The magnificent view from the rooftop of the Fallen Sword
was its worst kept secret. Technically it was out of bounds, but the high
crenellations around the edges meant that it was very safe. Someone would have
to really try, or be about as tall as a troll if they wanted to fall off. The
only punishment being found there would get you was a stern lecture from
Brother Eldruin, or maybe a disappointed sigh from Gabriel of Arden if you were
lucky. So of course the rooftop was a popular place for rebellious adventurers
and divine apprentices who needed to break the rules every now and again.
It was here where Lady Kingsley had spent a good part of her
final day. Foil, the old tsarthar druid, had brought with him a generous keg of
mead and some mugs, whilst Kingsley had brought a decent selection of Dejune’s
signature crab rolls. The two were unusual but firm friends. Having already
braved certain death in the face of the divine, Foil had some insights that
Kingsley appreciated. And Foil himself was always happy to make new friends,
even if they looked like the kind of person that may have smote him in
different circumstances. Together, with the ever excitable Crumbs the pigeon,
they filled their cups, picked at their pastries, and watched the busy town
below.
“Her name is Macry, because… well, honestly because I
thought Lady Macry was my hero when I was fourteen and eager to start hitting
things with swords,” Kingsley unsheathed what was her first sword, and the
blade she had used for most of her career, and showed it off to Foil. The dents
and scrapes on its edge caught glimmers of red light from the sky. Foil pulled
a bit of a sour face.
“Well, you know what that Lady Macry would have done with an
old frog like me,” he pouted, impressed with the sword but less so with his
friend’s teenaged decisions.
“Yeah, I do. I thought about renaming her, I even tried out
a few different names. But then I had her imbued with magic for the first time,
and I liked the idea of improving my hero. That I could try to be the Macry
that should have been, rather than the one that was.”
“Ah. Yes. That is wisdom I can
drink to,” the old frog nodded and did just that.
*********************************************************************************
As the shadows began to stretch and the sun began to dip,
another figure joined them on the rooftop.
“Well I came here to the Sword lookin’ for this fancy-pants
justicar I knew, but looks like all I got here is a couple o’ boozin’
delinquents,” Shades drawled drily.
“Come! We have mead and crab rolls!” Kingsley waved him
over, “I was just showing Macry to Foil. Thank you again for finding her. She…
means a lot to me.”
“I ain’t gonna lie, seein’ Theron slink off into the shadows
with his tail between his legs,” Shades eagerly poured himself a mug of mead
and took a chug, “That was certainly a highlight for me. How you holdin’ up?”
“Well, I am thankful that I have this mead, and that only a
select few know about my uh, impending godhood,” Kingsley motioned to Foil, “I
told Foil, by the way.”
“Nothing to worry here, these lips have been sealed, no
secrets getting out of them, that’s for sure.” The tsarthar smacked his lips
and sucked them in to demonstrate all the secrets he wasn't going to let out.
“There weren’t ever any doubt.” Tengu can’t smile, but there’s
a distinctive nod and raising of the brow they use as an equivalent.
“I take it
this means you’re sure? If you ain’t, we have at least one member o’ the Great
Downward willin’ to take your place, just say the word. We could certainly use
the Bloody Hand by our side when we face the Master.”
Kingsley stared into her cup, but her focus seemed very much
elsewhere. Somewhere cosmically far away perhaps, or somewhere deeply interior.
Or possibly both.
“The oath of Sword-Saint Izolda, to put it simply, is that I
have to keep fighting evil or chaos until I no longer can. Even old age isn’t
an excuse- her magic stops that right in its tracks. The expectation is that
you just keep swinging your sword about until you trip and fall into your
grave,” the justicar grimaced and took a little sip. “It was always going to
end this way. Well, this way or a special place in an eternal elven prison. So
yes, I am sure.”
Foil made a wet choking sound, and draped his big blubbery
arm around Kingsley’s shoulders. Shades gently took her sword hand into his own,
an offer of comfort. Scars as gnarled as a tree root ran down her arm, and some
of the gouges into her fingers cut close to the bone. Holy healing magic had
done all it could to mend the Bloody Hand’s holy but overzealous bite.
“If there’s anythin’ a bird can do, as your friend, or the
Lord o’ this town, or as a man in service to your Lady’s Brother, all you gotta
do is ask.”
Kingsley extricated herself from the double hugs, and refilled
her cup of mead.
“Once all this settles down, I’d like you to look after
Macry. Keep her out of trouble, and maybe find her a good Sister to travel
with.”
“Consider it done, Sister.”
“But for now, you can join me in a toast,” Kingsley lifted the
cup high above her head. Shades and Foil followed her lead.
“To the Valley! May it never change! Or more rather, may it
continue to change in ways that are entirely within its character!”
“To Lady Macry! For being the best bad example a justicar
could hope for, and a pretty good name for a sword!”
“And to the memory of Lady Kingsley. Sword-Sister. Bloody Hand.
And briefly, God. She took Her blade to Orcus, and He knew His victims’ pain!”
And with that the three of them finished their drinks, and watched
the setting of the bloodstained sun.
