Lover’s Amulet
Vision: Betrayal of Love
You hear a distant voice calling, “a Shardplate bearer!” You glance up to see the new recruit dressed in a blue uniform pointing to a man on a white horse in the distance. The man next to you snorts, “No, thank Ohm. It’s just an officer. Shardplate is far too valuable to waste on a minor border dispute.” You clench your jaw, watching the armored warrior across the field. How mighty that man must think himself sitting on top of his expensive horse kept safe from spearmen by his majestic armor and tall mount. The man beside you shuffles and in a concerned tone mumbles, “Lemont, our line is buckling in this direction. Soon it won’t be safe here. We should retreat.” You take a step forward “Subsquad 2 and 3, pincer pattern.” There’s rigorousness in your voice. “We’re taking a nobleman off his throne.” “You sure that’s wise, Sir? We’ve got wounded.” You turn to face the man beside him. There’s trust but uneasiness in his eyes. “That’s one of Amarand’s officers. He might be the one.” “You don’t know that, Sir.” Your left hand rises to wipe the sweat from your brow as you return your gaze to the armored man. “Regardless, he’s a Battalion Lord. If we kill an officer, we are all but guaranteed to win this battle.” You take another step forward. Sub Squad 3 drew off the honour guard. Sub Squad 2 distracted the officer. He didn’t see Lemont approaching from a third direction. The man dropped with an ice knife to the eye; his face was unprotected. He screamed as he clattered to the ground, still alive. Lemont cast magic missile into the fallen man’s face, striking three times as the white horse galloped off. You watch from afar as a horse-drawn carriage rolls onto the battlefield, dodging past scattered weapons and tattered bodies. At a halt, you observe three healers dressed in blue robes begin to descend from the back. The first is an elven cleric with long silver hair. The second a hearty dwarven woman with curly red locks and pale skin. The third is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. Her eyes are dark. Dark as chocolate, dark as coffee, dark as polished wood. They are set in a fair face, oval. Like a teardrop. Her easy smile could stop a man’s heart. Her lips are red. Not the garish painted red so many women believe makes them desirable. Her lips are always red, morning and night. She draws you in like warmth to a fire. Panic begins to swell in the pit of your stomach as the angelic young woman effortlessly glides over the field of fallen soldiers towards you. Averting her gaze, you begin to rise, however, before you can leave she is already close enough to ask, “Are you in need of assistance?” You hear shuffling papers as a woman stands alone in the candlelight, her left hand cradling her growing belly. Her dark eyes scan methodically over a pile of scattered letters from Sarkonos Generals. She grinds her teeth as she quickly glances at plans to destroy the nation of Khar. Decisively, she reaches for a letter containing instructions for Lemont’s future ambush against Khar. She crumples the letter and swiftly pushes the parchment into her Healer’s kit. The sound of durable canvas being pushed back causes her to stumble as she turns to face her perpetrator. He stands in the frame of the open canvas, and in the growing light his silhouette becomes full colour. Lemont stands a clear head higher than most people would consider tall. Somehow he isn't lanky though, there's bulk on him too; muscles beneath the blue overcoat. A decorative crest is adorned on the uniform indicating his achievements in the Sarkonos military. He’s clean-shaven with dark eyes and darker hair worn casually unkempt, falling over his eyes. He approaches her in an intimate manner and places his rough calloused hand on her stomach, heavy with child. She feels the baby kick and hesitantly places her hand on top of his. He speaks her name. Delilah. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices the smooth carved stone resting upon the open parchment. He’s talking about their future. He’s professing his love. His lips move, but the words are inaudible. Her eyes fixate on the sending stone she left mistakenly on his desk. He pulls a delicate golden chain with a red ruby center from the pocket of his waistcoat. He gently positions the pendant necklace around her neck. Sweat begins to accumulate on her brow. She smiles nervously. The sending stone begins to glow indicating an incoming message. The baby kicks fiercely. Lemont’s gaze turns towards the magical aura of the stone. A Khar General is speaking. Lemont’s brow furrows as he reaches to grab the stone. Swiftly, she draws her small dagger and plunges it into his back. Confusion. She retracts the dagger. He groans in pain and turns to face her. Betrayal. She flees towards the canvas door. Panic. Her long skirt causes her legs to become tangled. Fear. Heavy footsteps follow closely behind her. Paralyzed. Her body falls unwillingly to the ground. Her stomach crushed. Pain. The cold tip of a boot pushes her on to her back. Hatred. There’s a new ringing in her ears. Lemont stands over her. There’s tears cascading down his cheeks. He lifts a hand to tear the crest from his overcoat. Despair. The fabric falls into the mud beside her. He utters a word. Numb. Her eyes grow heavy. Lemont steps back. Her breath begins to slow. Lemont steps back. Men are rushing in. Lemont steps back. Beside her, a man draws a short blade. Lemont steps back. Her chest ceases to rise. Lemont disappears. And as the vision begins to fade to black, the final ringing in your ears are the screams of a newborn child.
You hear a distant voice calling, “a Shardplate bearer!” You glance up to see the new recruit dressed in a blue uniform pointing to a man on a white horse in the distance. The man next to you snorts, “No, thank Ohm. It’s just an officer. Shardplate is far too valuable to waste on a minor border dispute.” You clench your jaw, watching the armored warrior across the field. How mighty that man must think himself sitting on top of his expensive horse kept safe from spearmen by his majestic armor and tall mount. The man beside you shuffles and in a concerned tone mumbles, “Lemont, our line is buckling in this direction. Soon it won’t be safe here. We should retreat.” You take a step forward “Subsquad 2 and 3, pincer pattern.” There’s rigorousness in your voice. “We’re taking a nobleman off his throne.” “You sure that’s wise, Sir? We’ve got wounded.” You turn to face the man beside him. There’s trust but uneasiness in his eyes. “That’s one of Amarand’s officers. He might be the one.” “You don’t know that, Sir.” Your left hand rises to wipe the sweat from your brow as you return your gaze to the armored man. “Regardless, he’s a Battalion Lord. If we kill an officer, we are all but guaranteed to win this battle.” You take another step forward. Sub Squad 3 drew off the honour guard. Sub Squad 2 distracted the officer. He didn’t see Lemont approaching from a third direction. The man dropped with an ice knife to the eye; his face was unprotected. He screamed as he clattered to the ground, still alive. Lemont cast magic missile into the fallen man’s face, striking three times as the white horse galloped off. You watch from afar as a horse-drawn carriage rolls onto the battlefield, dodging past scattered weapons and tattered bodies. At a halt, you observe three healers dressed in blue robes begin to descend from the back. The first is an elven cleric with long silver hair. The second a hearty dwarven woman with curly red locks and pale skin. The third is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. Her eyes are dark. Dark as chocolate, dark as coffee, dark as polished wood. They are set in a fair face, oval. Like a teardrop. Her easy smile could stop a man’s heart. Her lips are red. Not the garish painted red so many women believe makes them desirable. Her lips are always red, morning and night. She draws you in like warmth to a fire. Panic begins to swell in the pit of your stomach as the angelic young woman effortlessly glides over the field of fallen soldiers towards you. Averting her gaze, you begin to rise, however, before you can leave she is already close enough to ask, “Are you in need of assistance?” You hear shuffling papers as a woman stands alone in the candlelight, her left hand cradling her growing belly. Her dark eyes scan methodically over a pile of scattered letters from Sarkonos Generals. She grinds her teeth as she quickly glances at plans to destroy the nation of Khar. Decisively, she reaches for a letter containing instructions for Lemont’s future ambush against Khar. She crumples the letter and swiftly pushes the parchment into her Healer’s kit. The sound of durable canvas being pushed back causes her to stumble as she turns to face her perpetrator. He stands in the frame of the open canvas, and in the growing light his silhouette becomes full colour. Lemont stands a clear head higher than most people would consider tall. Somehow he isn't lanky though, there's bulk on him too; muscles beneath the blue overcoat. A decorative crest is adorned on the uniform indicating his achievements in the Sarkonos military. He’s clean-shaven with dark eyes and darker hair worn casually unkempt, falling over his eyes. He approaches her in an intimate manner and places his rough calloused hand on her stomach, heavy with child. She feels the baby kick and hesitantly places her hand on top of his. He speaks her name. Delilah. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices the smooth carved stone resting upon the open parchment. He’s talking about their future. He’s professing his love. His lips move, but the words are inaudible. Her eyes fixate on the sending stone she left mistakenly on his desk. He pulls a delicate golden chain with a red ruby center from the pocket of his waistcoat. He gently positions the pendant necklace around her neck. Sweat begins to accumulate on her brow. She smiles nervously. The sending stone begins to glow indicating an incoming message. The baby kicks fiercely. Lemont’s gaze turns towards the magical aura of the stone. A Khar General is speaking. Lemont’s brow furrows as he reaches to grab the stone. Swiftly, she draws her small dagger and plunges it into his back. Confusion. She retracts the dagger. He groans in pain and turns to face her. Betrayal. She flees towards the canvas door. Panic. Her long skirt causes her legs to become tangled. Fear. Heavy footsteps follow closely behind her. Paralyzed. Her body falls unwillingly to the ground. Her stomach crushed. Pain. The cold tip of a boot pushes her on to her back. Hatred. There’s a new ringing in her ears. Lemont stands over her. There’s tears cascading down his cheeks. He lifts a hand to tear the crest from his overcoat. Despair. The fabric falls into the mud beside her. He utters a word. Numb. Her eyes grow heavy. Lemont steps back. Her breath begins to slow. Lemont steps back. Men are rushing in. Lemont steps back. Beside her, a man draws a short blade. Lemont steps back. Her chest ceases to rise. Lemont disappears. And as the vision begins to fade to black, the final ringing in your ears are the screams of a newborn child.
Item type
Unique Artifact
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