A Record of Ash & Ruin: The Grieving Lands

Book 1: Chapter 30: The Power to Choose

Book 1: Chapter 30: The Power to Choose

A lucky ballista bolt, shot from atop one of the border forts, was able to fell one of the lesser dragons from the sky, having pierced through its heart. Forged with all Arastia’s arcane might, the bespelled adamantine tip was able to punch through inches of rock-hard scale and thick muscle. The mages of the Republic, ecstatic, having acquired a vessel of indomitable power, poured all of their magical might into the dragon’s now still corpse.

- On the Cataclysm by an unknown Quassian Scholar circa 103 AC

It began with the usual dark dreams, but soon I felt a shift in my dreamscape. The scenes of violence and promised pain changed with a jarring, shifting sensation. There was now a dusty attic or storage room, strewn with a variety of objects and artifacts. They ranged from the unremarkable, like a baker’s pin or a sewing kit, to exotic-looking lamps and fabulous weapons. I knew then that this was not part of a dream, but some sort of vision sent by this world. Cobwebs clung to each side of the room, and a thin layer of gossamer gray dust coated everything. The dusty walls seemed to be made from an off-white wattle and daub, with wooden supports running through them. Mold and mildew could be seen in the corners.

The room seemed a little drained of color, as if it had been bleached out. Yet the items strewn about drew the eye in disconcerting ways. Somehow I just knew the objects in this room were of great significance. My hand was drawn to an iron dagger with short upturned quillons, rusted and pitted with grime. I knelt before it, seeking to understand the question that it posed. Hovering just above it, I then saw a message.

Assassin

No, this was not for me. Though the thought of becoming a shadowy individual, flitting across the rooftops, and silently eliminating his target, did hold a certain adolescent appeal, it was not the choice I would make. An assassin was a mere tool, a blade directed by another’s hand.

My thoughts roamed, for no discernable reason, to my last faithful dog, Shadow, who had passed away the year before last. My pet had been a wonderful companion who somehow always knew how to lift my spirits. My focus was shifted by the dream and I saw then, in the corner of my eye, a large worn leather collar studded with iron spikes. I went to see what choice this item would offer. Moving to grasp it, I stopped my hand just above it as a new message came to me in the same manner as the dagger.

Beast Tamer

Interesting, I thought to myself. The idea of taming great beasts seemed a tantalizing one. But with no idea how to go about doing so, or the dangers involved with the profession, I decided to reject the offer. Taming a wild creature was only half the battle. After all, there was the care and upkeep, which was a lifetime commitment. I simply did not have it in me to make the emotional investment, nor could I see how this choice would help me in my current circumstances. Though, idly, I did ponder whether it was possible to tame an Echo Stalker...

I needed something more practical, with a bit more punch. As these very thoughts came to my mind, I found myself treading across cobwebs and dust in the dream. My whole attention was drawn to a pair of gloves. They were a pair of leather fighting gloves, stained and cracked with age with vicious hobbed metal plates at the knuckles. I moved my hand cautiously towards them to see what choice the item represented.

Pugilist

In many games the Pugilist or ‘Monk’ classes were popular and valid choices, but why on earth would anyone actually choose to fight monsters and other evil creatures with just their fists? Surely any weapon would be better than almost nothing at all? Supposedly they could improve their bodies to reach near superhuman heights, but I simply could not risk it. Yes, if this was all just a game I would be tempted, but this was not the time for idle experimentation.

I wandered across the room, my hands questing here and there, and I almost grasped the scabbard of what looked like a longsword. The scabbard had intricate floral patterns of spiked vines and alien flowers running along its length, faded and dull from the passage of time.

Warrior

Far too pedestrian. I could admire the romance of following the path of the sword. However, in a world of swords and sorcery, choosing just to wave about a metal stick, no matter how skilfully, seemed rather banal. It was like choosing to eat at a familiar fast-food chain after flying to a faraway and exotic location. A waste. Why just use a knife when in this world magic seemed to be the equivalent of having a gun? Besides, I needed something that could leverage my magical abilities. Gun… something about that word sparked something in my mind, before swiftly fading into the haze of the dream.

As my feet took me to my next destination in the room, I wondered just how many choices were here before me. Was I allowed to return to a previous choice? These thoughts floated around my mind as I scanned the room, which I still couldn’t quite place the size of. Small yet large. Glancing down I saw a long wooden rod before me, tipped with a cracked and broken amber gem. Its luster was dull and muted. Around the tip, and just below the gem, bronze copper rings wound themselves loosely around the haft. What was this, I wondered as I knelt down in the dust to get closer to the item.

Mage

This was more like it. Being a specialized magic user certainly held great appeal. It would significantly boost my prowess, allowing me to deal damage through esoteric means. But my stats, as I remembered them, were geared more towards that of a ‘tank’ or ‘warrior’ build, with most of my focus on my Constitution and Strength. Also, the survivability of the Mage class was a consideration I had to contend with. In this savage and brutal world, I needed to be able to protect myself as much as possible. Was it Elwin who once remarked that Mages could be killed with simple arrows if they were not careful? Or was that a memory from a previous life? Regretfully I had to reject this choice, as I needed a lot more durability and a boost to my healing spells if possible.

Something began to pull at me, almost incessant in its force, persuading me to rise once more. Slowly, as if the flow of time itself had grown sluggish, I began to walk mechanically to my next goal. A lone chair sat in a forgotten corner of the strange room, a drab gray dust cover draped across its back. As I moved closer, I could see on the seat of the chair a tarnished silver medallion with delicate links for a chain. Small gems framed the noble profile of a veiled woman etched at the center of its surface. Like the coins of this world, the face was looking to the left. Even before the message played across my thoughts, I had already begun to place the medallion around my neck.

Paladin

Laughing a little, I couldn’t help but realize that somehow this room was reacting to my thoughts. Perfect for me, I concluded to myself as the dull metal settled around me. Its luster immediately started to return as it became warm to the touch. A Paladin, a knightly champion and protector of the weak. In modern gaming representation, the Paladin was depicted as a warrior in heavy armor who was both capable in the press of the melee and had the capacity to cast healing spells and blessings. This was exactly what I needed.

The room’s grip on me began to fade, my environment becoming increasingly blurry as the last whispers of the dream appeared to slip away. Just as I thought I would begin my journey back to wakefulness, my left hand reached out to a black oily puddle, moving like a marionette against its will. A thin layer of gray dust coated its dark surface and its forced invitation was the empty void. As my hand grew closer to the dark liquid night, a new message filled me with horror and existential dread.

Reaver

Sharp tentacles flew from the puddle, growing in length and piercing my hand with a cold fire that burned through me and eviscerated all resistance. I could see black tendrils of darkness wriggle their way just under my skin, working a path of agony up toward the rest of me. At last, one of the questing tendrils of solid shadow found my heart. I felt a great lurch, as if falling from a great height, as the oily dark continued to ravage my very being. The wracking assault on my body and the thorough violation of my soul was an exquisite lesson in pain. I began to scream, still trapped in the haze of the dream.