Redemption

Still smiling, he continued. “But of course you can’t. You’re an aasimar. You’re a feather head that follows a weak, pathetic God that holds you back, keeping you from becoming what you could be.”

So he dodged the first and second swing, letting her play out her rage a bit. Then, after dodging a third, massive swing that threatened to leave her overextended and out of balance, he darted in a crouch, leading with an elbow smash to her gut to force her air out. Rather than straightening out, he spun, sweeping her feet from under her and sending her crashing to the ground again. 

He knocked the air from her lungs, her feet out from underneath her, and Fiantha gasped like a stranded fish, ignoring the pain, as she tried to get enough breath to stand again. The drow was chanting, and she knew what that meant, she just had to be quicker...

And it was, gods, it was… the sun’s first rays were painful to her eyes after so many days in darkness, but Fiantha stared at them anyway. The breeze was soft against her cheek, fresh and cool, and smelt of growing things. She simply let it all soak into her, almost as precious, as necessary, as food and drink.

"…thank you…" she murmured, half to the world in general and the gods who had shaped it so, and half to Alamondar, for this small kindness. Whatever came after, he had given her this, as if he’d known how badly she needed it. Then she made sense of his words, the way he spoke to her -

- no. There was no kindness here, only calculation. She knew that. She would not be in such a state if he had not kidnapped and imprisoned and stabbed her - these small concessions, too, were just as intended to break her and make her pliant as leaving her in that cell had been, She knew that.

He carried her easily to the stream. “This is Charwood. Not so long ago, it was haunted as a whole. Even now, foul things stir in some of it’s depths. I recognized signs of demon cult, but magical residues indicate that they were eliminated by a pair of mages: they wielded powerful magics indeed.” 

The water, when he lowered her into it, was shockingly cold. It stole her breath for an instant, but then she realised - water - and dipped her head to drink. She fought her need to gulp it down with the knowledge that she’d only hurt herself if she drank too quickly, forced herself to sip continually and to be aware of its sweetness (gift of Eldath, her mind whispered).

But it was not yet time to run. She wouldn’t escape him that way - she could feel how weak and slow she was, and he needed to be dealt with, or else it would solve nothing. So she submitted meekly enough, even to being dropped - and then Fiantha saw it, shining in the intermittent sunlight under the trees.

A scythe.

Oh, if she could only get her hands on it - she was weakened, she knew, but even in her current state, she could hurt him. He’d easily bested her with a greatsword, but this was a scythe…

Fiantha barely heard the drow, goading her to do exactly what she wanted - needed - to do. If she nearly fell, scrambling for the weapon, still she got it, straightened herself with the scythe held low and ready. It felt like power, like certainty and strength and righteousness, as she held it and watched Alamondar - foolish drow, he’d thrown away his own weapon…

Or else… not so foolish. He still had magic. And she… she was weak, and no longer a paladin, and forbidden the use of a scythe.

It was one of the few pieces of guidance she had been given. She would not damage further her slim hopes for redemption.

But imprisoned here, at the mercy of a sadistic drow, how could she ever redeem herself?

Still smiling, he continued. “But of course you can’t. You’re an aasimar. You’re a feather head that follows a weak, pathetic God that holds you back, keeping you from becoming what you could be.”

And it was, gods, it was… the sun’s first rays were painful to her eyes after so many days in darkness, but Fiantha stared at them anyway. The breeze was soft against her cheek, fresh and cool, and smelt of growing things. She simply let it all soak into her, almost as precious, as necessary, as food and drink.

"…thank you…" she murmured, half to the world in general and the gods who had shaped it so, and half to Alamondar, for this small kindness. Whatever came after, he had given her this, as if he’d known how badly she needed it. Then she made sense of his words, the way he spoke to her -

- no. There was no kindness here, only calculation. She knew that. She would not be in such a state if he had not kidnapped and imprisoned and stabbed her - these small concessions, too, were just as intended to break her and make her pliant as leaving her in that cell had been, She knew that.

He carried her easily to the stream. “This is Charwood. Not so long ago, it was haunted as a whole. Even now, foul things stir in some of it’s depths. I recognized signs of demon cult, but magical residues indicate that they were eliminated by a pair of mages: they wielded powerful magics indeed.” 

The water, when he lowered her into it, was shockingly cold. It stole her breath for an instant, but then she realised - water - and dipped her head to drink. She fought her need to gulp it down with the knowledge that she’d only hurt herself if she drank too quickly, forced herself to sip continually and to be aware of its sweetness (gift of Eldath, her mind whispered).

But it was not yet time to run. She wouldn’t escape him that way - she could feel how weak and slow she was, and he needed to be dealt with, or else it would solve nothing. So she submitted meekly enough, even to being dropped - and then Fiantha saw it, shining in the intermittent sunlight under the trees.

A scythe.

Oh, if she could only get her hands on it - she was weakened, she knew, but even in her current state, she could hurt him. He’d easily bested her with a greatsword, but this was a scythe…

Fiantha barely heard the drow, goading her to do exactly what she wanted - needed - to do. If she nearly fell, scrambling for the weapon, still she got it, straightened herself with the scythe held low and ready. It felt like power, like certainty and strength and righteousness, as she held it and watched Alamondar - foolish drow, he’d thrown away his own weapon…

Or else… not so foolish. He still had magic. And she… she was weak, and no longer a paladin, and forbidden the use of a scythe.

It was one of the few pieces of guidance she had been given. She would not damage further her slim hopes for redemption.

But imprisoned here, at the mercy of a sadistic drow, how could she ever redeem herself?

Still smiling, he continued. “But of course you can’t. You’re an aasimar. You’re a feather head that follows a weak, pathetic God that holds you back, keeping you from becoming what you could be.”

And it was, gods, it was… the sun’s first rays were painful to her eyes after so many days in darkness, but Fiantha stared at them anyway. The breeze was soft against her cheek, fresh and cool, and smelt of growing things. She simply let it all soak into her, almost as precious, as necessary, as food and drink.

"…thank you…" she murmured, half to the world in general and the gods who had shaped it so, and half to Alamondar, for this small kindness. Whatever came after, he had given her this, as if he’d known how badly she needed it. Then she made sense of his words, the way he spoke to her -

- no. There was no kindness here, only calculation. She knew that. She would not be in such a state if he had not kidnapped and imprisoned and stabbed her - these small concessions, too, were just as intended to break her and make her pliant as leaving her in that cell had been, She knew that.

He carried her easily to the stream. “This is Charwood. Not so long ago, it was haunted as a whole. Even now, foul things stir in some of it’s depths. I recognized signs of demon cult, but magical residues indicate that they were eliminated by a pair of mages: they wielded powerful magics indeed.” 

The water, when he lowered her into it, was shockingly cold. It stole her breath for an instant, but then she realised - water - and dipped her head to drink. She fought her need to gulp it down with the knowledge that she’d only hurt herself if she drank too quickly, forced herself to sip continually and to be aware of its sweetness (gift of Eldath, her mind whispered).

But it was not yet time to run. She wouldn't escape him that way - she could feel how weak and slow she was, and he needed to be dealt with, or else it would solve nothing. So she submitted meekly enough, even to being dropped - and then Fiantha saw it, shining in the intermittent sunlight under the trees.

A scythe.

Oh, if she could only get her hands on it - she was weakened, she knew, but even in her current state, she could hurt him. He'd easily bested her with a greatsword, but this was a scythe...

Fiantha barely heard the drow, goading her to do exactly what she wanted - needed - to do. If she nearly fell, scrambling for the weapon, still she got it, straightened herself with the scythe held low and ready. It felt like power, like certainty and strength and righteousness, as she held it and watched Alamondar - foolish drow, he'd thrown away his own weapon...

Or else... not so foolish. He still had magic. And she... she was weak, and no longer a paladin, and forbidden the use of a scythe.

It was one of the few pieces of guidance she had been given. She would not damage further her slim hopes for redemption.

But imprisoned here, at the mercy of a sadistic drow, how could she ever redeem herself?

"Then they teach the females that they are the rulers of drow society. They are to show no mercy. Mercy is weakness. And so they torture the males, enslave the lesser races. There was a human visitor once. They dangled him over a cliff for amusement. Then the brothers learn. And always we are attempting to kill one another. House warfare commences. The goal is complete annihilation with no evidence left behind. My House, the Tenth House, was attacked by the Eleventh. They killed everyone…except for me. I was too good. Too clever."

The cell was small and dark. Fiantha kept one hand on the wall for support as she tested the door - methodically at first, then with a measure of the panic she’d kept suppressed rising until she was all but banging at the door.

It took a wrenching effort of will to get herself under control again, to think.

She called light, that steady glow that was a gift of her celestial blood, and studied her surroundings more thoroughly. Stone, dead air… a bucket as the sole concession to bodily needs. A small amount of food and water - too much for one night, enough to stretch out for perhaps ten days, although she would be in a much-weakened state by the end of it. She would assume that was his intent.

She intended to survive. She intended to escape. She intended to kill him.

——————————-

The days - if they were truly any such thing, down where her all-too-brief spell was the only light she knew - passed slowly. She ate little, only when the pain in her stomach became unendurable, and drank less. She had sacrificed a good portion of her water to clean out her wounds; the risk of sepsis was all too real. The stab wound was going bad despite her efforts, the flesh puffing up red and sensitive around it.

The lack of light for most of the hours, the deprivation of sustenance, the uncomfortable surroundings… they were difficult to endure, but only added weight to the real torment – the questions. The fears. There was nothing to distract herself from them, in the endless darkness… what did he truly intend with her? Was he ever going to come back? Was her father safe? What had he meant by this or that…

And constantly the walls pressed tighter about her, the small stone box grew smaller and more confining even though she counted its dimensions in her pacing steps, around and around and around. She was not made for this. She had the blood of Chauntea’s servitors in her veins; she needed open air, trees and grass and growing things, wind and sun… houses and four walls about her had always been… difficult, but this was worse, so much worse.

It pressed and pressed, squeezing her smaller, forcing the questions and doubts and fears into her mind with greater and greater urgency. She prayed – no, she begged – with a fervour rare since she’d returned home to the slaughter of the grove. Let her out. Let her father be safe. Let the drow return to set her free, don’t let him leave her down here to die alone in the dark…

By the end of the tenday, she no longer had strength to move from the stretch of stones she had arbitrarily designated as a bed. The food, however slowly she nibbled at it, had given out days before; she had twice licked out her water dish, chasing just one more drop. Her shoulder was aflame, filling her with fever and occasional bout of delirium.

She heard Annen, sometimes, screaming for her – “I’m coming, oh, little one, I am coming, hold on for me!” she pleaded her baby, trying to run to her, always too late. She saw Seidon, smiling as he bid her hurry back to him, as she promised she would, that she would be no time at all. Sometimes they were so close she could almost touch them… but then they faded in her lucid periods, and she knew she yet lived.

He stepped back to the cavern that held his prisoner, and his keen ears picked up that final whisper. She looked to be in bad shape indeed - good. It was pleasing to the drow to see her like that…drifting on the edge of insanity…and calling his name. He opened the old cell, ignoring the smell of feces and stale urine as he approached. Gathering the aasimar in his arms, he used his vision gifted to his race by centuries living underground to find his way without any light. “You are not dreaming…Fiantha. You have persevered, showing your resolve. I will reward you now.”

And it was, gods, it was… the sun’s first rays were painful to her eyes after so many days in darkness, but Fiantha stared at them anyway. The breeze was soft against her cheek, fresh and cool, and smelt of growing things. She simply let it all soak into her, almost as precious, as necessary, as food and drink.

"…thank you…" she murmured, half to the world in general and the gods who had shaped it so, and half to Alamondar, for this small kindness. Whatever came after, he had given her this, as if he’d known how badly she needed it. Then she made sense of his words, the way he spoke to her -

- no. There was no kindness here, only calculation. She knew that. She would not be in such a state if he had not kidnapped and imprisoned and stabbed her - these small concessions, too, were just as intended to break her and make her pliant as leaving her in that cell had been, She knew that.

He carried her easily to the stream. “This is Charwood. Not so long ago, it was haunted as a whole. Even now, foul things stir in some of it’s depths. I recognized signs of demon cult, but magical residues indicate that they were eliminated by a pair of mages: they wielded powerful magics indeed.” 

The water, when he lowered her into it, was shockingly cold. It stole her breath for an instant, but then she realised - water - and dipped her head to drink. She fought her need to gulp it down with the knowledge that she'd only hurt herself if she drank too quickly, forced herself to sip continually and to be aware of its sweetness (gift of Eldath, her mind whispered).

"Then they teach the females that they are the rulers of drow society. They are to show no mercy. Mercy is weakness. And so they torture the males, enslave the lesser races. There was a human visitor once. They dangled him over a cliff for amusement. Then the brothers learn. And always we are attempting to kill one another. House warfare commences. The goal is complete annihilation with no evidence left behind. My House, the Tenth House, was attacked by the Eleventh. They killed everyone…except for me. I was too good. Too clever."

The cell was small and dark. Fiantha kept one hand on the wall for support as she tested the door - methodically at first, then with a measure of the panic she’d kept suppressed rising until she was all but banging at the door.

It took a wrenching effort of will to get herself under control again, to think.

She called light, that steady glow that was a gift of her celestial blood, and studied her surroundings more thoroughly. Stone, dead air… a bucket as the sole concession to bodily needs. A small amount of food and water - too much for one night, enough to stretch out for perhaps ten days, although she would be in a much-weakened state by the end of it. She would assume that was his intent.

She intended to survive. She intended to escape. She intended to kill him.

——————————-

The days - if they were truly any such thing, down where her all-too-brief spell was the only light she knew - passed slowly. She ate little, only when the pain in her stomach became unendurable, and drank less. She had sacrificed a good portion of her water to clean out her wounds; the risk of sepsis was all too real. The stab wound was going bad despite her efforts, the flesh puffing up red and sensitive around it.

The lack of light for most of the hours, the deprivation of sustenance, the uncomfortable surroundings… they were difficult to endure, but only added weight to the real torment – the questions. The fears. There was nothing to distract herself from them, in the endless darkness… what did he truly intend with her? Was he ever going to come back? Was her father safe? What had he meant by this or that…

And constantly the walls pressed tighter about her, the small stone box grew smaller and more confining even though she counted its dimensions in her pacing steps, around and around and around. She was not made for this. She had the blood of Chauntea’s servitors in her veins; she needed open air, trees and grass and growing things, wind and sun… houses and four walls about her had always been… difficult, but this was worse, so much worse.

It pressed and pressed, squeezing her smaller, forcing the questions and doubts and fears into her mind with greater and greater urgency. She prayed – no, she begged – with a fervour rare since she’d returned home to the slaughter of the grove. Let her out. Let her father be safe. Let the drow return to set her free, don’t let him leave her down here to die alone in the dark…

By the end of the tenday, she no longer had strength to move from the stretch of stones she had arbitrarily designated as a bed. The food, however slowly she nibbled at it, had given out days before; she had twice licked out her water dish, chasing just one more drop. Her shoulder was aflame, filling her with fever and occasional bout of delirium.

She heard Annen, sometimes, screaming for her – “I’m coming, oh, little one, I am coming, hold on for me!” she pleaded her baby, trying to run to her, always too late. She saw Seidon, smiling as he bid her hurry back to him, as she promised she would, that she would be no time at all. Sometimes they were so close she could almost touch them… but then they faded in her lucid periods, and she knew she yet lived.

He stepped back to the cavern that held his prisoner, and his keen ears picked up that final whisper. She looked to be in bad shape indeed - good. It was pleasing to the drow to see her like that…drifting on the edge of insanity…and calling his name. He opened the old cell, ignoring the smell of feces and stale urine as he approached. Gathering the aasimar in his arms, he used his vision gifted to his race by centuries living underground to find his way without any light. “You are not dreaming…Fiantha. You have persevered, showing your resolve. I will reward you now.”

And it was, gods, it was... the sun's first rays were painful to her eyes after so many days in darkness, but Fiantha stared at them anyway. The breeze was soft against her cheek, fresh and cool, and smelt of growing things. She simply let it all soak into her, almost as precious, as necessary, as food and drink.

"...thank you..." she murmured, half to the world in general and the gods who had shaped it so, and half to Alamondar, for this small kindness. Whatever came after, he had given her this, as if he'd known how badly she needed it. Then she made sense of his words, the way he spoke to her -

- no. There was no kindness here, only calculation. She knew that. She would not be in such a state if he had not kidnapped and imprisoned and stabbed her - these small concessions, too, were just as intended to break her and make her pliant as leaving her in that cell had been, She knew that.

… they had flayed her baby…

He was still talking, she knew, but she only vaguely heard him, fighting with every breath to control the pain, to control herself. This.. so this was how it was to be. Torture - and gods, the reputation drow had for it - to whatever purpose he had in mind. She could have withstood, before, but Fallen… oh, Chauntea, your grace now…

She listened to her captor’s words, tried to think through the pain to untangle them. She could not prevent a swift inhalation, in shock or pain, as he spoke of her family. She should say something in response to his question, something about how they were safe, and happy, and in Eldath’s care, and one day, perhaps, she’d see them again…

The words were not false. But they tasted like a lie as she tried to force her tongue to shape them.

And, truly, she was not well-suited to argue with the drow; already she was certain he’d twisted her words about, and some of what he said sounded like contradiction, but she was not sure how to defend herself without a weapon in her hand, and she was bound and all but helpless…

"Did you love none of those you lost?" she asked him, her tone somewhere between incredulity and scorn. "Seidon, Annen - they cannot be simply replaced, like broken toys! To even suggest it -” words failed her. How could he believe for a second -? Then she paled, as something else, hidden beneath his words, suggested itself to her.

He pretended sympathy, almost demanded it in turn, although he was her prisoner, the one who had wounded her. He would present himself as a guide to a new path (one of evil, she was certain) and someone on whom she could rely. Almost his words implied that he would be more, that he would replace her family himself.

No.

"Then they teach the females that they are the rulers of drow society. They are to show no mercy. Mercy is weakness. And so they torture the males, enslave the lesser races. There was a human visitor once. They dangled him over a cliff for amusement. Then the brothers learn. And always we are attempting to kill one another. House warfare commences. The goal is complete annihilation with no evidence left behind. My House, the Tenth House, was attacked by the Eleventh. They killed everyone…except for me. I was too good. Too clever."

The cell was small and dark. Fiantha kept one hand on the wall for support as she tested the door - methodically at first, then with a measure of the panic she'd kept suppressed rising until she was all but banging at the door.

It took a wrenching effort of will to get herself under control again, to think.

She called light, that steady glow that was a gift of her celestial blood, and studied her surroundings more thoroughly. Stone, dead air... a bucket as the sole concession to bodily needs. A small amount of food and water - too much for one night, enough to stretch out for perhaps ten days, although she would be in a much-weakened state by the end of it. She would assume that was his intent.

She intended to survive. She intended to escape. She intended to kill him.

---------------------

The days - if they were truly any such thing, down where her all-too-brief spell was the only light she knew - passed slowly. She ate little, only when the pain in her stomach became unendurable, and drank less. She had sacrificed a good portion of her water to clean out her wounds; the risk of sepsis was all too real. The stab wound was going bad despite her efforts, the flesh puffing up red and sensitive around it.

The lack of light for most of the hours, the deprivation of sustenance, the uncomfortable surroundings... they were difficult to endure, but only added weight to the real torment – the questions. The fears. There was nothing to distract herself from them, in the endless darkness... what did he truly intend with her? Was he ever going to come back? Was her father safe? What had he meant by this or that...

And constantly the walls pressed tighter about her, the small stone box grew smaller and more confining even though she counted its dimensions in her pacing steps, around and around and around. She was not made for this. She had the blood of Chauntea’s servitors in her veins; she needed open air, trees and grass and growing things, wind and sun... houses and four walls about her had always been... difficult, but this was worse, so much worse.

It pressed and pressed, squeezing her smaller, forcing the questions and doubts and fears into her mind with greater and greater urgency. She prayed – no, she begged – with a fervour rare since she’d returned home to the slaughter of the grove. Let her out. Let her father be safe. Let the drow return to set her free, don’t let him leave her down here to die alone in the dark...

By the end of the tenday, she no longer had strength to move from the stretch of stones she had arbitrarily designated as a bed. The food, however slowly she nibbled at it, had given out days before; she had twice licked out her water dish, chasing just one more drop. Her shoulder was aflame, filling her with fever and occasional bout of delirium.

She heard Annen, sometimes, screaming for her – “I’m coming, oh, little one, I am coming, hold on for me!” she pleaded her baby, trying to run to her, always too late. She saw Seidon, smiling as he bid her hurry back to him, as she promised she would, that she would be no time at all. Sometimes they were so close she could almost touch them... but then they faded in her lucid periods, and she knew she yet lived.

… they had flayed her baby…

He was still talking, she knew, but she only vaguely heard him, fighting with every breath to control the pain, to control herself. This.. so this was how it was to be. Torture - and gods, the reputation drow had for it - to whatever purpose he had in mind. She could have withstood, before, but Fallen… oh, Chauntea, your grace now…

She listened to her captor’s words, tried to think through the pain to untangle them. She could not prevent a swift inhalation, in shock or pain, as he spoke of her family. She should say something in response to his question, something about how they were safe, and happy, and in Eldath’s care, and one day, perhaps, she’d see them again…

The words were not false. But they tasted like a lie as she tried to force her tongue to shape them.

And, truly, she was not well-suited to argue with the drow; already she was certain he’d twisted her words about, and some of what he said sounded like contradiction, but she was not sure how to defend herself without a weapon in her hand, and she was bound and all but helpless…

"Did you love none of those you lost?" she asked him, her tone somewhere between incredulity and scorn. "Seidon, Annen - they cannot be simply replaced, like broken toys! To even suggest it -" words failed her. How could he believe for a second -? Then she paled, as something else, hidden beneath his words, suggested itself to her.

He pretended sympathy, almost demanded it in turn, although he was her prisoner, the one who had wounded her. He would present himself as a guide to a new path (one of evil, she was certain) and someone on whom she could rely. Almost his words implied that he would be more, that he would replace her family himself.

No.

… they had flayed her baby…

He was still talking, she knew, but she only vaguely heard him, fighting with every breath to control the pain, to control herself. This.. so this was how it was to be. Torture - and gods, the reputation drow had for it - to whatever purpose he had in mind. She could have withstood, before, but Fallen… oh, Chauntea, your grace now…

She listened to her captor's words, tried to think through the pain to untangle them. She could not prevent a swift inhalation, in shock or pain, as he spoke of her family. She should say something in response to his question, something about how they were safe, and happy, and in Eldath's care, and one day, perhaps, she'd see them again...

The words were not false. But they tasted like a lie as she tried to force her tongue to shape them.

And, truly, she was not well-suited to argue with the drow; already she was certain he'd twisted her words about, and some of what he said sounded like contradiction, but she was not sure how to defend herself without a weapon in her hand, and she was bound and all but helpless...

… they had flayed her baby…

He was still talking, she knew, but she only vaguely heard him, fighting with every breath to control the pain, to control herself. This.. so this was how it was to be. Torture - and gods, the reputation drow had for it - to whatever purpose he had in mind. She could have withstood, before, but Fallen… oh, Chauntea, your grace now…

"Her mercy is great," Fiantha said, but the words had a hollow sound to them; a phrase learnt and repeated by rote, containing little faith to give them life. She knew that she was not beyond redemption, that even her sins could forgiven… but the knowledge was a cold, intellectual consideration. Deep within her heart, she would carry forever the memory of the dead of the village, those she had slain, and know that she could not atone for them. In an equally deep part of herself, she would remember, too, how it had felt, how she’d enjoyed even the bloodless slaughter, taking the children as Annen had been taken from her…

No, she could know that Chauntea’s forgiveness was possible, but some part of her would never quite believe it.

And Chauntea had not abandoned her, would not, but how greatly she longed for the guidance of her goddesss - direct, clear and simple as it had been once…

… they had flayed her baby…

He was still talking, she knew, but she only vaguely heard him, fighting with every breath to control the pain, to control herself. This.. so this was how it was to be. Torture - and gods, the reputation drow had for it - to whatever purpose he had in mind. She could have withstood, before, but Fallen... oh, Chauntea, your grace now...

"Her mercy is great," Fiantha said, but the words had a hollow sound to them; a phrase learnt and repeated by rote, containing little faith to give them life. She knew that she was not beyond redemption, that even her sins could forgiven… but the knowledge was a cold, intellectual consideration. Deep within her heart, she would carry forever the memory of the dead of the village, those she had slain, and know that she could not atone for them. In an equally deep part of herself, she would remember, too, how it had felt, how she’d enjoyed even the bloodless slaughter, taking the children as Annen had been taken from her…

No, she could know that Chauntea’s forgiveness was possible, but some part of her would never quite believe it.

And Chauntea had not abandoned her, would not, but how greatly she longed for the guidance of her goddesss - direct, clear and simple as it had been once…

... they had flayed her baby...

"Her mercy is great," Fiantha said, but the words had a hollow sound to them; a phrase learnt and repeated by rote, containing little faith to give them life. She knew that she was not beyond redemption, that even her sins could forgiven... but the knowledge was a cold, intellectual consideration. Deep within her heart, she would carry forever the memory of the dead of the village, those she had slain, and know that she could not atone for them. In an equally deep part of herself, she would remember, too, how it had felt, how she'd enjoyed even the bloodless slaughter, taking the children as Annen had been taken from her...

No, she could know that Chauntea's forgiveness was possible, but some part of her would never quite believe it.

And Chauntea had not abandoned her, would not, but how greatly she longed for the guidance of her goddesss - direct, clear and simple as it had been once...

Despite the severity of her recent injuries, the ache in her muscles from the day’s work, and the comfort of her childhood home, Fiantha was too restless to sleep. She’d been in Hightcliff or almost a tenday now. Her father had been delighted to see her – if concerned over her condition – and it had been… good to see him again. Highcliff was rebuilding, and there was much she could do to help; if the people knew of her Fall, they also remembered her as the same child who’d chased their chickens, and they were kind.

Nevertheless, there was a tension in her that would not be eased. Perhaps she should have insisted on travelling with Balithor? Perhaps she should have gone north? Perhaps it was only that she felt like a coward, hiding at her father’s farm… in any case, whatever the case of her disquiet, it would not be easily dispelled.

So she did as she’d always done as a child, and padded out of her room and downstairs on bare feet to take an apple from the kitchen. Then, moving quietly, she left the house and crossed the paddock. The cloudy night presented no difficulty in finding her way; she’d gone this way so often that it was almost like a dance. The big rock there, the gap in the fence there (not as easy to squeeze through, now that she was no longer a child) and then to the ancient oak tree.

The woman fought like a madwoman, and it seemed that she had jumped to Balithor’s defense rather quickly. And yet….there were whispers around this town, Highcliff. He’d stalked the town for quite some time, and they said she was Fallen. And seeking redemption. At that moment…the diabolical drow decided it was indeed time to pay her a visit.

He found her after watching her carry out her day’s work from afar. She was up on a tree. Eyes closed, no less. His powers were indeed useful…He quietly pulled forth his hand crossbow and aimed. Drow sleep poison was a wonderful thing, truly. He fired the bolt into her shoulder, and it set to work immediately. She slumped over and fell out of the tree.

…and Fiantha woke slowly, aching in every limb. Small rocks dug into her cheek, and her wounded shoulder was agonising. With a sick fear in her stomach, she tried to move, to test – no. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back, at wrist and elbow - she could not get so much as a finger to any of the rope. The binding about her ankles were equally secure; even when she arched backward, she could not find so much as a knot – and her fingers were stiff and clumsy. She’d been gagged, too – a foul-tasting piece of cloth that cut into the corners of her mouth – oh, Chauntea aid her now…

She suppressed her terror – who had taken her, why, where, oh gods – as she gradually worked her way upright, pushing against one wall of the stone cell. The air smelled dead – she must be underground somewhere – but her usual claustrophobia could only add an extra dimension to the near-overwhelming fear she felt. Oh, she had to keep a clear head – she was no longer a paladin, and Chauntea no longer shielded her from fear, but she could do this, couldn’t she?

Finally, after a few minutes enjoying her apparent fear, he got up silently and stepped up to the cell door. He then called forth light, letting her see him, with a smile on his face. It was cruel, and yet, strangely charming as well. This was Alamondar…dangerous…and tempting. “I can see fear in your eyes…it is good that you appreciate your situation.”

He approached her, light gleaming from the blade of a knife, and she could not prevent herself from shrinking back. He bent down, put its point against the side of her face - and although she trembled, she did not flinch away. Chauntea, she was so afraid… but she could master that, perhaps, she could survive, and if all else failed her, she would try to die as befitted the paladin she had been…

Despite the severity of her recent injuries, the ache in her muscles from the day’s work, and the comfort of her childhood home, Fiantha was too restless to sleep. She’d been in Hightcliff or almost a tenday now. Her father had been delighted to see her – if concerned over her condition – and it had been… good to see him again. Highcliff was rebuilding, and there was much she could do to help; if the people knew of her Fall, they also remembered her as the same child who’d chased their chickens, and they were kind.

Nevertheless, there was a tension in her that would not be eased. Perhaps she should have insisted on travelling with Balithor? Perhaps she should have gone north? Perhaps it was only that she felt like a coward, hiding at her father’s farm… in any case, whatever the case of her disquiet, it would not be easily dispelled.

So she did as she’d always done as a child, and padded out of her room and downstairs on bare feet to take an apple from the kitchen. Then, moving quietly, she left the house and crossed the paddock. The cloudy night presented no difficulty in finding her way; she’d gone this way so often that it was almost like a dance. The big rock there, the gap in the fence there (not as easy to squeeze through, now that she was no longer a child) and then to the ancient oak tree.

The woman fought like a madwoman, and it seemed that she had jumped to Balithor’s defense rather quickly. And yet….there were whispers around this town, Highcliff. He’d stalked the town for quite some time, and they said she was Fallen. And seeking redemption. At that moment…the diabolical drow decided it was indeed time to pay her a visit.

He found her after watching her carry out her day’s work from afar. She was up on a tree. Eyes closed, no less. His powers were indeed useful…He quietly pulled forth his hand crossbow and aimed. Drow sleep poison was a wonderful thing, truly. He fired the bolt into her shoulder, and it set to work immediately. She slumped over and fell out of the tree.

…and Fiantha woke slowly, aching in every limb. Small rocks dug into her cheek, and her wounded shoulder was agonising. With a sick fear in her stomach, she tried to move, to test – no. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back, at wrist and elbow - she could not get so much as a finger to any of the rope. The binding about her ankles were equally secure; even when she arched backward, she could not find so much as a knot – and her fingers were stiff and clumsy. She’d been gagged, too – a foul-tasting piece of cloth that cut into the corners of her mouth – oh, Chauntea aid her now…

She suppressed her terror – who had taken her, why, where, oh gods – as she gradually worked her way upright, pushing against one wall of the stone cell. The air smelled dead – she must be underground somewhere – but her usual claustrophobia could only add an extra dimension to the near-overwhelming fear she felt. Oh, she had to keep a clear head – she was no longer a paladin, and Chauntea no longer shielded her from fear, but she could do this, couldn’t she?

Finally, after a few minutes enjoying her apparent fear, he got up silently and stepped up to the cell door. He then called forth light, letting her see him, with a smile on his face. It was cruel, and yet, strangely charming as well. This was Alamondar…dangerous…and tempting. “I can see fear in your eyes…it is good that you appreciate your situation.”

He approached her, light gleaming from the blade of a knife, and she could not prevent herself from shrinking back. He bent down, put its point against the side of her face - and although she trembled, she did not flinch away. Chauntea, she was so afraid… but she could master that, perhaps, she could survive, and if all else failed her, she would try to die as befitted the paladin she had been…

Despite the severity of her recent injuries, the ache in her muscles from the day’s work, and the comfort of her childhood home, Fiantha was too restless to sleep. She’d been in Hightcliff or almost a tenday now. Her father had been delighted to see her – if concerned over her condition – and it had been… good to see him again. Highcliff was rebuilding, and there was much she could do to help; if the people knew of her Fall, they also remembered her as the same child who’d chased their chickens, and they were kind.

Nevertheless, there was a tension in her that would not be eased. Perhaps she should have insisted on travelling with Balithor? Perhaps she should have gone north? Perhaps it was only that she felt like a coward, hiding at her father’s farm… in any case, whatever the case of her disquiet, it would not be easily dispelled.

So she did as she’d always done as a child, and padded out of her room and downstairs on bare feet to take an apple from the kitchen. Then, moving quietly, she left the house and crossed the paddock. The cloudy night presented no difficulty in finding her way; she’d gone this way so often that it was almost like a dance. The big rock there, the gap in the fence there (not as easy to squeeze through, now that she was no longer a child) and then to the ancient oak tree.

The woman fought like a madwoman, and it seemed that she had jumped to Balithor’s defense rather quickly. And yet….there were whispers around this town, Highcliff. He’d stalked the town for quite some time, and they said she was Fallen. And seeking redemption. At that moment…the diabolical drow decided it was indeed time to pay her a visit.

He found her after watching her carry out her day’s work from afar. She was up on a tree. Eyes closed, no less. His powers were indeed useful…He quietly pulled forth his hand crossbow and aimed. Drow sleep poison was a wonderful thing, truly. He fired the bolt into her shoulder, and it set to work immediately. She slumped over and fell out of the tree.

…and Fiantha woke slowly, aching in every limb. Small rocks dug into her cheek, and her wounded shoulder was agonising. With a sick fear in her stomach, she tried to move, to test – no. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back, at wrist and elbow - she could not get so much as a finger to any of the rope. The binding about her ankles were equally secure; even when she arched backward, she could not find so much as a knot – and her fingers were stiff and clumsy. She’d been gagged, too – a foul-tasting piece of cloth that cut into the corners of her mouth – oh, Chauntea aid her now…

She suppressed her terror – who had taken her, why, where, oh gods – as she gradually worked her way upright, pushing against one wall of the stone cell. The air smelled dead – she must be underground somewhere – but her usual claustrophobia could only add an extra dimension to the near-overwhelming fear she felt. Oh, she had to keep a clear head – she was no longer a paladin, and Chauntea no longer shielded her from fear, but she could do this, couldn’t she?

Finally, after a few minutes enjoying her apparent fear, he got up silently and stepped up to the cell door. He then called forth light, letting her see him, with a smile on his face. It was cruel, and yet, strangely charming as well. This was Alamondar…dangerous…and tempting. “I can see fear in your eyes…it is good that you appreciate your situation.”

He approached her, light gleaming from the blade of a knife, and she could not prevent herself from shrinking back. He bent down, put its point against the side of her face - and although she trembled, she did not flinch away. Chauntea, she was so afraid... but she could master that, perhaps, she could survive, and if all else failed her, she would try to die as befitted the paladin she had been...

Despite the severity of her recent injuries, the ache in her muscles from the day’s work, and the comfort of her childhood home, Fiantha was too restless to sleep. She’d been in Hightcliff or almost a tenday now. Her father had been delighted to see her – if concerned over her condition – and it had been… good to see him again. Highcliff was rebuilding, and there was much she could do to help; if the people knew of her Fall, they also remembered her as the same child who’d chased their chickens, and they were kind.

Nevertheless, there was a tension in her that would not be eased. Perhaps she should have insisted on travelling with Balithor? Perhaps she should have gone north? Perhaps it was only that she felt like a coward, hiding at her father’s farm… in any case, whatever the case of her disquiet, it would not be easily dispelled.

So she did as she’d always done as a child, and padded out of her room and downstairs on bare feet to take an apple from the kitchen. Then, moving quietly, she left the house and crossed the paddock. The cloudy night presented no difficulty in finding her way; she’d gone this way so often that it was almost like a dance. The big rock there, the gap in the fence there (not as easy to squeeze through, now that she was no longer a child) and then to the ancient oak tree.

The woman fought like a madwoman, and it seemed that she had jumped to Balithor’s defense rather quickly. And yet….there were whispers around this town, Highcliff. He’d stalked the town for quite some time, and they said she was Fallen. And seeking redemption. At that moment…the diabolical drow decided it was indeed time to pay her a visit.

He found her after watching her carry out her day’s work from afar. She was up on a tree. Eyes closed, no less. His powers were indeed useful…He quietly pulled forth his hand crossbow and aimed. Drow sleep poison was a wonderful thing, truly. He fired the bolt into her shoulder, and it set to work immediately. She slumped over and fell out of the tree.

...and Fiantha woke slowly, aching in every limb. Small rocks dug into her cheek, and her wounded shoulder was agonising. With a sick fear in her stomach, she tried to move, to test – no. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back, at wrist and elbow - she could not get so much as a finger to any of the rope. The binding about her ankles were equally secure; even when she arched backward, she could not find so much as a knot – and her fingers were stiff and clumsy. She’d been gagged, too – a foul-tasting piece of cloth that cut into the corners of her mouth – oh, Chauntea aid her now...

She suppressed her terror – who had taken her, why, where, oh gods – as she gradually worked her way upright, pushing against one wall of the stone cell. The air smelled dead – she must be underground somewhere – but her usual claustrophobia could only add an extra dimension to the near-overwhelming fear she felt. Oh, she had to keep a clear head – she was no longer a paladin, and Chauntea no longer shielded her from fear, but she could do this, couldn’t she?