Living in the Fog
The Lake of Fear
As loquacious as the rogue was in public, the silence of solitude granted him moments for reflection and study on the mysterious new foe. At the Harbor, Pashtal controlled the next move, a chess player in ponderous consideration over the forks he created. Yardie drew several conclusions: he might have been a professional; the Nalfein background, dagger sheathe on his forearm, and talents for poisons and disguises illustrated a preferred means of target acquisition. Pashtal had yet to demonstrate any talents in magic, relying on items such as crystals and the jackals to accomplish his machinations. He was a fanatic of Sheru, an acolyte or zealot perhaps, carrying the jackals on a barrage, illustrating some skill in nautical understanding. Above all, the nightmares fueled Pashtal in understanding his adversaries, visiting their darkest fears, either conjured or repressed.
Yardie could only offer suggestions. First, he appealed to Madame Missoni’s experience from the events of Nighthaven, suggesting working with Vaemyr and their dreamworld tracking to determine the jackals’ location instead of the elusive Nalfein, and, if possible, phasing through the strange barrier that separated the group from the barge. Yardie then offered the possibility of Kiyna lifting the enigmatic book when Pashtal was not looking, destroying it before anyone could tap into its potential power. Madame Sylthana’s elucidation on miasma Finally, he asked the rangers to consider using their companions to track the barge. Compared to the krolvin invasion a year ago, the Phantom’s talents were minimal and acceptable as long as Pashtal fell. The Faendryl believed Pashtal’s elusiveness derived from his ability to move throughout the vast waterways. These discussions were the extent of his efforts, aside from his unreciprocated letters to the villain.
Yardie had not dared to sleep on the isle, for his nightmares, aside for resting in the blanket of safety and security that was his home, felt real enough in his fractured mind. The group need not deal with those horrors, no matter how skilled they were as a collective.
What was it Dae’Larra said about meditation?
Ebon eyelids draped over the piercing violet gaze of the Panicky Phantom.
Think of nothing else. Breathe deeply. Exhale.
With careful practice, Yardie implemented the teachings and surrendered to the meditation techniques of the priestess of Gosaena.
The anguished howl of a jackal echoed in the distance as he perched over the hill. Panning over as he descended slowly, once carefully tended gardens and fields of grain now smoldered under assorted red and black bonfires. On either side of the bloody trail, bodies and appendages littered the ravaged terrain, a feast for a smattering of crows perched upon their husks. Once was one a looming stone structure with cedar trim now looked like the ruins of Old Ta’Faendryl, a collapsed roof with lightning-like fissures upon its walls. Coming into view, a massive grey wolf hobbled towards the Faendryl, whimpering with each step before crumping against the ground. A mithril spear pierced through a young Vaalor elf’s torso and impaled it to a tree like a cartographer’s map.
“Vaerno!”
Yardie hefted the wounded wolf, venturing further into the carnage. Bodies became discernible, their looks ravaged by fire, steel, and magic. There were too many to count. Gently, he lay the downed lupine creature on the ground, stroking it before turning his attention to the visible graveyard.
“Drae…Isk…Aga…Lyne…Ak…Yu…”
Yardie went silent as his ears perked up to a reverberated purr behind him, the sultry laughter rumbling from its belly. “Skunk.”
He turned slowly, violet eyes wide like saucers as he recognized the haunting voice. “M..M…Madame…”
It was Niadriel, except, different, distorted. Markings of her noble face had been etched into her bone structure, but calcine flesh and tendons coiled in pitch-black shadow that hovered around it. Gaunt, rotting wings spread, blocking out the sun. Jagged teeth grimaced from the stretched-out skull, a macabre caricature of the sorceress that tormented him. The hellish tattoo of an encaged black heart echoed from the confines of her exposed chest.
“Agrestis,” she spoke, “welcome home.”
Another howl of a pained jackal followed, deepened, and loudened, the pressure ending an audible pop, dulling his perception. A hulking monster loomed over the Faendryl’s trim body when his eyes and ears adjusted, sizzling in wispy heat waves. Yardie could only make out the horns and wings before a sharp set of talons plunged into the Faendryl’s chest and clutched his heart.
Yardie jolted with a start, and the fog blocked out the Lake of Fear. The Captain regarded Yardie with a dubious look.
The Phantom rose to his feet, his blue-black hair coated with a cold sweat. The fight was coming, and he was far from ready with the nightmares and memories etched in his psyche. Perhaps sharing his dread, honestly, with a friend could provide the catharsis needed for an ill-prepared battle.
“Okay, to Ta’Vaalor,” Yardie said to the Captain, boarding the creaky hull of the ferry before it set sail, the boat swallowed by the thick, murky fog. He could not wait to return home when the madness at the Harbor ended and earn himself some well-deserved blissful sleep.