Memories from The Red Winter (book)

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               Memories from The Red Winter  
                          * * *              
                   by Gabela D'emibenit      
 
 
My remembrances from what has been called the Red Winter are       
scant, for much time has passed since then.  But the events I      
set to quill here have been burned into my soul as if they         
happened yesterday.                                                
 
It was early one morning as I waited in The Crossing Cleric Guild  
Chapel for a class to teach that I saw my first bony fylgja.  It   
had drifted in and silently watched me for a few moments before I  
noticed its presence.  With a ready axe slung above its shoulder,  
this skeletal creature stood upright with an evil grin upon its    
skin-and-bone face and as we stared mutely at each other, I        
slowly drew my weapon.                                             
 
As it eerily looked upon me, another Cleric entered the sanctu-    
ary.  Recognizing this ghostly apparition for the evil thing that  
it truly was, she shouted for me to guard the altar.  She began    
to advance on it, her weapon drawn, and pitifully I stood there,  
convinced that is was my day to die.  Dimly, I heard the other     
Cleric's thoughts in my head as she raised an alarm on the gweth.  
I raised my broadsword to attack, and the bony fylgja retreated.   
As quickly as it appeared, it slowly faded into the shadows and    
was gone.                                                          
 
I glanced curiously at the other Cleric, not understanding         
exactly what happened.  Help poured into the chapel then, and we   
pooled our knowledge, but our total information was meager.  We    
had no warning of all that was to happen in the weeks to come.     
For this vile creature returned, and along with vengeful shades,   
death spirits and the Gorbesh, blazed a bloody trail from Beren-   
garia's altar south of Leth to Kuniyo's Shrine, north of Langen-   
firth.  When they had finished, twenty-two holy sanctuaries in     
all would be desecrated.  And -- my time to die would come,        
after all. 
 
A couple of weeks later, late in the afternoon, I chanced upon     
the Empath Wilcrest and a young student on the road near Kaerna.   
Wilcrest was a good friend of mine, and within a couple of         
roisaen the three of us were settled in the inn, swapping gossip   
as he healed my wounds.  Our respite was brief however, for 
suddenly we could hear the clomping of horses' hooves nearby, a    
sound that echoed loudly all around us.  We leapt to our feet      
and I gazed at Wilcrest, one unspoken thought between us -- the    
shrine of Damaris was close by!                                    
 
With no thought for our own safety, we foolhardily ran from the    
security of the inn to the tunnel that would take us to the dark   
grove of Damaris.  In that usually quiet glade, however, the       
enemy had arrived before us.                                       
 
I wish that I could relate that I slew many of those evil antag-   
onists that day as we recklessly sped into that grove.  But alas,  
I barely had time to broadcast a warning over my gweth before I    
was felled by a dozen arrows, with Wilcrest and the young Empath   
falling quickly by my side.  Our three spirits watched in silent   
horror as the altar there was vilely desecrated, and the bony      
fylgja danced gruesomely over our shattered bodies.  We watched    
mutely as our brave warriors arrived to fight the evil that had    
invaded this sanctuary, and watched many fall beside us before     
victory could be claimed.  I remember seeing the Cleric Wyett      
walk in, picking his way carefully over the dead as he silently
made his way to the destroyed altar, his fist clenched at his      
side, his head bowed.                                              
 
When Hodierna's Solace in Leth fell soon after that, at least I    
could claim I fought a better battle, for I carried the blood of   
the enemy proudly on my weapon.  But afterwards, as I dragged the  
Cleric Valken's corpse to the ferry docks, I silently prayed that  
it would all end.                                                  
 
The desecrations didn't stop until the mysterious Emuin fell at    
Urrem'tier's altar in Riverhaven and walked the starry road.  By   
then, we were all so weary of battle.  The Gorbesh attacks had     
intensified, hacking away at our feeble defenses.  They had made   
a bloody march up the northern trade route to Riverhaven and down  
the southern trade route, cutting us off from Shard.               
 
In this darkest of hours, however, a shred of hope was born.  A    
ritual was discovered that would cleanse and restore our defiled   
altars.  An Empath first had to touch and heal the altar, and      
correctly answer a question posed.  Next, a Cleric would cleanse   
the altar, preparing it for the offering of a favor orb from a     
novice Cleric.  A third Cleric would utilize Meraud's Commune to
sanctify the ground, while a Paladin with a pure soul traced the   
symbol of Rutilor on the altar with Mobar blood before offering    
an unblessed sword.  Then, representatives from each of the races  
touched the altar before all would kneel to pray.                  
 
A Bard would write an original song of this event, and as every-   
one touched the altar a second time, a thirteen-point star would   
appear in their hands.  I was lucky enough to aid with the War-    
rior's Shrine in the Crossings Temple.  But alas, my star is       
tarnished now -- that altar is no more.  My beloved temple in      
the city of The Crossing would fall beneath the onslaught of       
the Gorbesh.                                                       
 
I was there the day the Gorbesh took The Crossing, and the noise   
brought on by their approach is forever burned into my memory.     
Mingled with the cadence of their drums was the blaring of their   
battle horns, rallying their evil forces to attack.  Our valiant   
warriors fought bravely, but they were overrun and The Crossing    
fell.  The Gorbesh carelessly flung the dead over the barricaded   
northeast gate, and those unlucky enough to have fallen asleep in  
a free city awoke the next day to find themselves trapped within   
the walls.  They were quickly hunted down and killed by the enemy.

The Gorbesh ended up kidnapping the Bardess Wren and quickly       
left, supposedly having gotten what they came for.  They left      
behind them a trail littered with defeat and bitterness, for even  
as they met with our guild representatives in City Hall to speak   
of truce, our beloved Crossing temple lay in ruins.  Destroyed     
for unknown reasons, it lay in rubble as we reclaimed our town.    
And, as I picked my way through the broken tiles of this once      
glorious structure, I wept.                                        
 
Scribed by my hand, 
Zoluren: Dolefaren 362 
Gabela D'emibenit