Umber

Psydney experiences a moment of doubt.

Rejoice!
We sail upon the sea of death
And see
    From far
    From near
Carnage comes times two or three or more
Rejoice!

Is this to be the epitaph for all who have fallen and are still to fall?

The centaurs and halfings hurled to their deaths by a raging Tempest with life-force and will. Rejoice!

The warriors of Blasingdell, cut down by goblins and orcs, wargs and warboars, noxious clouds of killing gases and rampaging giants; farmers and villagers who should never have been threatened but in their worst dreams by such as these. Rejoice!

The thousands of derro on the Doomgrinder, ill-fated slaves slaughtered in the vengeance-taking of djinn bound as its engine and mind by masters and schemes now dead for centuries. Rejoice!

Should we not all of us, ministers of Heironeous and Pelor, Fharlanghn and Cuthbert, and the self-styled acolytes of no one at all, fall at the feet of Nerull and cry, “Command us master, for we have so far served you well”?

Oh people of Blasingdell beware, for your enemies are upon you! The sun is eclipsed, the ley lines of power have crept under your feet. The ground churns before your sight, mountains and swamps are torn from the earth at the command of an unheard voice. The giants are in the fields, the sorcerers are within your walls. The tempest rages unchecked, and you cannot even guess at its sentience. The commander in black rides the skies on his ebony horse with the mane of fire, calling for death and vengeance.

Oh people of Blasingdell beware, for your allies are upon you! The ghaele come and go as if this were their home, beautiful and splendid and terrifying in your streets. The four-armed apes tower in your courtyard, come to repay their freedom with blood. The lizardmen wind their way from the fens, honoring the pact with the Nakimacas. And if the mightiest of all, Nightwing, should come, you will fall on your faces and tremble with fear.

And the Heroes have come – the fighters and the rogue, the monk and the psi warrior, the cleric and the wizard. They come, they go, and come again, disappearing on their mysterious errands and taking counsel with their mysterious advisors. They dissolve into vapor, and return with weapons. They vanish inside strange bags, and the ghaele bear them away. They sustain grievous wounds in battle, and the wounds mysteriously heal themselves. You should beware them most of all, for they are your hope, and they are your doom, and however good their intentions you know that you are not the only care on their minds.

And they have stolen your children – the weretiger, the psion, the mage. They will teach them to love skill, and challenge, and adventure. And your children will love and pity you in your weakness and innocence. They will see the Tempest that you cannot, and the arcane trickery hiding the catapults from your eyes. They will grow strong, and delight in their strength. And if they survive, they will come to know Power. And if they survive, they will learn that bitter are her fruits, and far-spreading her poisonous seeds.

Oh people of Blasingdell beware, for the unknown is upon you! The wheel of fire turns in the sky, making its fell request:

Commander, whom shall I slay?

I say slay us all, the fighters and the rogue, the wizard and the monk, the cleric and the psi warrior. Slay Timoshenko and Grandfather, their minions and their allies. Leave only the peasants and the villagers, to their fields and their haystacks, their children and their simple dreams.

And still among them one will be born, who covets his neighbors’ fields, and will oppress and enslave them. And among the oppressed, a champion will arise to oppose him, and blacksmiths will forge swords, and fighters will wield them, and it will all begin anew. And Nerull will smile, and call out, “Rejoice!”

The endurance is unfailing, but where is the magic to sustain the will on this deadly pawn’s errand? Too late to hurl Crusader back into the waters from whence it came, too late to consign the i to the darkest depths of my mind. Many have died, and many more will die yet. If we save even a handful, have we still prevailed? It is a cold comfort, but at the end of the day it may be all the comfort we have.