Myharl (prime)/Troubled Thoughts & Restless Slumber (short story)

This is a creative work set in the world of Elanthia, attributed to its original author(s). It does not necessarily represent the official lore of GemStone IV.

Title: Troubled Thoughts & Restless Slumber

Author: Myharl

This is a vignette reflecting upon Myharl's troubled thoughts soon after the failed benediction to Voaris and Laethe in Icemule Trace. Takes place late evening in the private residence of Jastalyn on Restday, the 3rd of Charlatos in the year 5124 of the Modern Era.

With imperceptible movement, Myharl's muscles tensed slightly at the sudden, unexpected sound of an ember laden charred log breaking in twain and tumbling further into a smoldering pile of pulsing carmine glow. The fire in the hearth sputtered and popped as fresh resin was exposed to the open flame, and the shadows cast around the room swayed as fervent as those that always shifted around his massive fame.

The scent of burnt pinewood flooded his senses as he inhaled deeply, expelling the breath from his lungs with a contemplative sigh. His thoughts had been fixed upon the failed benediction at wall of forlorn lovers. The strange iridian glow and the demanding disembodied voice. He assumed mere parlor tricks, though a nagging sense leant merit to the concern that perhaps darker forces were engaged.

His concerns that the orb sought by the Dusk Coven may be the Eye, carried in the ark on his person, were not assuaged as the bellowing voice implied one among the crowd held the artifact in their possession. He pondered if the demands for its surrender and the threats levied against the town were directed at him. And, if not, he wondered who among the crowd bore their quarry. Had the efforts of the mysterious artifact hunter, Prinn, contributed to this encounter?

As his mind shifted to the artifact, he felt the growing call of his curse beckoning him. His thoughts were scattered by the figment of the roaring gale and the sense of frigid cold welled from deep within the kindred. He exhaled again, this time his breath rolling into the darkness of the warm room as nival fog. Myharl involuntarily shuddered with chill. He had neglected the Eye's empathic demands for weeks, and the longer he remained south of the Long Snow, the more intense its reprimand became in such quiet moments. An unending struggle as the dark entity bound within vied to claim his flame as their own.

The impulse was enough to nearly cause him to rise from his back, but he was kept prone by a soft murmur and stirring upon his chest. The chill growing from his body had prompted Jastalyn to cling tighter to him as she slept.

His massive hand fell upon her lower back to caress up to her scattered champagne locks while her warmth radiated deep into the giant. Even in slumber she kept endless winter at bay; the unnatural cold receding as she pressed her body against his.

As he pulled her closer his thoughts shifted to the Icemule Trace Town Council. In the past months he had kept vigil over her as she performed her duties as a council member, and he found himself fearing for her safety. The foreboding sense had compelled him to guard her closely.

Myharl familiarized himself with those chaired beside her, deciphering the cacophony motives and conflicting agendas. He observed a council that seemed dysfunctional. Though it couldn't be sufficiently proven, he knew who among them were subservient to the Dusk Coven, and to his dismay, he witnessed the involvement of his old foe, House Ta'Mori, who had schemed their way to significant influence upon the Council despite holding no position.

His faith in Jastalyn remained staunch and unwavering, but the hope he had sensed at the first council meeting he attended had since diminished. The Icemule Trace Town Council was an entity plagued with corruption and could not be trusted with the welfare of the fledgling nation taking shape—at least not until the rot had been cleaved from it.

Growing weary, Myharl let his thoughts drift further. Despite being discouraged, he still found hope in the town's Mayor, Talliver Dabbings. He was a warrior who once led a Resistance platoon against the Dark Alliance in the great war.

His own victory against Zerroth and the dark avatar's V'tullian hordes at the Battle of Berserker’s End left Myharl feeling a sort of kinship with the halfling. The Mayor's inclination seemed to mirror his own perspectives: the Dusk Coven must be abolished, leaving no doubt they hold no sway over Northwatch.

The cult's actions and subsequent threats had warranted such a response, and the kindred was more than prepared to take up arms alongside the true folk to protect the North.

With his thoughts remaining troubled, he kissed Jastalyn upon her crown, wrapping another arm around her lovingly as he drifted into a shallow and restless slumber. Many difficult decisions would have to be made in the days ahead.