Eye of Lemont
Vision: Betrayal of Strength
You can smell it. It smells the way it tastes, like wet metal and musty earth. Slick and heavy clinging to the back of your throat. The sweet metallic pungency fills your nostrils as you inhale deeply and raise your hands towards a cluster of colliding bodies running frantically in all directions. Anger curls hot and unstoppable in your gut, like a blazing inferno that wants to burn from the inside out. You ball your fingers to a fist then promptly uncurl them as a bolt of lightning arcs towards one of the moving bodies before vaulting itself into three different directions and striking three others.
In the frantic assembly of fleeing bodies, four corpses fall to the earth. Dark red pools begin to form underneath them as they limply lay in the grass. Your upper lip curled with mirth, you step forward. Your heart hammers violently in your chest as you follow the fleeing men, women and children. Pathetic Khar civilians. Lying, deceiving, repulsive Khar rats. You step over some fallen and mangled bodies. The damp earth makes a squelching sound under your feet. In the pit of your stomach, suppressed feelings of loneliness and loss attempt to surface. You repeat, “Lying. Deceiving. Repulsive,” over and over as fury surges once more and tightens your throat. Around you, everything is inaudible. Amidst the chaos, you see a singular elderly man hunched over clutching his side. His clothes are soaked with gore. He raises a crooked finger and points it towards you. Your eyes narrow in a sinister stare. The man’s lips are moving. Is he screaming? Is he crying? Is he afraid? You approach with a graceful sway, unbothered by the debris and the deceased. Standing over the man, you can finally hear his muffled words. In between raspy breaths, the decrepit man utters, “I’ve heard of you... Lemont Hale. Laying waste wherever you go. Killing men. Murdering women and children” The man winces then proceeds to spit blood into the red-soaked earth, “Nothing but Sarkonos scum.” You glance down at your tattered Sarkonos blue overcoat encrusted in dried blood, mud and sweat. On the left side, a hole where a military crest was once adjourned is nothing but scraps of fabric.
How long had it been since you abandoned your position in Sarkonos? Days? Weeks? Feelings of agony begin to fester at the memories. Your blood-stained hands close into tight fists with knuckles turning white. Who was to blame? Who is responsible for this pain you feel? Was it Sarkonos? Khar? Delilah? A slight chuckle escapes your lips before turning into a wicked howling laugh. A weak life. You feel much stronger now. You reach out with your right arm and forcefully seize the old man’s neck. His eyes bulge and his feet begin to flail as you lift his feeble body off the ground. His hand holding his side drops limp, intestines spewing on to the ground. He raises his other hand to swat you across the face, however, it fails to make contact. You draw him closer. The man’s mouth opened in a silent scream. You bring his rigid body close enough that his eyes, transfixed with horror, are unable to look away no matter how much they wish to. Again, you can smell it. It smells the way it tastes, like wet metal and musty earth. Slick and heavy clinging to the back of your throat. You feel his windpipe about to burst as you whisper in his ear, “I serve no one.”
She stands tall and sure-footed guarding the entrance of a large circular building with a rounded brass door. Despite her petite frame and thin appearance, it is clear through the position of her bare feet that she is firm in her stance. Cloaked in leather garb with a crisp white tabard, her limbs though elongated are toned and taut with hands curled into tight fists. From afar, her complexion is like porcelain and almost translucent in the bright of day. Loose strands of silver hair frame her face with a few strays tucked behind slightly pointed ears. The rest of her white blond hair is carefully twisted into a circular coil on top of her head. Her face, though delicate, is unmoving with rose coloured lips pursed into a straight line. Her most striking feature is a pair of emerald eyes narrowed like the slits of a serpent. She raises one hand as if signaling you to stop. You scowl, anger thrumming through your veins. How dare she?! Your body halts, trembling under your molten fury. She lowers her hand and in a clear and unwavering voice, you hear her say, “I knew that you were coming, Lemont. I’m afraid I cannot allow you to go any further.” Eyes locked on hers, you snarl, “I’ve been many places, Half-Elf. There has yet to be one who can stand against me. I am undefeated!”
You intone a harsh word, and a small white-orange orb streaks towards her. It collides with the earth, releasing a spray of embers and the smell of brimstone. The flames coalesce onto her as if drawn by a magnet, sizzling as they settle on hair and leather. Unfazed, she raises one hand and places it above her right breast. You watch as bits of rock begin to adhere themselves to her skin, coating her exposed flesh in an investiture of stone. A frown crosses your face as you watch her slowly meld into the earth below her, before disappearing from sight. Your eyes dart frantically across the grove in search of movement. Over the thundering sound of your heart hammering in your chest, you sense a deep rumbling beneath your feet. As the tremor intensifies, fey-touched words fall from your lips, silver mist surrounds you and falls to the ground.
The mist snakes its way across the grove to the front of the sealed entrance of the temple, and you are transported there instantly. As the mist begins to colace, you find yourself smirking. You are Lemont Hale. Unmatched. Unstoppable. Un… Beneath you, a giant hand made of compact soil suddenly rises from the ground and wraps its earthen fingers around your torso and lower limbs crushing you within its grasp. You hear the long curved bones surrounding your chest crack as the earthen fist tightens its embrace. In an instant, breathing becomes agony and the hot searing anger coursing through your veins is replaced with ice, cold fear. In front of you, the half-elf cleric emerged from the earth says nothing. Her mouth pinched shut as though holding back what she wants to say.
Now less than 5 feet away, you can see that her piercing stare is filled with intensity but also familiarity. Behind her venomous glare, you recognize a mountain of pain and loss. Without breaking gaze, you watch as behind her a floating, spectral weapon begins to materialize. Resembling an agricultural tool for harvesting crops, a long curved blade, thin and approximately arm’s length, begins to form at the end of a long wooden pole. In its glittering steel, you catch a glimpse of the village set ablaze and littered with corpses. Who would be held responsible for this? Sarkonos? Khar? You? Before an answer comes to mind, a flash of steel and hot searing pain of metal cutting flesh blinds you. Instantly, the vision in your right eye goes black. Darkness. You scream as warm blood trickles down your cheek. You lift your hand to your eye socket. Gone. Nothing. For a brief moment, your mind goes blank. Your hands shake, your face red, jaw clenched so tight that you would feel it for days to come. You never heard it, but the first thing you spit are the words of a spell that chill your very soul. You outstretch a hand that darkens, and for a moment you envision pustules, mucus, fever, and rot. The burning heat of sickness overtakes the chill of necromantic magic and you feel a malignancy form within you, then flowing towards the half-elf. She drops to one knee, flesh decaying. The earthen fist around you crumbles to dust. Unmatched. The cleric places both hands on the earth as six giant pillars of stone burst from the ground forming a barrier between you. With a single finger pointing forward, a thin green ray springs towards the pillars reducing them to a pile of fine gray dust. Unstoppable. You twirl your hands as the final gesture, and a whirlwind erupts from it to roar outward. Flakes of snow and shards of ice materialize in the freezing air, whipping in ever-widening circles as the blast fans out from your fingertips. The skin of your hands grows pale and tingles with cold, as you watch the half-elf fall face first into the dirt. Undefeated.
There’s an acrid smell in the air. It’s nauseating and sweet, something like leather being tanned over a flame. The smell is so thick and rich. You can smell it over the rampaging smoke of burning houses. In the dense fog, you find yourself stumbling. The lack of vision in your right eye making it exceedingly difficult to navigate the terrain. You lift a trembling hand to your cheek, the cascade of blood now hardened to a state somewhere between old pudding and candle wax. You curse under your breath. Sobbing in the distance startles you. No older than six, you see a young boy curled into a tight ball with his knees pressed tight into his chest. Senselessly, you stagger in the boy’s direction, the vision from your only eye obscured by thick clouds of smoke. The boy doesn’t move. Now, standing over him, you can see that the boy is perched atop a pile of blackened ruins curled against the bodies of two singed corpses. Who is responsible for this? Sarkonos? Khar? You reach out and tap the boy on his shoulder. He smells like sweat, wet sawdust and resinous pine. “What’s your name, boy?” Your voice sounds hoarse and weary. The boy raises his head. His dark eyes are clouded with tears. “D...Dra...ven.” He squeaks. You turn your blood-stained hand, palm facing up. “Come Draven. I’ll protect you. You’re safe now.”
You can smell it. It smells the way it tastes, like wet metal and musty earth. Slick and heavy clinging to the back of your throat. The sweet metallic pungency fills your nostrils as you inhale deeply and raise your hands towards a cluster of colliding bodies running frantically in all directions. Anger curls hot and unstoppable in your gut, like a blazing inferno that wants to burn from the inside out. You ball your fingers to a fist then promptly uncurl them as a bolt of lightning arcs towards one of the moving bodies before vaulting itself into three different directions and striking three others.
In the frantic assembly of fleeing bodies, four corpses fall to the earth. Dark red pools begin to form underneath them as they limply lay in the grass. Your upper lip curled with mirth, you step forward. Your heart hammers violently in your chest as you follow the fleeing men, women and children. Pathetic Khar civilians. Lying, deceiving, repulsive Khar rats. You step over some fallen and mangled bodies. The damp earth makes a squelching sound under your feet. In the pit of your stomach, suppressed feelings of loneliness and loss attempt to surface. You repeat, “Lying. Deceiving. Repulsive,” over and over as fury surges once more and tightens your throat. Around you, everything is inaudible. Amidst the chaos, you see a singular elderly man hunched over clutching his side. His clothes are soaked with gore. He raises a crooked finger and points it towards you. Your eyes narrow in a sinister stare. The man’s lips are moving. Is he screaming? Is he crying? Is he afraid? You approach with a graceful sway, unbothered by the debris and the deceased. Standing over the man, you can finally hear his muffled words. In between raspy breaths, the decrepit man utters, “I’ve heard of you... Lemont Hale. Laying waste wherever you go. Killing men. Murdering women and children” The man winces then proceeds to spit blood into the red-soaked earth, “Nothing but Sarkonos scum.” You glance down at your tattered Sarkonos blue overcoat encrusted in dried blood, mud and sweat. On the left side, a hole where a military crest was once adjourned is nothing but scraps of fabric.
How long had it been since you abandoned your position in Sarkonos? Days? Weeks? Feelings of agony begin to fester at the memories. Your blood-stained hands close into tight fists with knuckles turning white. Who was to blame? Who is responsible for this pain you feel? Was it Sarkonos? Khar? Delilah? A slight chuckle escapes your lips before turning into a wicked howling laugh. A weak life. You feel much stronger now. You reach out with your right arm and forcefully seize the old man’s neck. His eyes bulge and his feet begin to flail as you lift his feeble body off the ground. His hand holding his side drops limp, intestines spewing on to the ground. He raises his other hand to swat you across the face, however, it fails to make contact. You draw him closer. The man’s mouth opened in a silent scream. You bring his rigid body close enough that his eyes, transfixed with horror, are unable to look away no matter how much they wish to. Again, you can smell it. It smells the way it tastes, like wet metal and musty earth. Slick and heavy clinging to the back of your throat. You feel his windpipe about to burst as you whisper in his ear, “I serve no one.”
She stands tall and sure-footed guarding the entrance of a large circular building with a rounded brass door. Despite her petite frame and thin appearance, it is clear through the position of her bare feet that she is firm in her stance. Cloaked in leather garb with a crisp white tabard, her limbs though elongated are toned and taut with hands curled into tight fists. From afar, her complexion is like porcelain and almost translucent in the bright of day. Loose strands of silver hair frame her face with a few strays tucked behind slightly pointed ears. The rest of her white blond hair is carefully twisted into a circular coil on top of her head. Her face, though delicate, is unmoving with rose coloured lips pursed into a straight line. Her most striking feature is a pair of emerald eyes narrowed like the slits of a serpent. She raises one hand as if signaling you to stop. You scowl, anger thrumming through your veins. How dare she?! Your body halts, trembling under your molten fury. She lowers her hand and in a clear and unwavering voice, you hear her say, “I knew that you were coming, Lemont. I’m afraid I cannot allow you to go any further.” Eyes locked on hers, you snarl, “I’ve been many places, Half-Elf. There has yet to be one who can stand against me. I am undefeated!”
You intone a harsh word, and a small white-orange orb streaks towards her. It collides with the earth, releasing a spray of embers and the smell of brimstone. The flames coalesce onto her as if drawn by a magnet, sizzling as they settle on hair and leather. Unfazed, she raises one hand and places it above her right breast. You watch as bits of rock begin to adhere themselves to her skin, coating her exposed flesh in an investiture of stone. A frown crosses your face as you watch her slowly meld into the earth below her, before disappearing from sight. Your eyes dart frantically across the grove in search of movement. Over the thundering sound of your heart hammering in your chest, you sense a deep rumbling beneath your feet. As the tremor intensifies, fey-touched words fall from your lips, silver mist surrounds you and falls to the ground.
The mist snakes its way across the grove to the front of the sealed entrance of the temple, and you are transported there instantly. As the mist begins to colace, you find yourself smirking. You are Lemont Hale. Unmatched. Unstoppable. Un… Beneath you, a giant hand made of compact soil suddenly rises from the ground and wraps its earthen fingers around your torso and lower limbs crushing you within its grasp. You hear the long curved bones surrounding your chest crack as the earthen fist tightens its embrace. In an instant, breathing becomes agony and the hot searing anger coursing through your veins is replaced with ice, cold fear. In front of you, the half-elf cleric emerged from the earth says nothing. Her mouth pinched shut as though holding back what she wants to say.
Now less than 5 feet away, you can see that her piercing stare is filled with intensity but also familiarity. Behind her venomous glare, you recognize a mountain of pain and loss. Without breaking gaze, you watch as behind her a floating, spectral weapon begins to materialize. Resembling an agricultural tool for harvesting crops, a long curved blade, thin and approximately arm’s length, begins to form at the end of a long wooden pole. In its glittering steel, you catch a glimpse of the village set ablaze and littered with corpses. Who would be held responsible for this? Sarkonos? Khar? You? Before an answer comes to mind, a flash of steel and hot searing pain of metal cutting flesh blinds you. Instantly, the vision in your right eye goes black. Darkness. You scream as warm blood trickles down your cheek. You lift your hand to your eye socket. Gone. Nothing. For a brief moment, your mind goes blank. Your hands shake, your face red, jaw clenched so tight that you would feel it for days to come. You never heard it, but the first thing you spit are the words of a spell that chill your very soul. You outstretch a hand that darkens, and for a moment you envision pustules, mucus, fever, and rot. The burning heat of sickness overtakes the chill of necromantic magic and you feel a malignancy form within you, then flowing towards the half-elf. She drops to one knee, flesh decaying. The earthen fist around you crumbles to dust. Unmatched. The cleric places both hands on the earth as six giant pillars of stone burst from the ground forming a barrier between you. With a single finger pointing forward, a thin green ray springs towards the pillars reducing them to a pile of fine gray dust. Unstoppable. You twirl your hands as the final gesture, and a whirlwind erupts from it to roar outward. Flakes of snow and shards of ice materialize in the freezing air, whipping in ever-widening circles as the blast fans out from your fingertips. The skin of your hands grows pale and tingles with cold, as you watch the half-elf fall face first into the dirt. Undefeated.
There’s an acrid smell in the air. It’s nauseating and sweet, something like leather being tanned over a flame. The smell is so thick and rich. You can smell it over the rampaging smoke of burning houses. In the dense fog, you find yourself stumbling. The lack of vision in your right eye making it exceedingly difficult to navigate the terrain. You lift a trembling hand to your cheek, the cascade of blood now hardened to a state somewhere between old pudding and candle wax. You curse under your breath. Sobbing in the distance startles you. No older than six, you see a young boy curled into a tight ball with his knees pressed tight into his chest. Senselessly, you stagger in the boy’s direction, the vision from your only eye obscured by thick clouds of smoke. The boy doesn’t move. Now, standing over him, you can see that the boy is perched atop a pile of blackened ruins curled against the bodies of two singed corpses. Who is responsible for this? Sarkonos? Khar? You reach out and tap the boy on his shoulder. He smells like sweat, wet sawdust and resinous pine. “What’s your name, boy?” Your voice sounds hoarse and weary. The boy raises his head. His dark eyes are clouded with tears. “D...Dra...ven.” He squeaks. You turn your blood-stained hand, palm facing up. “Come Draven. I’ll protect you. You’re safe now.”
Item type
Unique Artifact
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