The elder buccaneer impetuously scaled the citadel’s flight of steps, with Masonic unease; his white, divine baton clattering upon the winding staircase, accompanying the sacred echoes of Nighthill encroaching through the auditory portals to his familiar’s cerebral sanctuary, where pseudonyms and pretense languish. Where an Immurk can be a Palaghard. Or a Kierkegaard likewise a Climacus. These reflections sublimated into the arthritic crunch of feeble knees and ankles that touted an invincible anaphora of ache, a nuisance to the tolls of his laconic ascent, crowded with the chimes of chondrocalcinosis and pseudogout from the fragmented range of motion delivered by his frail joints.
Exhausted and blind, the once sailor of the Sword Coast, now atop the keep, witnessed the maimed leader’s parting words erstwhile he paraded with his guard to scowl at the desolation of the departed flying terror.
"… Way outside. Well, as safe as they come anyway. An old tunnel beneath the keep has been thoroughly secured for passage into the streambed. You should ask Escobert for details."
No longer requiring avian ears, he regained his senses, in rhythm to enjoy the fierce Brannor’s gentle caress, cossetting the crown of his flock. The peril of Torus’ overdue mortality vented a Stygian stench, where his soul’s freedom from Xaron merited more worth than pursuing a continued existence in his measly flesh. The menace, nefariously embedded within the mind seed, pirated his youth and abolished his family, all whilst using his own caked hands. The liberty of a suicidal mission rang true to him, with his hopeful deathbed labeled as the shrine of Chauntea, fitting for the harvest of the scourge that has plagued his sanity and whispers.
The druid cracked his wiry neck and spindled his tongue ring, yet again, “We must repose not only in the cunning gesture of the Governor, but, like Kyra, advance with salvific passion towards the temple. All are required to seize this fleeting vision, for in them the gate of eternity is shrouded. Or lose forever the people behind its closed doors!”
At the final congregation of Torus’ lips, the charcoal fowl fluttered its wings, provided the nearby golden eyes a nod of love, and soared into the vantablack skies, to provide reconnaissance and conference of the devastated Greenest.
“What say you? Those with me, let us seek the dwarf within this stony giant.” With that, the descent of the rocky spiral into the inner chambers came with ease to the senior. He was not longing to reembrace the former Hades that kept the towns’ dead and infirm, but to seek one of great stature though his height had betrayed him, as he possessed an inkling he retired in that dreadful salle.
Glancing into the crude mortuary, next to Mr. Lake and Edward, assembled the shortest of the trio, covered in the dust of centuries, excruciatingly surveying his fallen brethren, many ornamented with copper pieces adjacent to either side of their noses. Closer inspection revealed rugged features with low cheekbones, though the distinct markings of his dwarven tribe and caste had long since faded into the now gaunt and rosy skin; two spikes of fur sat slightly above the two eyes, forming an orange macabre triangle. Staring deep into his gaze, the druid met and deciphered two pinpoint blue fiery wreathes; where an inferno had once roared at recuperating at the sally port now held only dying embers, entombed in a seemingly able body full with despair.
All due to a dragon.
There, stood Escobert, now a broken shell that hung, more out of habit to provide others with purpose, than out of desire or will to thrive. It was obvious that neither he, Mr. Lake, nor Edward could accompany the motley crew along the trek through the tunnel, due to losses already suffered.
The pirate paused slightly but then broke the pregnant silence, “Death is a seer who holds respect but no esteem. Once acquainted, you become a sojourner to this world but a child of the next.”
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