Silvan's Last Musings

For once, Abrahm's machinations backfired.

He sent me, along with the rest of our group, on a mission to prevent Fleandor from becoming the chaos god. As an advance reward of our services, he agreed to boost my skills in demonic magic to a new level. As the battle was joined against Fleandor, I took advantage of those skills to sabotage the secret weapon that was to be used against him.

I might have outwitted Abrahm, but I couldn't outwit my comrades, however. Somebody - I suspect it was Longfoot, but somebody else might have had Knowledge magic as well - managed to trace my spell back to me. I contemplate this under close guard in a dwarven cell, all of my actions carefully watched. My future seems rather bleak - Buran did not seem very happy about my involvement, and I know him too well to imagine he'd be merciful just because of our adventures together. I'd only need a few seconds unwatched to cast a suicide spell, or the blink of an eye in sunlight to make good my escape, but my former comrades know that just too well. I can only hope that I will be given the opportunity to plead for mercy before Buran, and hope that the war casualties will not be too heavy on the dwarves.

Not that I'd wish for the casualties to be too heavy on anyone. For a war is what will follow, a direct result of my deeds. Even now, it bears heavily on my conscience - created to defend life, I have now sentenced hundreds, maybe thousands, to die. I can always console myself with the thought that Fleanor might have pulled off his ritual anyway, but there's no way of knowing that - I can't deny the responsibility, can't deny the blood on my hands.

Yet, despite all this, I find myself strangely at peace. I probably only have a few days, maybe a week at best, before I'll find myself before some of the best torturers the dwarves have to offer. If I can't escape, I'll instead use this time to enjoy having gotten my vengeance, enjoy it while I can and while my sanity is still intact. As I ponder this, Abrahm is still alive and free, treading the surface of Karya and spinning his spider webs of intrigue as always.

Yet I have gotten my vengeance, probably the best I can. I would have preferred to see him slain and banished back to an artifact, but perhaps this way is the best. Instead of a quick, sudden death he will see Fleandor's forces grow and step by step overwhelm him, his eventual defeat becoming more and more clear as time passes. As he sentenced me into a long period of suffering, as he sentenced all those serving gods into an endless period of mourning over their demise, I have now sentenced him into a desperate struggle for his life. Hopefully, he will find out that I helped cause this with the power he gave me. I have no doubt that he will - his spies have always been the most effective of them all.

Of course, it could always be that even Fleandor's might will prove insufficient, that Abrahm will defeat even him in battle. Perhaps everything I have done will be in vain, perhaps I'm up for a lifetime of anguish for nothing.

I resolutely push the thought out of my mind. Fleandor will reign supreme, defeating all who stand in his way. Abrahm will be defeated, an agonizingly slow but certain defeat. He will know that it was by my hand that Fleandor reached godhood, and as his dying words he will curse both Fleandor and me, and himself for not killing me while he had the chance.

I smile a bit, puzzling my dwarven guards, and cradle these thoughts in my mind. Enjoy my victory while I still have the chance. Hopefully, I can cling to them in the dwarven torture chambers, cherish them as my last true thoughts before the pain will drive me mad.

For truly, I have won. I have had my vengeance, and that is all that matters anymore.

Inspired by the fate of my character in the role-playing campaign Reality: Turmoil Rising.
This story is copyright 2005 © Kaj Sotala. If you want to distribute it, please keep this copyright note attached. I'd prefer it if you just linked to this page, in either case.