Welcome to Cove

(OOC: The flashback sequences are set in the Lake Superior shard- the long prisoner scene flashback all in italics was written around January 2001.  The 'present' scenes take place in August 2006.  This is a tidied up version.  And it's all OOC knowledge)

The caravan guard blinked as he saw the shimmering gate open in front of the camp, startling the pack horses.  A caravan guard for many years, Kalam knew something was wrong.  He shouted to the trader he worked for.  The trader ambled over to him grumbling, "Aye, what is it, Ravenscar?"  Kalam pointed silently at the Gate.

The oddly miscoloured Shard-Gate flickered with uncertainty for a few seconds before vanishing, the momentary connection between the two shards gone in an instant.  In its stead lay a man, shivering, naked.  For a blessed moment that man could remember nothing, nothing of who he was, what he had done.  The moment soon passed.  A kaleidescope of images, razor sharp in their intensity assailed him. 

Pain. He was a youth of sixteen, son of a knight.  A life of relative wealth and comfort followed, though he knew such privileges would have to be earned.  From birth he was destined to follow his father as a knight.  In gold platemail as bright as his hair, he joined the True Britannians as the Faction wars broke out with bloody intensity across the Felucca facet.  He had been assured of a knighthood should he serve the Britannian Guard well.  He elegantly signed his name on the parchment.  Erik Pelantine.  His spirit soared with remembered pride of that day.

And sunk with despair as the scene flickered and he found himself following a charge into the Shadowlord stronghold near Yew.  The attack failed utterly.  Dragged from his dying horse, disarmed and stripped of his once-fine gold armour, he was dragged deep into the Yew crypts occupied by the servants of the Shadowlords.  Move on, he begged, move on to something ... happier?

Instead, he was dragged deeper into that dark memory.

At first, his world's entirety was made up of darkness. He dwelt in that darkness, aware of the empty void around him. Occasionally he could hear the heavy shuffling of some nameless horror shambling along the dark, cold corridor outside the cell. That, and the distant wails of the other prisoners were all that broke the endless circle of darkness and silence as he hung chained to the cold damp wall. Those were minor interruptions, small jarring reminders that he was not alone in this plane of emptiness.

Then there were his sojourns to the chamber. These visits were far from minor kinks in his circle of empty vacuum. These sliced through the darkness, erased the ennui and filled his world with red hot searing pain, anguish and madness. These torture sessions made him yearn for the darkness, want nothing more than to be returned to his familiar chains, to be blissfully numb in the void created by his misery.

Then one day, all that changed. The rhythm of the dungeon, as familiar to him as his breathing. seemed wrong, disjointed. He could hear yells and screams, different from before. The clash of steel and the cataclysmic release of powerful magics echoed down the corridors.

Everything changed.  A troop of warriors and mages broke into the cell, their bright flaming torches chasing away the shadows.  Systematically they freed the prisoners, swiftly determining which ones lived and which were left up as grisly examples.

The escape was a numbing rush of exhaustion and confusion.  The Council of Mages' forces withdrew from the Shadowlord stronghold with as many prisoners as could be rescued.  Finally they reached the Moongate, their numbers less than before. Only the thought of being returned to his cell within the stronghold kept the prisoner moving.  Without a thought he leapt through the Moongate and materialized on the island of Magincia.  More warriors and mages of the Council waited here, forming a rearguard as the strike force survivors made their way to their stronghold, the High Council's old parliament building. Once inside the wounded were treated, gasps of revulsion coming from the healers as they examined the few escaping prisoners' wounds. All of them fell into an exhausted sleep.

Two days later the former prisoner awoke, free from his chains for the first time he could remember.  He paused, trying to dredge up memories from his past.  Nothing.  All was a blank except for the memories of the Yew crypts and he shyed from those memories.

Using a broken mirror fragment he examined his face.  Deathly pale white skin, short dark hair in sharp contrast.  His face seemed. . . unremarkable.  The kind of face that would elude your memory, it's hard edges smoothed away.  Filled with a deep need for purpose, the former prisoner joined the cause of the Council of Mages.  Shortly after joining the council he was enrolled in the Paragons of Hope militant wing.  At the time he joined, all was not going well for the Council.  Heavy casualties had depleted their ranks and they soon controlled no towns and had to resort to raids on their foes.  As the ongoing war continued the prisoner with no name found his stealthiness growing along with his arcane skills.  He made himself useful infiltrating his former prison and the other two Strongholds, stealing the town sigils. 

It almost seemed as if he had been molded to those skills, his true identity obscured by whatever dark arts had changed him.  He had become a clean slate.  Uneasily he wondered just what purpose his captors had intended to put him to.  His face had been altered, though what it had been and how he knew he could not explain.  He took the name Mask, out of bitter irony, and continued his fight against the darkness as the Council slowly built up its forces and recaptured the towns of Magincia and Delucia, filling his lingering emptiness with revenge.

Pain.  Time passed.  The faction wars had degenerated into purposeless slaughter.  The noble warriors had either perished or left in despair, many fleeing to Trammel to ensure that facet did not fall into a similar chaos.  The dark authors of Mask's ills regained control of him, turning him to their side, as a puppet without free will.  He defected, turning to the Shadowlord faction until his friends Derfel and Rand caught up with him.  As they fought back the strange red-robed Controller minions who had invaded the land with mechanical monsters, Mask lay slumped at the base of the Shrine of Spirituality, almost forgotten.  There, in that sacred place, as he muttered the mantra blindly, his memories returned.  The shock of remembering his old life, his old name, helped him break through the brainwashing that had occurred in the Shadowlord stronghold.   

Remembrance.  Having washed their hands of the slaughter in Felucca, the few remnants of the all but disbanded Paragons of Hope turned to politics and public service.  The leader, Galahad, joined the High Council as the representative of Trinsic.  The tortured knight, the name Mask having stuck, joined Galahad's newly formed Trinsic Paladin Guard and defended the city against the High Council's arch-foe, the Shadow. 

Remembrance.  In full uniform he ran into the High Council chamber, relief washing over him as he saw Galahad standing over the body of the tribal savage, Banelion, a would-be assassin.

Pain.  He stood with Singlarad of the High Council as their relief force vainly attempted to free the city of Moonglow from Blackthorn's servant, the undead Banelion, and the mercenary Janus Black.  They lost, but inflicted sufficient casualties that Banelion retreated from the island.  The small part of Mask cognisant of the present recalled that the attack was nothing more than an attempt to keep the High Council off-balance whilst Blackthorn readied his troops and Jukan allies for their assault on Britannia.

Realisation.  Galahad had retired, and Derfel had taken his place as 2nd Seat of the High Council.  The Jukan invasion occured in a wave of death and destruction, Britannia barely prevailing.  The paladin guard had been all but wiped out, Mask among the few survivors.  He recalled fighting in the streets of Trinsic, a drunken miner staggering out of the Keg & Anchor and striking at a Chaos Dragoon with a pickaxe.  And a growing discontent from deep inside him worked itself to the surface.  The feeling that he had only been 'play-acting' as a paladin, that his life as Erik Pelantine was but an old memory, like clothing that no longer fitted.  The darkness that had infected his soul all that time ago in the Shadowlord stronghold took hold of him and he now vowed allegiance to Banelion, still working for Blackthorn's defeated army.  Once Derfel's strong right-hand, now he was a dagger to his back.

Betrayal.  Mask's treachery bore fruit, his betrayal having resulted in the murder of Irvgor, Sheriff of Moonglow and Singlarad's right hand during the Vesper war, outside the elven Silver Arrow tavern.  The hidden remains of Banelion were found, the undead flesh of the lich reanimated.  Shortly after, Mask, still acting as the noble paladin, arranged murders in Delucia, framing Singlarad's troops.  The trap was set, violence inevitable.  Mask and a few others confronted Singlarad, Mask aggressively initiating the battle just as the Orc Lord Grug's bestial warriors attacked from the rear.  This shocking betrayal broke Derfel who resigned shortly thereafter. 

Moving on. Blackthorn was dead, Exodus long absent.  The Jukan Warlord seized control of Blackthorn's forces and all who opposed him were slain.  The lich Banelion was ordered to assault the Meer village of Lakeshire to prove his loyalty.  He died in the assault.  Mask, now working for the Shadow, stood in Umbra, silently overlooking the Abyss.  In his hands he held the statuette containing the disembodied soul of Banelion.  He could feel Banelion's soul exhorting him to complete the ritual that would return the soul to the undead body.  Instead, Mask threw the statuette into the abyss.  From now on, he would serve his own interests first.  He walked off, untroubled by the eternal damnation he had bestowed on Banelion.

Murder.  The former High Councillor Derfel stood in front of the High Council, proudly announcing his new role as Mayor of Cove.  As arranged by Mask, the assassin Gwendolyn struck, killing Derfel in front of the stunned High Council and Royal Guard.  That the assassin was then captured by the High Council's Royal Guard was of no matter to Mask.  There was nothing to tie him to the murder of his former friend and comrade.  Mask then led an assault on Cove with the Shadow and other allies, hoping the loss of it's Mayor would leave it weakened.  Instead Singlarad led the defence and the walls were held.  A master of disguise, Mask then moved from town to town, lying low. 

Desperation. Mask had gotten complacent, and paid for it.  Rand, the last of the Paragons of Hope had left his self-imposed exile in Ilshenar to hunt down Mask and avenge the betrayal.  Cornered and knowing he was no match for Rand in a mage-battle, Mask fled the Black Mask tavern in the Malas orc fort, fleeing to the Shadow's residence nearby.  Leaving his kryss behind, not confident his skill with weapon and magic would be enough to defear Rand, Mask had one last desperate hope for escape.  The Shadow had found a way to move between the shards; indeed the last of the Nox Ordo had followed him on these journeys in an attempt to keep him from finding the Books of Sin.  If he could find the means, be it a device or a scroll or... Chaotic pain bewildered his mind, the memory of his last moments in his home shard gone.  All he recalled was seeing a strange Gate open.  Bereft of choice, Mask dived into it... 

Now.  The pain slowly subsided and Mask shakily regained his feet, already feeling the bite of the cool evening air.  He had jumped into the Gate and had ended up in the middle of the road, though most of his possessions were gone.  Of Rand there was no sign.  Weakened dreadfully, carrying only his spellbook but no reagents, he was defenceless.

The Guard Ravenscar and the trader watched as the stranger hesitantly approached, clearly weakened.

"Err, yer welcome to join me camp," the trader stuttered to the stranger.  The stranger nodded silently and joined him, warming his hands by the fire, saying naught, clad in an old robe the trader had spare.

The trader examined his guest and strode off, examining his beasts.  Kalam stayed, his right hand never straying from his spear.  The stranger looked a ragged sort and appeared unarmed other than the knife given to him to cut his meat.  "So stranger, where are you bound?  Me name's Ravenscar.  Kalam Ravenscar."

The stranger seemed to consider this.  "A fine name."  His right hand slowly raised the knife.  His hand suddenly leapt up, the blade piercing Kalam's throat.  Choking on his own blood, Kalam slumped to the ground, his last sight being that of the stranger's back as he quietly approached the unaware trader.  Darkness fell.

Mask took what he could carry, mainly some gold and the guard's spear.  Prefering to travel light until he could get his bearings he was unwilling to burden himself with the pack animals.  He found some reagents but his traumatic journey through the portal to this new shard seemed to have stripped him of his arcane ability.  He buried his spellbook near the shallow graves of the trader and Kalam Ravenscar.

Everywhere he went he found change.  The Parliament chamber was there but of the High Council he saw no sign.  His ignorance and lack of ability with the Shadow's Shard-travel magic seemed to have moved him forward in time as well as to another shard, the Jukan invasion now some years in the past.  But It was near enough his time, though with a vastly different history.  Instead of the united Britannia he had left, he found one torn apart by rebellion, towns ruled by lords but answering to no central government.  Vesper warred with Yew who warred with Cove, a strong power in this land.  As he learned more Mask came to the inescapable conclusion the gate had indeed moved him to another Shard.  A chill descended upon him.  Everything he knew ... gone.  Worse was the possibility of an Erik Pelantine living in this land, living his life.  Mask did not know what distressed him more; the thought of another ... him living this life of dark betrayal or him living well, an honoured knight.  Mask dismissed it.  Odds were the Erik in this land was naught more than rotting bones.   He could not use that name, his by birth, though.  An alias was needed.  As was a job.

He approached Cove, greeted by a guard.  "Who are ye?" the guard demanded.  Mask paused.  "My name's Ravenscar.  Kalam Ravenscar."  He smiled in friendly greeting.  He spent a few days in Cove before gettinga job as a bartender in Vesper, meeting Kiran, Anna Maria, Gia and many others.  His past life was dead and gone, naught but dreams of another place.  But his ambition still lived in his heart, cold and sharp and far from dying.  Mask considered this and smiled as he served a customer an ale.  I'm not dead yet, either.

Just after the assassination of Baron Heath...

Mask spun as the door banged open and a wrathful Escaflowne entered.  How he had found the meeting, Mask did not know.  A hastily constructed excuse explaining the presence of so many different people in this room slipped facilely past his lips.  Though the presence of brigands, assassins, drow and others of a dubious nature gave a lie to any excuse.  Escaflowne ignored Mask, approaching, a piece of blackrock clutched in his hand.

The group wasted no time.  Escaflowne was swiftly felled, the blackrock rolling away.  Mask dived in and grabbed it, slipping it into a pouch as he flung a piece of loose debris into the burning fire.  One of the drow demanded it, but Mask just shrugged and pointed at the fire.  Escaflowne was secured but Mask heard little else of the meeting.  Jasin Nateal had slain Heath and was Kiran's nomination to run for Baron or whatever title it had now.  They spoke of tackling the Covian army.  Mask declaimed it as folly but the group had been seized with dreams of glory.  Mask knew it was doomed to fail.

The election passed, Van Cocidius winning a second term, the choice of those seeking an end to murder, war and turmoil.  Mask quietly left Vesper, the blackrock ever close to hand.  He wandered to the north. 

Later.  Much later

Months passed.  Perhaps years...?  The blackrock had consumed Mask's attention.  His clothing was ragged, the colours long since faded.  But the time had come to return to civilisation.  But as what, Mask pondered?  What disguise would he done, what skin would he slip into as he presented a face suitable for society?  Images flashed through his head... Justice, the Knight, proud and noble ... The Hierophant, the Priest humbly collecting for 'charity' in return for salvation ... The Hermit, the yokel chewing straw as he amiably wandered, pitchfork in hand ... ?

Or ... The Fool.  The Bartender, sly and deceitful, cunning yet reckless.  Sharptongued and mocking.  Yes.  Mask's greatest creation, born from a dead man's dying gasp in the woods near Minoc.  Yes ... The Fool.  Kalam Ravenscar would do nicely.  He was already known in the north-east.  Contacts and allies.  Enemies also, perhaps.  Mask smiled.  Fun.  Already he began to adopt the mannerisms, getting into character once more. 

Mask gazed into the broken mirror; Kalam Ravenscar flashed a winning smile in return.