[RPG] [FEI][NH] A sleepless night in Cutnipaniel

[Donald Munro]

The Darkness was complete, pressing down upon him.    A heaviness pressed 
upon his chest -  the air was thick and tasted of ash.    The feeling of 
suffocation was rising up from the back of his mind, struggling against it 
Phellan tried to settle himself, forcing himself to breathe in.    A hard 
task to do knowing as he did that his lungs would sear each time - that the 
bitingly cold air that pressed across his skin would just as soon scorch his 
throat every breath.

He staggered a second breath, the pain coursing through his body.  Out of 
the blackness that surrounded him he saw two small flames appear, glowing 
beacons in the unnatural night.    He could see them, empty eyesockets, the 
base coated with pitch that burned and seethed casting light upon the figure 
to which they belonged.  The hollow eyes were framed by a soft and beautiful 
face, dark full hair fell from her head.     A voluptuous form outlined by a 
chain shirt that gleamed silver in the angry glare of the burning eyes. 
Then the lower torso was ghastly, skeletal even.    Bones showed through 
rotting flesh, decayed tendons and muscles flexed and moved beneath flesh 
that fell away.    Armour greaves, leather wrappings protected her, but they 
were rusted, rotted and the decay underneath and inhuman form showed 
clearly.

The Inquisitor knew the form of his Goddess, this sufferous place he was in 
was her Domain.   Protected even as he was he stilled choked on the air, 
struggled to breathe against the unbearable pain that coursed through him 
with each lungful he drew in fighting against his bodies urge not to take in 
such toxic fumes.      He dropped to a knee, bowing before the appiration.

The figure before him held it it's hands a great Halberd, etched with 
ancients symbols and runes of the Gods.    Sweeping it before her a vision 
of Gul'Dan appeared, the King, dying, gasping for air with arrows puncturing 
his armour, collapsed to his knees.  The sounds of battle raged in Phellan's 
ears, though he could not see any others fighting.  Then he saw a 
flickering. shifting,  translucent shadowy figure standing before the dying 
Paladin.  It extended it's hand out to him in a near helpless gesture, as if 
to reach the fallen King.   Despite his wounds Gul'Dan responded trying to 
touch the offered hand and spoke words to the figure, but Phellan could not 
hear them over the pitch of combat.   The vision of the fallen King wavered, 
for a moment he thought he saw two slightly less substantial images of 
Gul'Dan, but then he was whole once more.   With a slight smile at the 
cloaked figure as their fingers touched the Paladin-King collapsed, falling 
forward dead at the cloaked figures feet.



The vision faded, only Hel remained in the eternal oppresive night that was 
her Realm.    She smiled softly down upon the Inquisitor.   She approached 
him slightly, removing a guantlet to reveal a skeletal hand and caressed his 
face gently with the back of her hand, the Inquistor was forced to take a 
deep breath at the shocking sensation of ice cold and searing heat that 
filled his body.     Choking on the fumes of the underworld Phellan lost his 
grasp on consciousness, a sensation of falling and spinning filling his 
mind.


Coughing and choking Phellan sat gasping in his bedroll, covered in sweat 
and shaking with cold.   He could swear he almost felt the weight pressing 
on his chest, a smell of decay and burning pitch in his nose.    He looked 
about, a great stirring in the camp was rising and he could see torches 
being lit in the night.     Moving to his feet he strapped  on the banded 
armour he wore most of the time in favour over his heavy plate.   A rustling 
at the tent alerted him to anothers presence.

"Marshal, the scouts have returned that you ordered out.    They bring news 
of Soliferum's forces approaching from Osaliel and Alanurs!    They say the 
enemy will arrive with the rising sun's light!"

Looking over his shoulder he could see one of his men framed by the torch 
light.     The man's grey armour was framed by a blue trim and a golden 
eagle was emblazoned, perched upon Hel's Halberd.       He nodded slightly 
to the man, "Of course, get me Captain Valdrix at once . . ."

The man stuttered slightly, "Sir. . .don't you mean Captain Gotwin?"

Pulling on the last of his armour he sighed slightly remembering that his 
good friend had died far from here in the plains of Paplarmi several weeks 
ago, "Yes. . . Gotwin of course.  That's what I meant."    His previous 
captain had not even survived two battles, dying in hail of arrows against 
the forces of Aenalia. . .those that had been responsible for the death of 
Gul'Dan.    The mere thought of Aenalia coursed a feeling of fury through 
his viens.     Fighting down the anger he pulled the sword belt tight around 
his hip before attaching his second belt containing the Axe sheath to his 
hips.    A second later he thrusted the long, sturdy dagger he carried into 
the sheath in his greaves before heaidng to the exit of the tent.

Pushing aside the tent flap he stepped out into the eerie glow of a camp 
alive amidst the night, the artificial day of the fires a beacon to the 
Soliferum forces as to the location of the Nighthelmian camp.   Hundreds of 
men were stirring, he could see the banners of more than twenty-five 
Nighthelm Nobles.   An exceptionally impressive array of forces.

A haunting feeling still kept with him, his disturbing dream of Gul'Dan and 
his Goddess prodding the back of his mind, but he pushed it away, such 
things were not for now.    Instead he called out for messengers, ordering 
them to carry the High Marshal's orders back to the Nobles incase they had 
forgotten their positions for the coming battle.


Pausing the Inquisitor looked out over the plains before him, the ruins of 
the fortificatioins lay upon the hill that they had encamped upon.    This 
bloody business was not over, and these lands had seen so much slaughter he 
feared that the dead would never forgive the living for such atrocities that 
they had committed to themselves.   Still, Cutnipaniel had become more than 
just a strategically important piece of land -- it had become a symbol of 
the war.

Contemplating this he failed to notice Gotwin who approached slowly, fearing 
to disturb the Inquisitor who looked troubled.     Walking up to his Lord 
the Captain spoke, "Inquisitor, the men are readying themselves.    You 
asked for me?"

"Yes, Yes I did Gotwin."   Pausing he considered, "Do you believe in the 
Gods Gotwin?"


"I do, yes sir.    Hildr is my family's patron, we've been enlisted as far 
back as we can remember."

Nodding to the Captains comments he continued, "Do you believe the Gods 
speak to us?   Come to us in our dreams?"

The captain looked increduously at the Lord, wondering what had troubled the 
stoic Inquisitor so that he spoke so freely.    He had marched with the man 
a week and had barely heard more than an utterance other than orders.   Now 
this.    "I am not sure Sir, I think they speak to us each in their own 
ways."


Chuckling, Phellan looked bemused, "A good, evasive answer Captain. 
Indeed. . .thank you for your honesty.   We shall pray to Hildr then, gather 
the men and we shall pray.    I will be along shortly."

Looking back over the darkened fields the Captain discerned that the 
conversation was over and left the Inquisitor to himself.     Phellan stared 
out towards the fields where the battle would be had.    He stayed there for 
a long time, staring out into the Night, images of a Fallen King strong in 
his mind's eye.