#46: Rebirth

I find myself at the top of the ledge alone, standing in the dark, breathing heavily from exertion.  It is the first moment that I’m able to pause and take stock of my situation, my physical condition, and the weight of my predicament threatens to crush me.  The air is cold, and early symptoms of hypothermia and exhaustion begin to settle in.  Beyond that, I am alive with knife in hand.  I need to start moving.

I sink to my knees, half from exhaustion and half from a desire to construct a reality.  Mental images of what I might find, what I hope or perhaps fear to find, cloud my judgment.  Remembering the ledge as it was before my death, instead of feeling my way in the black towards the cave exit as I should, I crawl in the opposite direction to where the bridge should exist.  Curiosity and desperation threaten to guide my movements.  Long minutes pass, my chest pressed against the cold stone of the cavern floor, arms out feeling for the ledge, for any sign of danger.  Despite my efforts, I learn nothing more about my environment, swimming in a black, featureless sea of rocks.

Not allowing desperation to overtake me, I pause for several breaths, grounding myself.  Survival instincts begin settle in, and I rely on my other senses, heightened by my lack of sight, to get a feel for my environment, seeking any familiar or unfamiliar scents, sounds, or flow of air.  The low slap of water against stone at the base of the cavern is all I can hear, and nothing registers to my other senses.  I need to keep moving.

Using the rim of the ledge as my guide, I turn around and crawl the other direction, seeking exit from the cavern.  The darkness is disorienting, even crawling on my stomach, but my heart nearly leaps when I discover the flat cavern wall and nearby, a cramped crawlspace.  It is perhaps small compared to what I expected to find but losing my ability to control myself I begin to scramble quickly, desperate for signs of light or exit to the cave.  My memories of the shaft are unclear, clouded by all that has happened.

Yes, it’s a word.

It is a struggle to get through the shaft, and I must will myself forward, arms and legs straining to win a few inches of progress at a time.  Several minutes pass, my progress slow and arduous.  Despite the chill of the cavern, I am dripping with sweat from exertion.  My escape is interrupted by a protruding stalagnate in the middle of the shaft spanning the full height of the crawlspace, blocking my way as prison bars would.  There is not enough room to flip to my back to attempt to kick through the obstruction, and I try to hold off panic as I evaluate my options.

I search desperately for a stone to try and bludgeon the pillar, not wanting to risk the hilt of my knife, but the rocks I use crumble against the obstacle.  I throw an arm and shoulder through the gap, desperate to fit through an opening too small for my upper body.  My shoulders are simply too large to fit, but I try push through anyway, too stubborn and too desperate to give up.  I exhale sharply to collapse my lungs, pushing and pulling with all my might.  I scream out in pain as my joints threaten to dislocate and as my flesh is rent by the rough stone.  With one final push, the largest part of my torso slips through and I nearly pass out from the effort.

It takes a while to shake off the daze before I return to the fight for my freedom, not knowing if freedom even lies beyond the pillar of stone.  I pull the lower half of my body through and return to crawling on my chest.  Minutes pass—how many, it is impossible to tell.  The darkness seems to distort time.  Finally, I emerge into another cave. 

There is dim light ahead, not bright but enough to provide definition where there should be nothing but black.  Refusing to entertain that it’s a hallucination, I crawl forward.  My crawl turns to a crouch as the cavern expands, then to an awkward gait until I’m finally able to stand at full height.  Natural light is perceptible at the end of the cave, but it is dark—either twilight or early dawn, and though desperate to learn more of my surroundings I compose myself, controlling my breaths before walking forward quietly.

My senses perceive no threat, no hint of woodsmoke on the wind from a nearby campfire or noise from a potential enemy.  Only a chill wind carrying a light dusting of snow.  Peering outside, I find the natural ledge of rock I expect to find, confirming with a high degree of likelihood that this is the cave where I died—though where I am in respect to time is yet a mystery.

If I am correct and my memory sound, it is two day’s travel to Fireshear.  With no supplies other than water provided by melting snow, I evaluate my resources and options available.  Whether Nobanion will answer appeals for divine magic is as of yet untested, and I had hoped not to rely on it so soon.  Lacking proper clothing to prevent exposure, I step out into the cold, fall to my knees, and appeal to Nobanion for aid.

I settle into a meditative state, seeking the familiar contact I expect to find from my deity, unsure how it may differ from my prayers to Malar.  Trying to consciously avoid thinking of Malar brings him to mind nonetheless, and I struggle to clear my head and focus on my new pronouncement of faith to the King of Beasts.  An unfamiliar sensation washes over me, that of shedding spiritual soil as I separate myself from Malar, and a new presence is felt.  It is bestial, though in a purer, less malevolent form, and when my trance breaks, I feel a sense of accomplishment.  Nevertheless, I resign not to test Nobanion’s grace, and to rely on my own strength as long as I am able.  “What is faith, if I don’t test it?” I grumble to myself, starting to climb down the ledge into the elements, into the cold night, committing everything to Nobanion’s will.  Only when I am not physically able to go forward any more on my own endurance will I reach out for his strength.

I examine the ledge for anything that might aid in my descent, ropes or ladders leading to the ledge, but find nothing.  I recall mine carts that were on the ground below, but if they ever existed, there is no sign of them now.  There are no clear paths down, but after climbing up from my death below the cave, I will not let this descent be the end of my story.  Despite the dark and wet conditions, abundant handholds are present and I’m able to scramble to the bottom of the ledge with only a few bumps or bruises.  With little more than a vague indication of what direction Fireshear lies, I begin my journey.

There is but a single trail, if it can be called that, that is traversable at all.  I am given hope by the sun peaking over the horizon to the east, heralding the dawn.  The sun’s warmth will be a welcome boon, though there is still much danger of exposure in this rugged environment.  I’ve been in this situation before, when first cast out from the beast cults, and survived, and that at least is comforting.

Little of my environment is familiar.  When last I traversed these paths it was in the company of a guide and large group of people.  I head south and east as best I can, following what paths present themselves.  That I continue to sweat is encouraging, and I stop only to grab handfuls of snow to keep hydrated.  I descend into a primal state, relying on instinct to remain on target.

A set of deer tracks converge on my path, perhaps a game trail, as the terrain begins to level and slopes fade into open land.  Snow has collected on the ground, not enough to slow my travel, though enough to reveal signs of nature or any recent passage.  Encouraged by this, I continue to follow the tracks.  The trail bends several times, following what appears to be the easiest path through inconsistent terrain.  There are moments of caution when I need to cut through brush, but no other obstacles present as I press through the chill towards my goal.

After some time, I catch glimpse of a shadow ahead, a large form that disappears before I can determine more detail.  I give the potential threat a wide berth, unwilling to risk an encounter that may lead to injury.  I cut across terrain, hoping that I’ll be able to pick up my path again later.  Though I see no signs of the creature, when I near the area where I last saw it cross, it emerges swiftly from cover and starts rushing towards me.  The creature is bipedal, perhaps a man or ogre, much larger than me, and raises a large, bladed weapon as it charges.

In a panic I examine my surroundings, looking for a path that will be more traversable by someone of my size in hopes that I can delay it and escape.  I dart ahead, changing directions seeking favorable paths, but the creature takes a single stride for each two of mine and closes the distance quickly.  My attempts to evade it fail.  In brief glances stolen over my shoulder, it seems more a man than an ogre or giant. 

The leafless trees and rocky terrain provide little in the way of advantage, though ahead I see a pair of boulders that narrow into a funnel, which seems like my best chance at a defensible position.  As expected, he closes distance fast but not before I reach the boulders and draw my knife.  “One of our lives does not have to end here,” I shout in an attempt to parley and avoid combat.

The large man stops suddenly, holding his bladed cudgel in front of him in a defensive, warding gesture.  His eyes are gray, the color of the sky, and he wears layered hides suitable for the environment.  He is hardly breathing heavily where I am nearly ready to collapse from exhaustion.

“I am not your enemy, but you will not take me easily.”  I pause for a reaction, clearly overmatched, desperate to avoid a fight.  He makes no sign of recognition, instead holding his cudgel out and pointing it silently in the direction I was headed.  I make a few cautious steps in that direction, lowering my blade, in the hopes that my life will be spared.

“Are you letting me go?” I ask suspiciously, backing away from him and heading in the way he is pointing.  He follows me, step for step, uncomfortably close.  Curious, I ask his name, not knowing if he comprehends or has the ability to respond.  It seems clear he can hear me, but voices no response.

On a hunch, I utter a few words that I recall from the language of the barbarian Anaithnid.  Whether or not he comprehends I am unsure, but he elicits a few guttural words in response that are unintelligible.  He points again with his club, so I continue in that direction, always keeping him in front of me or to my side.

He makes an expression I could almost mistake for a smirk.  I accept his smugness or derision, letting him guide the way, careful not to turn my back to him.  We proceed along the trail in silence, and I can’t help but feel slightly emasculated by the immense warrior.  The effects of cold and hunger begin to set in fully, and even at my new companion’s normal walking pace I have to strain to keep up.  We wind through unfamiliar terrain for nearly an hour before finally he stops.

I put a few more steps between us cautiously as he looks to the ground—more deer tracks are present, and these are erratic, the snow making them easy to see and follow.  It is as if the deer were feeding or gathering before separating in different directions, as if they ran off in a panic.  The man looks up at me, pointing his cudgel between the forked tracks.

“Are you coming with me?” I ask, not expecting an answer.  His unwavering stare is his only response.  I make a few cautious steps in that direction, and he makes to follow.

“Hope you know where we’re going, because even if you don’t kill me, this cold eventually will.”  I eye his layered hides enviously, but decide to press ahead without another word, continuing my travel with the stranger.

The sun starts to set, the day seeming to pass too quickly, hinting that the winter season might be coming or already upon us.  With the night will come deeper cold, and without shelter it is unlikely I will make it through.  We approach a small ridge, and beyond it is visible a cluster of boulders or menhirs in a small circle at the top of the hill.

There are no lights ahead or hint of smoke on the wind, but it looks as though there may be a person outfitted in traveling clothes and leathers standing among the stones.  “Friend of yours?” I ask, not expecting an answer.  There is a scattering of debris on the ground within the stone circle where even the snow seems unable to penetrate.  My large companion gazes ahead, poking his cudgel the direction of the man, uttering “heucuva.”

It’s the first time that anything resembling speech comes from my new friend, and for the first time since my rebirth, I smile.  “So now you’re talkative.  Let’s go introduce ourselves.” I stumble up the rocky hill as best I can.

The figure stands idly as we approach, motionless and expressionless.  There’s no reason any of this should be here, and I’m curious to understand what’s going on.  The faces of the ringed stones are etched with glyphs or runes, but I can’t make much of it.  It is then that I notice the ground surrounding the stones is barren of snow, littered instead with rocks, sticks and other debris.  I peer at the stones, trying to make some magical sense of them.

The runes are etched clearly and deeply in the stone, reminiscent of runes used by the dwarves of Mirabar.  I search the runes for signs of similarity to those discovered in Moonglow Cave or Oldkeep, though if there is any resemblance, it is slim.

“Is it safe to enter?” I ask the new stranger, curious to see if he’ll understand or respond.  My large companion strides forward into the circle, raising his cudgel toward the new stranger repeating the word “heucuva,” this time in a seemingly more serious stone.  The stranger makes no response.

The debris on the ground, upon closer inspection, appears to be shards of bone—when I look up at the new stranger to discern more about him, his appearance is changed.  A hooded figure with a skeletal visage has replaced the stranger, and lunges at the barbarian.

In an instant, I throw myself at the creature, attempting to foul its charge.  I am faster, interposing myself between the creature and the barbarian.  No contact is made, and instead the creature stumbles backwards hissing and clawing, almost as if it’s repelled by my presence.  I hold my knife in front of me, keeping myself between it and the barbarian.  I steal a glance to see the barbarian’s surprise—whatever he expected to happen, it was clearly not this.

When it’s evident that the creature won’t approach me, for whatever reason, my companion stoops to the ground and starts picking through the bones.  He grabs a leather pouch from the morbid debris, mutters “heucuva” again, this time with disgust in his tone, and begins to slowly withdraw from the circle.  I keep myself between him and the creature, slowly backing away.

While we escape the circle, the undead creature remains, seemingly trapped within the ring of stones.  My companion begins walking back the way we came, gesturing for me to follow.  We distance ourselves from the circle, only pausing for the barbarian to sneer one last time and repeat the word “heucuva” disdainfully.  My exhaustion is apparent, and I am on the brink of unconsciousness from exposure.  Unsure if my new companion acknowledges this or cares, I follow in the dark by instinct alone, putting one frozen boot in front of the other in silence, my breaths becoming shallow, my steps unsteady.

We reach a plateau, and the man begins to gather wood for a fire.  I am too weak to even offer help.  He looks me in the eyes, thumping his chest and uttering a single word, “Aros.”  It appears to be this massive barbarian’s name.

On the brink of collapse, I weakly pound my own chest, responding “Zeb” before letting darkness and cold overtake me.