Umber

Frito finally finds what he is looking for.

Dearest Geoffrey,

It’s a hurdle or a line we’ve crossed; I’m not sure yet which. The first battle has been won, with the falling of only thirty of our soldiers. None were left on the opposing side to carry the results back to their leaders, but that in itself will tell a tale of its own. Berrick has taken the loss of the thirty hard. It is easy for the military-minded among us to explain that these are not merely acceptable losses, but far beyond what we dared hope for; still Berrick grieves with the parents and the spouses and the children of the lost. Our carefree lord is growing older and wiser, my friend; it will be a good thing for Blasingdell, even as it perhaps sorrows us.

The day before the battle, the mood of the populace was fearful. Sending the message that conflict was soon to be upon us, I received from our allies only the cryptic reply that they were trapped in another plane and would rejoin us as soon as they could. This worried me enough that I almost sent for Purcell, although I know how desperately Hala Stonefist wants his skill to confront whatever approaches the Forge from the Underdark. We didn’t advertise the party’s absence, but their presence is so impossible to miss that we didn’t need to. The town’s faith in their heroes is strong. Perhaps too strong. When word spread that they had arrived without warning, materializing in the manor in the middle of the night, it was like a flint to a dry forest. “Bane and Magnus have come! Kuhlefaran and Psydney, Serge and Enai, they’re here! We’re safe!”

After sitting down to our daily Heroes’ Feast (Kuhlefaran and I remarking to one another that even ambrosia becomes dulling when one consumes it every morning), Hadrack and I left to attend to our duties and the party to theirs. Faces peered from every window – some wary but most happy at the chance to catch a glimpse of the heroes. The scouts left town to engage in last-minute reconnaissance. I heard cries of, “Look at her run! She’s flying without wings!” as Enai departed, and shouts of, “He was there a second ago! Where did he go? Can you see him? Neither can I,” as Serge melted into the surrounding countryside.

As if we didn’t have enough to worry us, that strange little girl Callie of whom I’ve written before, desperate to speak to the psi warrior but forbidden by her parents to go outside, hurled herself out of a second-story window into an astonished Psydney’s arms, announcing confidently, “I knew you would catch me! I saw it happen.” The mystery of her strange tales, which I have been unwilling to discount as readily as her parents but could in no way understand, is now clear: the child is a psion, of evidently no small talent.

The Apparition

Disturbed by her stories of the fishmonger and the baker being not who they were supposed to be and worried that our strategies had been compromised, the party set out to investigate. There was no evidence that the tradesmen were anything other than who they claimed to be, but there were signs that both had been, inexplicably, seen in two places simultaneously. While the adventurers puzzled over the implications of this, they were approached by Sister Alonsa, who asked for me urgently and said she must speak to me in the temple.

(As you doubtless know too well, this fight is bigger than Blasingdell. And although my care is for the town, the adventurers have more varied concerns – their natural worry about their keep, as well as the safekeeping of Greyhawk. When it became obvious that we lacked the resources to observe all of these fronts, we embarked on a desperate strategy: Kuhlefaran, Sister Alonsa and I each summoned a ghaele to be our eyes and ears elsewhere, for the duration of the battle. As you also know, this is not a transaction without cost. Kuhlefaran’s ominous bargain was, when the time comes, to give all that is hers without reservation. I was asked, at a decisive moment in the future, to show mercy – yes, I hear you laughing even as I write the words. I fear for Sister Alonsa, though – her celestial said that her future was to be so trying that he would require no further service from her. For myself, I had no idea that my own time of reckoning was so near at hand).

I was sent for, but something in Sister Alonsa’s manner disconcerted the party, and her refusal to say more than, “I must speak to Haissha in the church,” put them on their guard. When I arrived at the temple, Psydney prevented me from entering; Magnus, Bane and Kuhlefaran accompanied Sister Alonsa inside.

It was immediately obvious that something was very wrong. The floor of the church sizzled and burned beneath the cleric’s feet; each step she took was clearly labored. Mindful of Callie’s recent warning, Bane withdrew his crystal ball and scried for Alonsa even as Psydney cast detect evil. Between the two of them they verified without doubt what we already all suspected: that whatever was in the temple, it wasn’t my cleric. Warned to stop, the creature sighed, “Mistrustful as ever,” and turned to reveal itself.

It was a dreadful apparition, Geoffrey. Clearly undead, but barely even that anymore. Once a wight, even its rotting flesh was falling away. Its misery was a palpable thing. I should have turned it immediately, but something in its tone forced me to examine it more closely, and I was horror-struck by what I saw. Once a wight, once a halfling, once my companion, once my betrayer: Frito stood before me again.

The party, having dealt with him more recently in his undead form, recognized him more swiftly than I. Our thoughts, I’m sure, were all as one. I saw Bane paging rapidly through his spellbook. Magnus’ sword-hand twitched and Psydney’s psionic blade hovered menacingly even as Kuhlefaran and I reached for our holy symbols. But something, a seed of doubt, stayed all of our hands. To even set foot in the temple, so close upon the hour of noon and Pelor’s waxing power, was clearly agony for him. Why had he come? If for treachery, why had he revealed himself? Whatever his purpose, it would be justice to strike him down. When we asked what he wanted, he only replied, “I must reach the altar. Then you will have your information.” An undead creature approaching the altar of Pelor was an abomination, it was my duty to prevent it. And yet the ghaele’s words – you will be required to show mercy – haunted all of our minds.

Bane warned him again to stop, saying we only wished to speak to him. “The altar first,” the halfling replied. Unwilling to wait outside anymore, I ran past them all to stand before the altar. To protect it, to watch him, to destroy him if necessary. I offered him as easy a target as I had that night in Blasingdell so long ago, but he merely took another painful step. Magnus reached out and caught him in a meaty fist, halting his progress, and Psydney dashed to stand beside me. Bane stood at the ready with a counterspell should it be required. “The altar first,” he coughed.

The Denouement

Every instinct warned against permitting him to conclude his pilgrimage when so much was at stake in the coming conflict. Every rational fiber of our beings insisted that these sorry remnants of a halfing lacked the power to affect the course of a battle. But he had fooled us so often before. In the end, this was my temple, my responsibility. Magnus held Frito distastefully and awaited my judgment. Finally I spoke. “Let him come.” And warned the halfing, “If you trick us, I will strike you down.”

He shook his head mournfully. “None of you have changed.” His trek to the altar completed, he told us his pitiful tale. Purposeless after the destruction of his patron Gulthias, he wandered the countryside alone, the ravages of exposure reducing him to the state we saw. Desiring a death that would never come to him, he rallied when he heard stories of Grandfather. Now the tribulations of his wandering had meaning: to find Grandfather, join the ranks of his followers, and enjoy the rewards and glory that would follow from world domination.

The dream shattered when he met him. He was everything that Frito had hoped, more than he’d been told, but the venerable assassin had no place for a decrepit, undead creature who had barely begun to hone his skills when he was killed by a craftier opponent and then recreated as the tool of a demented vampire. Forcefully rejected, he had come to Blasingdell, seeking now only oblivion. He seemed to find it fitting that I be the agent of his doom, and release.

I stepped aside, and motioned to Psydney to do the same. He placed his withered palm on the altar, and his hand instantly smoldered. He looked at me. “Finish it.” For a moment, I was paralyzed. I didn’t want to draw a weapon and strike him down in the temple, but didn’t think my turning had the power to utterly destroy him. With a brief prayer to Pelor, I tried it anyway. His entire body blazed, and in an instant only a small pile of ashes remained. We looked at them in silence, and at the fingermarks seared into the altar, somehow more fully formed than the skeletal hand that had clutched it seconds before.

After a few moments, Magnus carefully gathered up the remains of our companion and enemy, and we buried them in the hallowed graveyard under the noonday sun. I think even then in some dark corner of my mind I feared a trick, but the ground received his ashes quietly. The altar will bear forever its halfing handprint: an overzealous acolyte tried to clean it against my explicit instructions, but it will not wash away. Several of the younger clerics wanted to destroy the altar and build a new one, but I think I have made them understand that one wight could not permanently scar a consecrated structure. It is marked by the will of Pelor, as wisdom and warning. I found myself wishing that we could have offered him redemption instead of oblivion, then heard your stern voice saying that redemption is for the gods, not us mere mortals. And yet…

We had little time to ponder Frito’s fate, however – a battle lay before us scant hours in the future. And as that battle is now only recently past, and fatigue overtakes me, I will tell you of it after I’ve rested.

Ever sincerely yours,

Haissha