stuffed her pipe she started remembering her younger days. With a snap of her fingers the pipe is lighted. She inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill her lungs before exhaling it in a steady stream of gray smoke.
She glances over the empty bed in one corner of the cramped ground floor room of her boarding house. It has been a while since she slept here but Yalantha can still remember the first time the young dwarf requested her to teach the druidic disciplines of the seasons.
She blew another haze of smoke into the air. She never thought she would teach again, not after her falling out with her first protégé. Elizar is talented, if not a bit too aggressive. He was impatient and headstrong, much like her when she first learned her art.
It was her fault, she always thought. She coddled the boy, turned a blind eye to the growing unrest she already saw in his heart. Blaming it on puberty and the foolishness of youth. No, she was his teacher, she was responsible for him. Him going astray was her fault.
After he left, Yalantha decided to stay in Red Larch and practice her druidic arts in peace. She always thought she will never be able to pass on her knowledge, that her training with her has been in vain.
Until Dari came along. Not just Dari, but everyone that calls themselves the Lords of Lance Rock. She felt a small surge of motherly pride rise from her chest. These Lords of Lance Rock gave an elderly crone more than just hope. They gave her redemption and penance for her mistakes.
She turns and takes out a small amulet with the symbol of the fey.
Lagertha, it seems I didn’t fail completely after all.
She turns to the small painting the Lords gave her. On it is the smiling faces of the Lords along with their closest friends in Red Larch. She traced their faces with her bony fingers.
Thank you.
Opti and Pessi stared at the weavings. Their infinitely dark eyes taking in every thread, every detail.
“There are times when something good must come to an end for something better to bloom out from its ruins.
“The pain of loss is not something that the weave wants, but it is the most potent of all the emotions. It is from this that the weave creates its greatest patterns.”
They turned.
Garamond and Andraste stood there. Garamond nods and looked towards Andraste. She gave him a small smile before turning back and heading off to the feypath.
“Remember, diviner,” the twins said in unison, “Remember the lessons you learned here. Remember that with knowledge comes the great price only a few are willing to pay.”
“Remember, that the world breaks everyone.”
Garamond silently pulls up his hood and turns to follow Andraste.
Under the infinitely midnight sky, the threads began to fade off until only the lights of the fireflies kept a soft glow in the air.
Dreamwarden 