Tribulations Of A Shattered Mind

[Deleted]

18 Tarsakh,Year of Blue Flames, 15th bell

Valkur’s Roar

The late afternoon light shone through the meager slivers afforded it by the loft’s heavy curtains; the modest living space seeming to greedily soak up this sole source of illumination within. Granted to and utilized by the Ohgmyte Priestess for rest and study, it bore signs of her habitation: sparingly appointed save for a well-stocked bookshelf, a simple desk and chair, and a narrow bed. Upon that bed, Lorren found whatever rest she could.

Her lucid periods were still quite random, often only managing mouthfuls of water and attempts to use the chamberpot before her willpower was exhausted and she was forced back into bed. Honest sleep came only a few hours at a time, before the shakes, chills, and pain returned anew. She’d some awareness, even in this state; she knew where she was, she vaguely remembered why she was there, but communication remained largely beyond her: weakened to the point where she’d barely the ability to give a nod or a shake of her head. The Deva’s bargain had brought her to a state of helplessness that entirely new to her, and with a shattered mind and a phobia of vulnerability, her suffering fell largely outside the care of others; leaving her a tremoring, whimpering wreck for most of the day.

“Pathetic.”

Lorren’s exposed ear twitched as the voice reached her. She hadn’t the strength to rise and see who addressed her. The man’s voice came from just out of her line of sight, but it was familiar to her, albeit a tone of arrogance and disdain that she had not heard in half a decade.

“This is where your road has led you? Simpering and weeping in a rotted out old tavern, useless, spent. Imagine what your father would say if he’d the misfortune to see how his errant daughter leaves this world.”

Her skin, covered in naught but a common slip and stinking sweat puckered into goosebumps as the restructured fragments of her mind recognized the speaker. Impossible as it was; when she summoned the strength to adjust the position of her neck, she met the gaze of her fallen uncle, Castor Wrenn.

He lounged back in Runa’s writing chair, bedecked in the black and silver tunic and vest he’d worn the night she put him to rest and departed for Cormyr, impossible as it was. Seeing her move, the man brushed a few strands of greying hair from his clean-shaven face, and laughed.

“Oh, so you’re awake then? Wonderful. Your companion; lover, friend, hireling. Whoever she is, she won’t be returning anytime soon. We’ve leagues of years to catch up on, and we’ll not be disturbed, dear niece.”

“You’re-“ She stammered, each word from her lips a trial of will. “No. Dead. I killed you.”

“And when, my lovely little soldier, has that stopped anyone? It certainly didn’t keep you from crawling out of whatever hell the Zorastryl pretender exiled you to once his pets were done with you.”

Castor leaned forward, a wickedly pleased smile on her face. She remembered that smile all too well, a wolfish grin that he reserved exclusively for witnessing the suffering of hated foes. He’d worn it often with her after the murder of her parents, and seeing it again created a deep pit of cold within her empty stomach.

“Oh, and yes. I know of that sordid affair. I know every step you have taken since you opened my throat. Really, niece, what did you expect? I offered you purpose, protection, shelter from the day we were driven to Westgate, asking only that you learn our trade in return.”

Castor sneered as he inched down the collar of his tunic, exposing an ugly scar that ran the length of his throat.

“And you murdered me for it. You murdered each and every Wrenn within your reach that drew breath, more a savage dog lashing out than a proper noble retribution.”

Unbidden memories flooded Lorren’s mind. The smell of blood mixed with the savory scents of the kitchen, the nearly weightless stiletto in her hand, the surprise in the faces of her nemesis as she and her hirelings butchered four men, three women, and two children.

“I was wrong.” She weakly managed, not so much shaking her head as she was tilting it back and forth. “Too eager, shouldn’t have taken your children.”

“But you did. And a masterful bit of violence that was, my dove.” Her uncle let out a bitter laugh. “Ever since that day I’ve chided myself for not seeing the potential in you sooner. It’s just my fault as yours, I suppose. I shiver when I think of how I could have harnessed your passion, your hate, your willingness to end lives. We could have done great things together, niece; we could have established a Westgate dynasty that would’ve endured for decades; lived in the manner we are accustomed, and brought sanity to the madness of that hole of a city.”

Castor gave a wistful sigh, eyes cast downward as he continued. “But we both erred. Me upon making myself the target of your hatred, and you for clinging to the dreams of an old, tired man who sought to prostrate himself before those who wronged him”

“My father was r-“

“Your father was misguided and short sighted!” Her uncle silenced her, staring her down like a misbehaving pet. “He spent years nearly bankrupting us to buy our way back into Cormyr, eager to wrap himself in purple once more like there was ever going to be a coming back from the Bleth’s anemic excuse for an attempted regicide. And here you are, repeating his folly!” To punctuate his words, Castor drew a stiletto-thin dagger from his belt- her dagger-, and drove it downwards into the adjacent reading table. A small twinge of pain shot up Lorren’s right arm, beginning at her fingertips and ending at the elbow; a quiet whimper of pain being the only thing she could manage.

“There she is: my beloved niece. Without her armor, her swords, the ridiculous notion of duty she wraps herself in to give her immunity from any real responsibility. All you are is the weeping little waif who just learnt she’d been made an orphan. But that’s well and good, my dear. You see-“


Castor left the little knife embedded within Runa’s desk, obviously caring little for masking his presence as he leered at her.

“Your Uncle Castor is here with you now. I’ll fix this fine mess you’ve created. As for yourself; get composed, and soon. You need not fear me, mind you. I didn’t come from beyond the grave to return your favors; quite the contrary. So..” He rose from the chair and confidently strode to her bedside, brushing back a few stray strands of hair to press a kiss on her sweat-slicked forehead. “Get well. Once you’ve recovered you’ll find we’ve a great deal of work to do.”

[Runa Rothgar]

A couple days past and the Oghmanyte has been checking her troubled friend on occasion. The steps to her loft were not quiet, straining even under Runa's weight and her Mithral Armor.

The priestess was unsure if Lorren was resting or up and decided to creak open the door and send a whisper through it's crack.

"Captain?"  

Her green orbs then spotted the woman in her sleep twitching and mumbling incoherently, restless with a gleaming brow. 

"A civil conversation with the devils I presume.." Runa quips as she sets a plate of Talbot's tray, filled with a variety of meats, cheeses and a half-empty drink of Marsember's Blue.

The Tethyrian couldn't help but notice the knife pierced into her desk and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully,

"Curious Curious.."  Runa comments inquisitively before fingers splay for the knife. 

However, she retracts..  

"Hnngh.."

The index of crosses her lips a moment and soon a dismissive wave sweeps the air , "Perhaps best left untouched when I ask questions.  Easier answers when the evidence is still lodged and the perpetrator is most likely in front of me." 

The priestess didn't seem too bothered by the sight.

"I suppose I should extend a little care to my friend...I am a priest after all."  

With that, the Oghmanyte caters to the pillow and blanket..

"I should make sure Nordy is well after this... "

[Deleted]

Four days have passed since Lorren threw herself to the mercy of an Astral Deva, chancing her very sanity in exchange for the fulfillment of her leige lord's desires. As such, she found herself in the care of her sometimes-subordinate, confidante, and friend; Runa Rothgar of Oghma. Under her watchful eye, Lorren's splintered mind has managed to pull itself together and achieved a semblance of normalcy. The pains of hell do not nest well in a mortal mind, however; and Lorren finds herself wracked by night terrors and waking visions. To make matters worse, a malevolent memetic vestige of a hated, vanquished foe has manifested itself within her mind. It is unclear what this apparition is: the imaginings of a tortured mind, the onset of madness, or something far more terrible and fantastic. Even more mysterious still are the vestige's aims...

21 Tarsakh,Year of Blue Flames, 10th bell

Valkur’s Roar

The morning and night before had gone as well as could be expected, given her condition. The ill dreams continued, often leaving her to awaken in screams or sobs, and making if difficult to sleep once more. Dawn, however, seemed to bring a comforting calm with it. Taking full advantage of untroubled lucidity, Lorren wasted no time rising, bathing, and eating a meager breakfast of bread, water, and porridge; still not fully trusting her vertigo-stricken stomach with richer fare. It hardly troubled her, though. The meager but adequate lodgings and simple food almost had a comforting effect: reminding her of simpler times when she was but an unknown sellsword; unburdened by the fatigues of responsibility and duty.

"Heady days, those."

Lorren's head snapped to her left, casting a hateful look upon the shade of her uncle Castor, whom had manifested himself sitting on the bed beside her, speaking around half-chewed bits of bread as he regarded her with an amused smile.
"You did as you pleased, you seized glory without having yourself decimated in the process..."

Castor swallowed, and lightly raised and shook a fist whilst growling in a proud sort of frustration.
"The women..."

"If I'm forced to imagine you, at least speak sense. I laid with no one, let alone engage in relations preordained to be barren and fruitless. Besides, you were food for rats at that point, you and that slattern of a wife."

Lorren hissed in response, snatching away the half eaten loaf from her dead relative, pointedly ripping a large bit off with her teeth to make a point that she wished to end the conversation. She'd convinced herself that this apparition was a consequence of her ordeals and injuries; a theory settled on as her interactions with the waking vision continued. As of yet Castor had neither threatened nor hurt her, rather alternating his torments between mocking, distracting, or shaming her with his irreverent, bawdy, and at times blasphemous wit. Still stranger was that it seemed there were times where he brooded in silence, offering an uncharacteristic respect for the prayers of her gods-touched friend and within Arabel's garden. She'd observed the shade experience the same discomfort as she during her early experiences with magical travel; a matter that he steadfastly refused to elaborate on. As such, it appeared that her silent moment of peace for the day had been broken, with dead uncle Castor regarding her with a ill-toned chuckle.

"Venomous as always. Well, let's delve into mysticism and theory for a bit, shall we? Now that my prayers have been heard and I've a semblance of life again, I've made myself quite at home in this midden heap you call a mind. I've entertained myself whilst you were at sleep visiting a few of your more treasured memories."

The specter winked to her.

"My favorite bits were watching the other ladies at arms at rest in camp, bathing time is *always* treasured. I'll go no further than that for gentlemanly reasons. The recent affairs are an absolute riot to partake as well. A small bit of genius on not throwing a tantum and storming out when your lord asked you to walk arm and arm with that Orc chief; conceited creature you are. Had I been friends with the master of an expendable ball of angry Orcs, I'd have ensured no trade caravan that wasn't mine or my allies ever got five miles outside of Westgate. But, let's be honest, you'll manage to turn that pear-shaped in quick order if you continue on the way you are."

"And exactly what way am I on?"

Lorren responded. She'd tried hard to simply ignore the apparition in the past days. At times it silenced Castor, others it made him even more incessantly obnoxious as before. When he chose the latter, she'd found herself vulnerable to rising to his bait; a reaction that seemed to leave the vestige positively elated.

"The path to ruin, dear girl. You're on the same path your father was on wh-"

His casual explanation was interuptted as Lorren bolted up, throwing an accusing finger at him.

"You are the one responsible for his death. Another word on that and I'll-"

"You'll what?"

Castor responded, an all too mocking smile on his face as he moved to Runa's desk, pulling out the heirloom knife, extending it to her hilt-first.

"Throw yourself into the Dragonmere? Dash your head to paste on the masonry? Open your stomach? I ask because that is the *only* way you'll be rid of me. That winged Elven waif told you this would be enduring, yet you threw yourself into it. Just like Ardin and his plans to return us all to Cormyr. Had I not did what I'd done we'd all be years dead; your father would have sailed us all into the gallows with a smile on his face. Was it something I relished doing? Hardly, it seems my niece has the lust and love for murder and blood here."


Castor shook his head in overexaggerated disapproval, before he began tapping the dagger's hilt on her nearby cuirass, having been laid out and readied for wear some time earlier. With each tap, a metallic clang sounded throughout the room; though not terribly loud, the sound still caused Lorren's ears to ring.

"I'm trying to warn you, impudent and impulsive as you are. You think that by taking the pain and punishment for the missteps and blunders of others upon yourself makes you more noble or purehearted? Or is it just your idea of taking a calculated risk? You threw yourself into Matthias' camp, you threw yourself into the jaws of that fell hound in the Tunlands, the mirrored world, the Mistwood, the god's-thrall. For what? To make yourself look a hero?"

"Not that I require justification to a dead king of a dung-heap; but my actions were prudent. I swore to the Regent and Baron that they'd my enduring loylty. That does not mean only coming to their call if convenient or painless. It is a sacred vow that I took, one to place the well being of the Barony and Kingdom above my own. Duty re-."

It was Castor's turn to interrupt once more, banging the dagger hilt on the cuirass front a final, deafening time. Instinctively, Lorren winced and pressed her hands to cover her ears.

"Duty?!"

He exclaimed, his tone one of incredulous humor.

"The only thing your actions and 'heroism' have convinced anyone of is that you can *always* be relied upon to be the sacrificial rabbit. Continuing to throw yourself into charges of forlorn hope will only win you a grave and a candle-long ceremony. Perhaps your fame that day will manage to attract a distinguished guest or two; the head of the miller's guild perhaps."

The apparition issued forth a whistle of sarcastic awe.

"What a mark you'll leave behind you. 'Here lies Lorren' The stone will say. 'She burnt herself down to the tallow'. Idiot girl. I've read your thoughts on 'generational planning' with the Orc 'loyalists'. What of your own generational planning? You're a year or so from the beginning of your hair's ironing. You're unwed. You have no suiters. All you have is a little play standard that hangs on the wall of the closet your Baron calls an office, and a decade and a half of wasted time."

He continued, idly turning the dagger in his hands, eyeing the family crest stamped upon it's base.

"You know I'd just begun finalizing your bethrothal to a Bleth in Starmantle when you murdered everyone dear to me. He was formerly an Onrion in the King's Army. A bit older, but still possessed of a youthful vigor and commendable form. You might not have been royally invested, but you would have birthed children with the Obarskyr's blood in them. Your beloved Siamorphe would have been over the moon, you'd want for nothing, but ah, yes."

Castor clicked his tongue and held up an index finger, his eyes glancing back down to the laid-out armor.

"Duty. it's a gods-damned suit of armor to you; if armor were excuses. Armor, armor, armor. That's all you are about, my dear niece. You may entomb yourself in iron, bandy about words like fealty, responsibility, and duty like it is a sword and shield, but you and I know it's naught but show. I know who you really are, and I'm rather beginning to miss that trembling young lady, bloody knife in her hand."

"Show me a way to draw blood from you and I'll ease that loneliness, uncle."

Lorren responded in a low murmur, eyes fixated on the knife now. She'd commended herself for retaining her composure thus far, but knew that it was nearing it's end. Still, she knew that flying into a rage would do nothing but cement not only the death of her ambitions, but her line as well. Madwomen were hardly in demand as potential marriage material, even one as decorated as herself. Runa was obviously being generous with her assessment of her wellbeing; there was no hiding at least a suspicion that something was not quite right with her yet, and a violent fit would press the priestesses grace and understanding past it's logical limits.

Even more, there was one truth she knew in the back of her mind. The alternatives to a lifetime of torment had already been laid out. Figment, insanity, spirit, curse, or something more vile; Castor was inexplicably part of her now: her burden to bear. Her uncle's remnant either knew this thought or could surmise it well enough, as he turned the dagger in her hand and offered her the blade to her once more, arm outstretched across the room.

"Very well then, do what you will."

He waited a few breaths, before sheathing the blade anew and tossing it on the floor next to her armor.

"No? splendid. You're learning already!"

The specter clapped his hands together in what appeared to be a genuine expression of relief; an emotion Lorren had never seen the man express. She drew her eyes from the discarded knife and back to her nemesis, who'd taken the opportunity to recline back in Runa's chair, folding his arms behind his had as he mused.


"So then, as it seems you're at least hesitantly receptive to my instruction, let us see what other tricks this tired old Crownsilver pet can learn."

[Deleted]

30 Mirtul ,Year of Blue Flames, 15th bell
22nd Bell

Wyvernspur Camp, Eveningstar

The mountains of the Eastern Stormhorns remained locked in their extended winter, with warm Anaurachan air meeting the fridgid peaks and continuing down into the footshills about Eveningstar, draping the town in a near-constant state of light snowfall. Nestled against the back of the Crown Army's barracks, a small military camp had been established, and had been for the past few days to house the additional men brought by the Lord Wyvernspur as a contingency towards Urbuchek's summons. The summons answered, the battle won, and the Lord returned; the camp had begun the early stages of preparation to move. Even at this late hour, the camp remained abuzz with activity; soldiers both celebrating a victory over Zhentish forces, and loading wagons to make ready for the upcoming return to Immersea.

Within a modest canvas tent, enchanted against the elements and neatly floored with wood to keep out both mud and snow, Lorren privately reveled in her companionship's success. Her armor long removed, cleaned, repaired and made ready for it's next wearing, she'd already been a few gulps into the bottle of Marsemban bourbon and was lazily reclining back on a quartermaster's crate draped with a bear's pelt. Leaning up, she took another swig of the bold, woodsy spirits; savoring the burn in her throat as she passed the bottle to the 'man' a few feet away from her. Crouched on a small stool, Castor leaned over and accepted the gift, taking a pair of swigs himself.

"You are a damned madwoman, niece."

The vestige of her uncle shook his head in disbelief, an uncharacteristic weariness evident in his face.

"I needn't be reminded of that by a shade summoned by aforementioned madness."

Lorren quipped back, greedily snatching back the bottle, cradling the thing dearly under an arm. While she and the vestige had achieved some small measure of understanding, she remained stricken by night terrors, and of course by the sadistic wit of her dead relative. Alcohol, at times, provided small relief from both. While refraining from the wanton imbibement of drink during her usual duties in the West, this was most certainly a night she could write off as celebration. She'd gotten another victory under her belt; something sorely missing in her affairs within the Mistwood and with it's antagonistic inhabitants. A sense of accomplishment was what she'd dearly needed, and tonight she would let her hair down, quite literally.

"Taking the field in the vanguard of an Orcish army against a Zhentish stronghold was one thing. A good bit of fun that; watching them all climb over one another to cave in a whoreson's head with a rock." Castor conceded, "But then marching into a fortified prison camp in a suit of bloodied and broken armor, acting like you commanded the place? I thought you were dead, and me with you."

She rolled her eyes and gave a little tilt of her head back and forth.

"Orcs march in hordes; they don't have vanguards. They just sort of..act like a bucket of water poured before a steel ingot. Whomstever gets there first is the front, and they just..go around and envelop whatever they want to kill. As for the camp-"

Lorren offered a shrug, and set the bottle beside her, moving her arms to form a makeshift pillow behind her head.

"I managed to get us into the heart of the camp, murder their commander and her detail without raising the alarm, allowed my companions to rally the prisoners, and made ourselves in fighting shape before some hapless fool decided to verify the "commander's" orders. From there on we essentially just rode the wave of meat, teeth and iron until we were clear of it. Simplicity."

"Simplic-. Fine, as you will. One more bauble for your court coat, then."

The specter sighed, and crossed his arms across his chest.

"Military victories are as frequent as rain, and just as easily pass."

"But this one has meaning outside of simply territory or devastated enemy numbers. The amount of gibberish you spew at me, and you've still not understood a thing I've said on the manner."

She pushed herself upright, another swig of the bottle as she shifted her legs over the side of the crate, eyeing her uncle's remnant with a suddenly focused gaze.

"It's about the Orcs. We need them."

"Need them?" Castors eyes widened with incredulous disdain. "Smelly, ill-bred mongrels that exist just to eat and kill?"

"Precisely, dear uncle. I know your travels with me are limited of late; but it is no surprise that we're in need of allies, friends. The kind with weapons and willingness to use them if need be. Not just myself and you by unhappy circumstance; but the Kingdom itself. We've Elven delegations freely bantering about teasings of war, skirmishes on the northern border, our neighboring barony in shambles and a still winnowed levy of soldiers in the west. We need fighting men, and if fighting Orcs are the current plate we are given, I'll happily gobble it up knowing the character of the hordelord to be one of honor, albeit a savage one."

"An Orc, a man of character; Cyric must be having a lark."

The vestige scoffed, quickly earning a rebuff from the swordswoman.

"Again, coming from you. But it goes deeper than that. I can count on the Crownsilvers and Wyvernspurs for support in mundane things, I'd assume; but those are lords you go to when you need a stamp to build an estate or to negotiate an easement on the year's taxes. These Orcs, Urbuchek's Orcs, are the kind you need when only an army of monsters can hold an enemy at bay or shelter you when all else is lost. Consider my efforts here an investment on our family's future survival."

"Planning ahead then?"

Castor leaned forward, interested now.

"I've a few irons in the fire; some that might garner powerful enemies, but nothing that could see me driven from the kingdom. Idle games and struggle for influence aside, I remain a loyal woman of the King. Let it simply be said-" Lorren chuckled, taking another gulp of the strong liquor, before tossing it back to the specter.

"That there's never a disadvantage to maintaining friendly terms with an angry, massive ball of shock infantry."