AC 2021 - Final - Storm Veritas

[Storm Veritas]

“Good, you’re awake. Here, sip slowly and listen, don’t talk.”

Cazri, the beautiful dark elf, sat at the flank of his bed. She laid a small tray of chicken broth at his side table, steam pouring ever so faintly as she offered him the first spoonful. She whispered with her deep, sultry voice, her gorgeous appearance marred by a litany of bandages and myriad stitches, scrapes, and salves. It was good to see her clean again; the sexy glow of her dark skin surprisingly healthy with all conditions and considerations in play. Storm didn’t remember her being so ravaged from the carry here, but then most of the details felt fuzzy.

“Forget what you think happened. Don’t say anything to anyone until our story is etched in stone together if you want to survive.” She smiled as she leaned over him, gently brushing his cheek as a lover would. They were in a burlap-wrapped tent, and from the metal trays and instruments about him, it was a mobile hospital of some sort.

“We wanted to take the sword. You were paid a handsome bounty by the Radasanthian Council to retrieve the sword from the Demon Gate, and I was your liaison. Together, we marched with Emi, Leoric, Elite Optic, and Sorian towards the gate, but were met with countless demon bands, that separated us all.”

Her whispering was broken by a kiss on his forehead, as a tall Ettermirian soldier came to check on Storm’s bandages. One check on a bandage about his head, the affirmation that he had received broth. A shake of his left leg that responded with a horrible yelp, the splinted leg obviously broken in an injury from which Storm had literally no recollection. A temperature check and assessment of his eyes. With all the pleasantries of a crocodile, the elf turned and left the bed, pushing through a hanging strap of leather that separated each mobile bed area.

Quite the welcome wagon. Gods.

Cazri was unfazed, opting to continue to whisper to Storm.

“Sorian and Elite were some of the lucky ones, best I can tell. I was told they cut through the entire eastern front of the demons, with Elite using a mystical helmet to overwhelm and dominate the demons. It was destroyed in battle, but both survived. They boarded the large boat that you all arrived in, leaving behind the smaller vessel for you when you clear your name.”

Sons of bitches!

“We were caught in a terrible crossfire; dwarves from the north, and demons returning from their march to Ettermire and Etherea on the other side of the gate. A terrible battle, with virtually no survivors. We were both buried alive in the rubble of the great demon gate, felled by the mighty war machines of the dwarven soldiers.

“Had they not so bravely sacrificed themselves, we’d surely have been torn apart by those savage demons. Sadly, virtually all the dwarves, and every single one of their war machines were destroyed in the battle. The elves rode north hard and fast to pinch in the remaining demons, driving whatever dwarves remained back north to the mountains.”

What?

Puzzled, Storm glared at the elven guide, pleading with her to tell the truth of what happened out there. His head throbbed terribly, a familiar pain. How long had he been enduring the concussion? What had actually happened on the battlefield? How much of this was delusion and dream, and how much was reality?

“Cazri, what the hell are you talking about?” His dilated pupils suggested a terrible injury, one that doctors would later explain to him could very well create severe hallucinations as the brain tried to heal. Still, hallucination would better explain the incredible luck, the wild visions, and the untold power he had never before experienced.

Her eyes softened, looking at him with what appeared to be either sadness or pity. Brushing his hair behind the bandaging, she spoke again in low tones.

“I’ve already told you what happened. You were brave, and we were lucky. But this is the tale I will tell anyone that will ever ask me. With no other survivors following the fall of the Demon Gate, there simply is no other truth beyond the babbling, selfish hysterics of a brain damaged old wizard. One who would suggest I could betray the elves, which is of course objectively absurd. A wounded old man who would claim he single handedly saved the world. Best of luck with your tale, my friend.”

With another kiss on the forehead, Cazri rose and left the tent. Pulling at a seam of leather by his head that marked the tent wall, Storm watched her mount a beautiful little auburn horse and ride away. As he released the fabric, a terrible ache resonated from his right thigh, where matted blood was pushing through the cotton bandages that he hadn’t noticed. A second bandage covered his otherwise bare flesh, a long ruddy color staining the clean white cloth.

The wizard Storm Veritas had not claimed the sword. He was isolated now, with a spectacular story that no one could corroborate. No money, no friends, and no path.

He had saved the world, and things had never looked worse.