Sir Algrave Belethor sat upon horseback as he and his retinue circled an ancient graveyard, an immense array of cairns arranged in a constellation around a crumbling mausoleum in the Mariene countryside, the smell of the air before a thunderstorm hanging thickly around the site. An Eldritch Knight of some renown in Evadris and the first invited to Governor Brewell Algaren's court in their homeland, Belethor grappled with his thoughts on the quiet ride through the grasslands.
At the most recent Founder's Day festival, marking the 15th year since the humans of Evadris had set foot on this new country, Belethor had been laid low for the first time in his life. Belethor prided himself on his dueling prowess, earning his titles in Evadris through a lifetime of training and contest, and while the games and battles of the event were all in good fun, he still worried that this first loss marked a turning point in his life. He could recall with bitter clarity the ribbing of his fellow councilmen and women during the feast that night, japes that had haunted his nightmares for the past few months.
Now, as his retinue, selected and sent by council to map Mariene in search of an ideal spot to establish their next major settlement, plodded along the distant countryside, Belethor couldn't help but feel as though he had been cast out by his colleagues, by his friends.
In his heart of hearts, Belethor knew that Governor Algaren, Brewell to him, valued him more than his mind would let him believe. The two had been friends since childhood, learning that, while both were whip smart and capable on the battlefield, Algaren was the brains to Belethor's brawn, the smile to his steel. As the two grew together, their bond only strengthened, culminating in the moment that Algaren let Belethor in on his plan to escape from Evadris. Unquestioning, Belethor agreed, and the two coordinated the greatest exodus ever recorded, each captaining a ship larger than any either had seen in their lives.
Still, Governor Algaren made it clear that, upon stepping foot on this new world, all were equal. This decision was the topic of many an argument between the two men before they left Evadris, with Belethor stressing the importance of a hierarchical structure, a chain of command, but Algaren insisting that inequality was what thrust the land they grew up in into turmoil, and he would do everything in his power to prevent that from happening in their new home.
Belethor didn't agree, but he loved and believed in his friend, so he relented.
Over time, Governor Algaren's attention was quickly pulled toward settlement and politics, and while the two men had a standing appointment each night to spar, Governor Algaren frequented the arena less and less as the years passed. It was only after the tourney that Governor Algaren pulled Belethor to the side and cancelled their nightly sparring sessions, insisting that Belethor put more of his efforts toward statecraft. The blow struck deeply at the heart of Belethor, but he put on a brave face, embracing his friend and assuring him that he would work tirelessly toward the expansion of their new home.
However, long days of riding through endless hills and fields made him doubt that promise, to question his conviction.
Belethor knew he was better than all of the other councilmembers, having bested all who took up the sword on numerous occasions in the arena. Hells, he had even bested Governor Algaren more times than he could count, so why was he relegated to the far reaches of an unknown countryside now? Surely it wasn't because he, a man of 45, fell to a narrow loss in a friendly arena battle to a swordsman half his age. There must have been more.
The more he dwelled on his standings, the more he missed the power which flowed through his fingertips in Evadris. While the wizard Pax had assured him that The Weave was still present here on this new land, Belethor wasn't so sure. Even as their ships journeyed across the Dej Sea, Belethor felt the power he so often utilized wane as the days droned on. Pax had spent the better part of 15 years studying, experimenting to better understand the way The Weave wove through this land, but Belethor came to his own conclusion. As the years passed, the Eldritch Knight convinced himself that it wasn't the land that influenced The Weave and his connection to it, but instead the belief of his comrades in arms. Belethor had, on more than one occasion, been witness to incredible feats of strength and magics on the fields of Evadris. He had seen moments of great triumph borne out of the overwhelming confidence of his countrymen, noting the power of conviction and conviction alone.
As wheat caressed the bottoms of his boots and dusk fell over him and his traveling companions, Belethor's thoughts all slid into focus. If he wanted his power back, if he wanted to be seen by the same light that followed him in Evadris, he would need to embrace the power of this land. Belethor realized that Pax and Governor Algaren sought to keep whatever mysteries were discovered to themselves, and as the group made camp and the map was finalized, Belethor's plans crystallized.
When darkness fell over the camp, Belethor snuck into the graveyard, careful to avoid toppling the cairns and rousing the attention of the cartographer on watch. As he wound through the array of stones in the cover of darkness, Belethor was able to sense the presence of some powerful magics in a way he never had before. He understood that, what he mistook for the smell of a storm was likely some hidden treasure, and as he approached the crumbling entrance to the mausoleum, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
Entering the mausoleum, Belethor was awed by the elaborate passageway within. With the light of the moon from the entryway, he could see murals spanning the walls, depicting epic battles and humanoid figures standing on high, beautiful and righteous in his eyes, swords held aloft in a crimson sky. As he neared the end of the passageway, Belethor struggled to see in the darkness, but upon entering the burial chamber, sconces dotting the walls burst alight, bathing the chamber and the passageway in a fierce orange glow.
Belethor beheld the simplicity of the scene before him. The burial chamber was a small marble room which held little more than a strange white casket laced with pink striations, and an ornately carved golden statue of a woman clad in armor, hands supporting the cross-guard of an onyx sword, tip buried in the ground. As he investigated the room, Belethor found that the sarcophagus was not made of marble like the rest of the tomb around him, but instead of salt, a solid block carved with strange runic symbols around the lid. Upon closer inspection, he also discovered that the sword was not cast nor carved into the statue of the knight, but rather was slid into place in her grip.
Finding nothing else in the tomb, Belethor returned to the statue of the woman. As he reached his hand out to touch the sword, he felt the air in the room coalesce around him, as though he was about to be struck by lightning. Steeling himself against the feeling, Belethor grasped the hilt of the sword and pulled its tip from the ground, feeling immense power fill him as he held the sword aloft, a power he had coveted since leaving Evadris.
As he marveled at the renewed feeling of arcane potential within him, a massive echoing crack from behind him wracked the chamber, booming outward at a volume loud enough to make his ears ring. Spinning around, he saw that the lid of the salt sarcophagus had split in half, pieces flung outward to strike against the walls. An overwhelming sense of dread filled him as thick black smoke seeped out of the newly opened coffin, spilling over the edges as a figure emerged, floating into place.
The woman before him was terrifyingly beautiful, black smoke forming a gown of sorts sweeping outward from her figure. Her head slowly bowed until she locked eyes with Belethor, and he sensed that his story was about to end. He willed his body to move, to escape from this tomb, but he was locked in place, fear pinning him to the ground. All Belethor could do in that moment was hold aloft the sword he had freed and tremble.
The woman's whispered words filled the chamber and Belethor's mind, searching for purchase, seeming to poke and prod at his thoughts like the antennae on an ant. After what felt like an eternity, the woman's words, formless and shapeless like smoke, seemed to coalesce in Belethor's mind.
The woman floated downward until her feet touched the floor. She reached up and caressed Belethor's face, whispering words that Belethor could understand. "My savior, Belethor, you've set me free from my slumber. You, my dear, are to be a true hero in the eyes of the Daughter of the Moon."
While Belethor knew he should strike the woman down, fear stayed his hand. The woman's gaze was soft, but he could feel a fire behind her eyes, one which told him that should he raise the sword against her, he would not leave the tomb alive. "I... I didn't realize the extent of what I was doing. Who are you?"
"Shush my child. I am called Seraphina. I am the herald of the Daughter of the Moon, the true Messiah. You have potential, Belethor. Do you not wish to rise above your lessers, to become a legend in our new world, as once you were?"
Belethor thought to speak, but he found himself intrigued by Seraphina's words. He could tell the woman was not what she seemed, but the allure of her offer seeped into his mind like honey.
Seraphina smiled at Belethor, lowering her hand, bowing her head with a level of deference that appealed to him, "You were destined for greatness, Belethor, and you hold the key to our dominion over this land. With the Daughter of the Moon's guidance, you can lead your people into a new era."
Belethor was boldened by the idea, and the grip of fear loosened, "How can I achieve this?"
Seraphina looked back at him, whispering as though sharing a secret with a conspirator, "Listen closely. The Daughter of the Moon's plan has begun, and you will play a pivotal role. But first, I must gather our forces and establish a presence in this land once again. For now, you should return to your people. Convince them that all is well, that these lands are fruitful and prosperity is ripe for the taking. When the time comes, I shall seek you out and you shall meet with the Messiah. Are you ready to embrace your destiny?"
With a preternatural confidence, Belethor met Seraphina's gaze and nodded. "I eagerly await your return." Seraphina's smile widened, and for a split second Belethor felt a twinge of fear at her unsettling visage before she dissipated into a cloud of smoke which flew through the passageway, out of the tomb, and into the night.
As he left the tomb, sconces now dark as they once were, Belethor was greeted by the members of his retinue, armed and ready for anything. "Sir Belethor, what were you doing in there? We heard an explosion…" As Belethor drew his new sword, his travelling companions gasped, feeling the same electric air Belethor had felt when he approached the vestige.
"Nothing to fear friends," Belethor confidently bellowed, smiling, "I went to relieve myself and discovered this beauty." He flourished the sword with an alarming speed, faster than he had been capable of since leaving Evadris, "I think I shall call her 'Deliverance.'"
His companions were awestruck, and, at Belethor's suggestion, they decided to continue mapping Newhirst in search of a location for the next settlement. While they decided as a group to approach other sites like these with caution, following Pax and Governor Algaren's suggestion, they did see fit to take note of whether they stumbled upon sites which emanated power as this one had.
Only the cartographer had witnessed what transpired within the tomb after the explosion, and, save for a marking made on his map, he didn't speak a word of the incident.
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