Difference between revisions of "Enderal:The Lost Brigand"

e opened his eyes, staring into complete darkness. A stench of decay and fetidness filled his nose. His entire body shivered. Where was he? What kind of place was this?

He remembered the last skirmish. It had been a seemingly harmless carriage. A simple raid, nothing unusual - kill the merchants and leave them rotting on the ground. Only this time something had been wrong. He had not noticed the symbol on the deep blue cloak of the carriage driver until the first shot left his bow: an Eye pierced by a Sword. The sigil of the Order. After that, everything had happened so quickly. He had wanted to shout a warning to his comrades, who were charging the carriage with their weapons drawn, but it had already been too late. He had felt more than seen the Keeper's ebony eyes on him, had caught sight of an expression of deepest regret the instant before being gripped by an otherworldly power and hurled against the wooden palisade behind him. As his vision blackened, he had understood what his life as a Pathless One had incurred.

He felt out the darkness with his sore hands. Was he just imagining it, or did this stench of death actually emanate from himself? His palms pressed against something hard, something cold. Stone. Stone above his head, stone to his sides, stone under him. He was surrounded by it, entombed by it. Bracing himself, he pushed against the solid surface above him. Inch by inch the heavy lid of the coffin shifted until it finally reached a tipping point and crashed to the ground. With the loud bang still resonating in his ears, he managed to sit upright. Every muscle ached, his eyes felt like liquid fire, and everything around him seemed to have been drained of color.

He appeared to be inside a cave. Somewhere nearby, he could hear the dreary drip-drip-drip of water trickling down from the ceiling, a sole but persistent reminder of the passage of time. Without that sound the silence could have stretched into eternity. Stiffly he swung his legs over the edge of the coffin and got to his feet. He searched his bleak surroundings for an exit, any indication of light that would promise a way out. It was difficult to make out anything with his drab, gray vision but eventually he detected a faint ray of light shining through a crack in the cave's ceiling, revealing a small overgrown lake. Water. His whole body demanded water. Feet dragging across the ground, he shambled towards it, towards that promise of sweet, cool refreshment. He did not dare let his eyes stray from his goal, kept focusing on what lay straight ahead. He did not notice the presence of others in the shadows around him.

It seemed to take forever - how many drip-drip-drips? - to drag his broken body to the edge of the underground lake, but he managed. Sand and pebbles crunched beneath him as he collapsed to his knees. Water at last. He cupped his hands and dipped them in the precious liquid, not caring about the dried blood on the expensive Shadow Wolf gauntlets he had stolen from an unarmed Nehrimese merchant long ago. A dull joy ran through him as the cool water flowed over his parched tongue, his soul weeping for the delicious sweetness of it. Another hour or two to recuperate, then he would find a way out of here. A smile formed on his cracked lips when the sheer amount of luck he had had to survive the Keeper's magic finally sank in. Few brigands could boast about withstanding a warrior of the Order without preparation like he had. He would find the Keeper, that son of a Vatyr, and then he would ram his sword into that bastard's chest like he deserved. He would make him pay. Yes, he would.

He was pulled from the fantasy of righteous vengeance by a feeling of wetness spreading from his neck. Off to his left a black figure sat up, casting an even blacker shadow, distorted and terrifying. He grasped at his throat.

Water. The same water he had scooped from the lake just now was seeping down his chest, soaking his tattered, blood-smeared clothes. In panic, he palpated his neck. A sharp piece of wood protruded from his throat; the reason he had been so hindered in his movements. He pulled the stake free, falling forward as a gush of old blood mixed with cold lake water poured from him. The refreshment from drinking had been nothing but a brief illusion. Leaning heavily on his hands and knees, he was confronted with his reflection in the lake's surface. Was it his reflection? It could not be! He had been a good-looking man with long hair and a full beard, but what he saw in the water was a thing of horror. A disfigured visage with sunken cheeks, a few filthy, ratty hairs here and there still covering the jaw, a gaping hole where the nose should be, and rotting wounds on the high forehead. Every trace of humanity long lost.

Filled with fear he pulled away and turned around. This was no ordinary cave. This was a tomb. His tomb.

Numerous hunched figures were spread throughout the cavern. Some sat silently on their coffins, others were beating against the large steel door of the mass grave, corroded by madness.

He understood then: He had died that day. But he was a criminal, Pathless, and had been denied his Last Journey to the Eternal Paths. He had been entombed, only to revive as a living corpse. And while his soul and body decayed slowly, he was doomed to search for the peace he had refused himself in life.