Journal Book #2. Triba sits at the stern edge of the ship, sailing away from Belinara as the darkened clouds expand all over the world. The tell-tale signs of recent events so fresh still in the ravaged lands. She looks up at the sombre sight, yet with a smile that can't leave her lips she opens her journal. Balancing herself with ease on the ledge, her feet dangling over the waters she begins to write at a new lightning pace the events that led her to this point.
And so the war ends. Sixty something years now, as old as me, has this war been brewing in the world. Too many deaths, too many people lost to it, too much blood spilled and way too many tears shed.
But it is over now.
When I first made it out of Spellgard if someone would have told me half of the things I have seen today, I would have laughed so much I'd likely had to change my pants. Yet today here I am, sitting on the ledge of one of the last refuge ships leaving Belinara with the scars and memories of all those things that have made this journey and unforgettable one.
It all started as usual, the mightiest Dragoncalled meeting in Arabel and trying to figure out how we were going to tackle the next task. However, this task was not just the next, it was the last one. This was the definitive strike. The do or die. The last fight. After this one, we would either be free of the tyranny of Bloodstone, or subjects to him.
Word had trickled that armies were marching upon Pranzis and you could almost see in the distance as another group headed to defend the Great Oak. They would not fight easy fights, and many would not make it back to their people in one piece. Yet when Kobal arrived with the means and the words to end Blood, a cold realization had sunk in. We were not going to make it back, in order to destroy the Well we had to dump some nasty dragon skull in it and the explosion would take us all out.
Yet as we looked around there was not a single face of doubt or regret. Every single one of us would take this end and live with it. Or rather, die with it. For a while we struggled on how we were going to go about it. It wasn't really who was going to do what. It was more on deciding how to tackle a Bloodwell, a Bloodpool and Sinthar himself with two clerics and rather twitchy group.
Everyone was tense, you could feel the strained voices and see tired faces, yet everyone was ready to face their end. And so with a plan, one in which we will all storm the Bloodwell, leave there a group to fend off the demons that came through it and sending the rest out and into Sinthar's own fortress, we headed out of Arabel.
A few skirmishes here and there, some nasty undead with way too much power in their hands, and the usual long treck into the continent and after a long march we were facing the Demon Mountains. Funny how a terrible sight would soon be completely changed. A rightful end to all the suffering that had sourced from this place. Onwards we went.
The creatures we fought on the way up the mountain were a match to reckon, the mightiest of those who have fought so far against Blood, now were challenged truly, and every step we won was fought till the last drop. Yet the will of heroes would not be stopped today, not until we had faced the leader of our opposition and ended him.
Finally making it to the Bloodwell tower, in we go with the icky feeling that this was going to be a graveyard for a lot of people. The details of all the battle upwards are blurry now, all that sits in memory now is a lot of magic, blades, axes, hammers, arrows flying. Healing being spewed at ridiculous rates, and way too many naked demons to distract a halfling out of the proper way to stab things.
Yet up the tower we made it and into the Bloowell room we marched in, Kavil carrying the way to its demise in another shape not his own and everyone else investing blood and sweat to not let go.
I have had the somewhat disturbing privilege of being in most Bloodpool rooms, everything from the conveniently hidden under the elven palisades Bloodpool to the evil necromancer of doom. Yet none of them matched to this horror. This was a Bloodwell.
All the times before, one felt as if something tugged an invisible string on your back and occasionally distracted you into a bad feeling. This felt as if someone was raking the very essence of your being and making a fun drink with it to be later mixed in a demon body. It wasn't appealing.
We cleared the Bloodwell room of its guards and then there was silence. The expectation of knowing we needed to part now and leave behind half of this almost perfectly synchronized machinery to fend off the same madness the other half was about to face and then some. It was unnerving. No one should be put to make that decision, but of course it was us that came to make it.
I think the hardest part was leaving Acacea behind. To make your way to your demise without knowing you'll be seeing those you care for again. To not be able to see Sparkles. The kids. The Tribes. Everyone.
Out we made it to Sinthar's Tower, the end was near. I don't remember exactly now when the idea came to mind, but it was a hope, and we would cling to any at that point. Lalaith's new gift with the Lumbral came to discussion, how she could use it and them to shift us through Shadows once the Bloodwell and Sinthar were ended. We didn't know if we could do it, we didn't know if she could manage such a large group, but our hopes rested in anything that we could grasp on, and that seemed to us the best manner to do so.
The trip towards Sinthar's room in his tower was excruciating. The reduction in numbers to our group, despite having Plen and Rev amongst us was taxing and it meant we had no chance for mistakes. Unfortunately mistakes were made, by myself of course, and I ended up paying with a visit from the caring mother.
Up we went, towards our objective and into the claws of the beast, there was no space for contemplation. Then without a second notice we were there. Sinthar's throne room. His own Bloodpool. He had four guardians watching over him, to be honest I don't even remember what they looked like, we had fought so many outsiders by then that it was an automated motion. And after they were dealt with, the last man was there.
Sinthar Bloodstone.
The one I had met a few years before back in Hlint. The one I challenged and survived. Now he stood there, scythe in hand and with murder in his eyes. Ozy screamed something about his mother or other, and for the brief glimpse of a time when he recognized me, his eyes shifted sharply towards the bard and he started chase.
I imagine there is a lot Sinthar would have wanted to take out on him, I wouldn't really blame him, but it was then that my window opened to do what we came to do. I slid the Blade of Shadows out of the scabbard on my thigh, the runes of True Silver shining through it, the magic of ageless time coursing through its blade.
It is funny than once before a ranger wielding this blade, and in the hands of another it was to end. I must admit that many years before when Lue was talking about how she needed to find it, there was always a hidden desire to be the one to carry it, to wield it at its end. It was said that a great warrior would do so then, but I never really expected it to be me. Yet there I was and nothing was changing it then.
It was all too quick. At one point I was running for him, next thing I know I'm launching for his back and then it struck true. Driven through his spine between that perfect location where nerves are broken and the ribcage is pierced. A loud crack and the thing melting in my hands. I quickly draw away as he lets a scream, I get pushed to a wall and he calls on some desperate magic to end me, but it was too late for him. As his last word is uttered to call upon the weave, Remiel and Rev were already crushing the last remains of his fleeting life and when his magic was free and onto me I felt life leave me, but I felt his leave as well.
It was done. A few minutes later I was quickly raised, the coming back to the body once more, even less than before as the link to the Mother was so close in this place let me know that the only thing I could do was run. And run we did.
The shockwave of Sinthar's death was felt by the Bloodwell and they did their thing. Then soon thereafter shadows embraced us all as we pushed our way through the bottom gates. The mountains were exploding and we were at the epicenter of it all. But just as soon as the end was coming, we were whisked away by our saviors, by Lalaith and into a dark place where comfort existed in knowing we were not aflame. Then there was dust. The war had ended.
Sinthar was dead.
