The Unbeating Heart - Chapter 1

Beneath trees stripped bare of bark, on cold and fog filled nights, things not of this world walk the land. Fay and mysterious, the seek mischief and mayhem. This night is one such.

The teamster cracked the whip, hopping to get to town before the last light of dusk settled over the land and faded completely. He had heard stories, tales of fiends, and the restless dead. The night made him uneasy, for who knew what lurked beyond the pool of light spilled by his swaying lantern.

The horse trotted along the cobbled stones, sweating and quickening his pace. He too seemed to dislike the night. Always was there the scent of death, and the sounds of dying when night came. He longed to be in the warmth of the barn, surrounded with the sweet smell of hay and the sounds of his fellow animals, with nothing more predatory than the occasional rat or owl.

Something howled in the night, another howl answering it. The wolves are on the move thought the teamster as his empty wagon clattered down the cobblestones of the road. He said a silent prayer that they hunted stag or other game this night, and sent his whip cracking onto the back of the horse. The beast whinnied, an almost human scream and picked up his pace.

The teamster could see them now, gray, moonlit shadows, flanking the road. They moved like death through the trees. Dozens of them, hundreds. Sweat trickled down the teamsters face and he gripped the reins in white knuckled fists. Something darted from the shadows. The horse reared in panic kicking his legs into the air.

The wagon did not stop so abruptly. The horse, off balance, tumbled the wagon following after it.

The teamster found himself sprawled in the grass beside the road, the wolves had set upon the horse, their fangs tearing at his flesh as he screamed.

One wolf watched him, his eyes unnaturally keen, his size unnaturally large. Waiting. Waiting. The teamster knew that this was his death staring him in the face. He knew that soon he too would be torn apart, torn apart by a wolf with a mans eyes.

He began to back away, he clutched his whip tight in his hand. He snapped the whip as the beast leaped, coils snaring him and sending him tumbling to the shadows.

Dropping his whip he ran, the village was near, he could see the smoke of its fires rising above the hill beyond. He could make it if he tried.

Atop the hill he crumpled into a heap, tears of frustration and despair sliding down his cheeks. Ahead lay the village, tumbled stones and cold ashes where the day before lived and loved a hundred people, gone now save for the charred and flayed bodies.

The wolves would take him, and death would drive the emptyness from his heart...

Morning finds you walking through the woods, there is the soft scent of wood smoke that drifts through the trees, perhaps from a campfire. Hunger within you stirs. It has been long since you have had more than trail rations. Perhaps you will find warm food and welcoming smiles beyond the rise...

A figure appears.
He makes his way through, slowly shifting his eyes patiently, clearly ready for anything that might assault him. Despite his rugged appearance and cold attitude this man cuts a striking image to those around him attracting stares and nods from those he crosses paths with.

"How long has it been?" the young man asks, irritated as he pats his rumbling stomach. He opens his pocket to take out the last of the rations he had bought, but nothing is there.
"What?" Then he remembers leaving behind the rat-trap of a village before buying anything extra.
He is clad entirely in black leather: breeched, boots and jacket. The jacket hangs open, revealing a black cotton shirt underneath, a design of intricate spirals and loops embroidered in gold, the design seeming unfamiliar at first, but soon revealing itself to be an hourglass circled and then "x"-ed out.
"It seems that it's *Time* to find food once again...my eternal foe..."
He approaches the rise.

The heavily armored man turns his steel grey attention to the area of the campsite and grumbles slightly as he turns his determined stride in that direction. He reaches down and almost as a reflex action loosens the leather binding on his blade scanning carefully for the onset of some form of attacker.

Nkosi's mood improves (although slightly) at the thought of a campfire and civilization. The warmth he gained from his rigorous morning exercises was already fading. Worse still, these ever-present trees are keeping the glorious sun from shining on him. By the gods, how could people actually enjoy these "forests"?
Expecting to see others around the campfire, he takes out more of that damnable cream and smoothes it around his face, then he adjusts his thick brown robes and moves toward the smoke.

As the men crest the rise they discover not a campsite, but the smoldering remains of a village. The carnage here is unbelievable. Young, old, women, men, all lay butchered or burned. The bodies lay where they were killed, blood stains the grass, and mud of the streets.
It has been many years since you have seen slaughted on this scale, and you feel a coldness sweep over you, an emptyness that gnaws within you giving way to outrage. These were no warriors! Children! Babes in arms!
You have never seen slaughter on this scale...

The dark armored warrior strolls silently into the village his sword drawn and his eyes scanning the piling bodies. Several errant prayers slip across his lips as he gazes at the bodies praying for the swift channeling of their spirits to the world beyond this, to true death. He moves through the bodies looking for any sign of remaining life or signs of the creatures that caused this horrible destruction.

"What in the name of..." the young man cannot complete the sentence as he sees the gory trail of carnage before him. His eyes dart from corpse to corpse as he tries to see if any of the bodies are still moving. His arm cradles his stomach as if he's nauseous.
Suddenly, he spies the armored man approaching the village from the opposite direction. Panic sets in as the grim demeanor of the man seems apparent, but begins to ebb as his face seems in as much shock as his own.
"You there! Stand your ground and tell me! Friend or foe?"
He holds up his hands to show he has no weapons of his own, but is ready to quickly grab his dagger and attack if necessary.

The dark warrior raises his eyes from his prayer sword in hand and spies the figure with a wary eye. He begins walking towards him saying in a deep voice as he does, "It depends on what side you were on when the murderer's set into this village. Be it that you are remnants of the party who conveyed this action I will surely cut you down and send you to true death. If not... perhaps I am friend."

The only signs of life is the man that challenged you. Though he doesn't appear to be a warrior, he does seem to be the only life around here. Perhaps he was a minion of those that caused this? Or perhaps he is an innocent bystander. Reguardless he appears to be ill or wounded...

"I am no murderer." the young man says as he lowers his hands. He kneels down next to a body of a young woman to examine the damage to her frame.
He's checking to see if he can figure out what caused the wounds.

A blade has slit her throat. The front of her blouse has been shredded, and her skirt is torn. Her ears have been sliced at the tips, and there are bruises on her wrists.

*Hurk...*
Misgauging his own constitution, the young man vomits away from the body, thought it is mostly a sickly, dry choking sound due to lack of food.
"Well...who or whatever did this made it thorough..."
He looks more closely at the ears and wrists. Out of the corner of his eyes, though, he watches the armored man's actions.

Nkosi cautiously approaches several of the bodies, alert for noises from any who may still be alive ... or from those who may be their slayers. As he walks through the carnage, he remembers a time when he would have been repulsed and sickened by this. Now ... he feels nothing. "Is that good or bad?" he wonders.
Suddenly, hearing spoken words, he moves behind one of the homes and peers around the corner. He watches and listens as the two men -- one in black, scarred armor and one in black leather -- size each other up.
After watching the younger one vomit, he feels confident that they're newcomers here as well. So he steps out into the open, his arms wide. You see a dark-skinned man in a thick tan robes with an ornate collar, wearing a white cap and brown gloves.
"Well," he says, "since neither one of you is dripping with blood, you're either innocent of this or the cleanest butchers I've ever heard of."

Hearing another approach, the young man quickly turns his head. Seeing that the man seemingly means no harn, he turns back to examining the corpse and the marks on it, speaking while he does so as not to waste any time.
"Since we all seem to be newcomers, why don't we introduce ourselves? I am Stephen, a wanderer of lands near and far, seeker of the destruction of my mortal foe."
He looks up at the two others. "And you are...?"

The dark warrior shifts his weight under the overlapping plates of black mail and looks warily at the approaching figure and slowly sheaths the blood red sword he holds in his hand. He takes a look around and although kneeling would be impractical he grimaces and says in a slight rumbling baritone, "At least they were lucky, we should find the nearest temple and have them buried to be sure of their journey into true death." At the mention of introductions he narrows his eyes but says grudgingly, "I am Sir Alexander Thurgood, After Guide to the Cursed... those that are aroused without provocation from the grave. Where are we?"

The dark-skinned man inclines his head during Thurgood's introduction, "Sir Alexander Thurgood, After Guide to the Cursed...that's a mouthful, and an interesting mouthful at that. I certainly agree that these unfortunates should be prepared properly for their voyage to the afterlife. I've...heard many tales of the chaos that restless spirits can cause."
Looking at the younger man, he comments, "Stephen, you say you're on a hunt. Do you suspect this 'mortal foe' of yours to be responsible for this? Oh, excuse my manners: I am Nkosi, a traveler like yourselves, in search of knowledge."
Glancing around the carnage -- and looking undisturbed by the bloodshed -- Nkosi says, "Perhaps there's a wagon or two which we can use to transport the bodies to a more appropriate spot. But perhaps we can first look around to see if we can gather information about those responsible. Tracking is not one of my better talents, but one of you gentlemen...?" Nkosi begins looking at the ground, trying to find unusual weapons that may have been dropped, out-of-place trinkets, any clue to suggest who was here and what they were looking for.

The young man looks up. "We are in the countryside of Falkovnia. I was on my way to Levkarest, the capital when I stumbled upon this..." he quickly changes his frame of thought, "Temple you say? I guess we could take tht *time* to do that..."
The word "time" has an odd intonation to it, something between repulsion and hatred. His frame of thought switches again as he looks up at the warrior.
"Lucky? How are these people lucky? There were slaughtered like pigs! Unarmed...undefended..."
He becomes strangely silent.

The steel grey eyes come to point on the man as he makes his incredulous statement about them being lucky and he says in an even tone with a slight edge, "At least we didnt arrive after say perhaps some hell spawned priest or wizard that would seek to use this "boon"," he says with a voice filled with venom, "to ravage others lives and torture the already resting souls of these poor people." He slowly regains his composure his facing becoming once again the blank slate it was a short time earlier and he says evenly, "Rest assured if whoever perpetrated this is revealed, Kelemvor will lead them home as well."
"Excuse my outburst," The warrior's eyes drift over the feild... the blood splattered women and children and a slight breathless moment touches him, "I am not usually so emotional. I have never heard of the place you speak. I was travelling north of Luskan towards Icewind Dale when I met an old man who pointed me to the spine of the world. After a strange encounter that could have only been a message from my god I stumbled into a rolling mist that screamed of evil and things most foul. Now I find myself here among carnage in a place that I do not recognize." With a slight sigh he wanders away mumbling to himself, "It reminds me of what a town resembles when some of Bhaal's cult decide to take a stroll."

"Icewind Dale, you say?" asks Nkosi, who doesn't raise his head from his investigation of the grounds. "Never heard of it...and from its name, I wage it's probably not the warmest or healthiest of climates.
"I shouldn't be surprised by your tale, though," he continues. "Several wayward travelers came to my homeland with similar tales of 'mists' that led them astray. I myself have noticed only a strange haze, and that was when I finally left Har'Akir some time ago. In any case, welcome to Falkovnia. This land's 'hospitality' is, shall we say, infamous?"

The warrior observes the two fellows and nods, "Well since fate and Kelemvor's wish has brought us three together would you fellows like to find out who or what did this and perhaps put an end to it?"

"Make that Four," replied a musical feminine voice. "I am Synnabar Serie-anna, Syn for short."
Before you stands a lean, tall (6 ft) female. She has ivory sick which looks almost ghostly pale and holds a delicate handkerchief over her face. She has strawberry blonde hair and blue-violet eyes. She is dressed in fine cloak which covers the rest of her clothing. You can also see a long sword, and a short bow.

The dark warrior turns quickly gripping the hilt of his sword and looks this female up and down before releasing the grip slightly, "How is it that you came to find yourself here Lady Synabar Serie-Anna."

Nkosi also gives a slight start at the newcomer's arrival. "Good day to you, my lady. I too am curious as to what brings you to this area. Do you have any insights?"
Noting the handkerchief that Syn holds, he adds (almost absent-mindedly), "Yes, I'm sure the smell is offensive. Even Anubis himself would have difficulty carrying so many poor souls to the Underworld."

In the distance, almost unheard and nearly unnoticed is the soft sound of weeping.