Welcome to Cove

(OOC: The flashback sequences are set in Lake Superior- the long prisoner scene flashback all in italics was written around January 2001)

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 Kalam grumbling, "Aye, what is it, Ravenscar?"  Kalam pointed at the Gate.

The oddly miscoloured Shard-Gate flickered with uncertainty for a few seconds before vanishing, the momentary connection between the Lake Superior and Europa shards gone in an instant.  In its stead lay a man, shivering, naked.  For a blessed moment he 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. 

Flash. He was a youth of sixteen, son of a house of minor nobility.  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 elegantly signed his name.  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 magic's echoed down the corridors.
All of a sudden everything changed. A troop of warriors broke into the cell, their bright flaming torches chasing away the darkness. Systematically they freed the prisoners, swiftly determining which ones lived and which were left up as decor.
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 a deep 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. 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 hit and run attacks on foes.
As the ongoing war continued the prisoner with no name found his stealthiness growing along with his arcane skills. It almost seemed as if he had been molded to those skills, his true identity obscured by whatever dark arts had changed him. 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.

Flash.  A year passed, possibly more than one.  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 gained control of him, turning him to their side, as a puppet.  He defected, turning to the Shadowlord faction until his friends Derfel and Rand caught up with him.  As they fought back the strange redrobed minions who invaded the land with mechanical monsters, Mask was left slumped at the base of the Shrine of Spirituality, almost forgotten.  There, in that sacred place, as he muttered the mantra, his memories returned.

Flash.  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 representitive 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. 

Flash.  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, would-be assassin.

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

Flash.  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.  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 a 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 as dagger pointed unsuspectingly at his back.

Flash.  Mask's treachery was now common knowledge, his betrayal having resulted in the murder of Irvgor, Sheriff of Moonglow, outside the elven Silver Arrow tavern.  The betrayal also broke Derfel who resigned shortly thereafter. 

Flash. Blackthorn was dead, Exodus long absent.  The Jukan warlord seized control and all who opposed him were slain.  Banelion, now a lich, 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 in the abyss followed thereafter by his dragoon armour.  From now on, he would serve his own interests first.  He walked off, untroubled by the eternal damnation he had bestowed on Banelion.

Flash.  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, an assassin struck, killing Derfel in front of the stunned High Council.  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 a defence and the walls were held.  A master of disguise, Mask then moved from town to town, lying low.  Eventually word came of a new fact, the lands of Tokuno.  Travelling there, Mask spent years learning the art of Ninjitsu. 

Flash. 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 Irvgor and Derfel.  Cornered and knowing he was no match for Rand in a mage-battle, Mask cast one last desperate spell, a scroll  he had pilfered from the Shadow years bfore but never dared utter.  He intoned the words of power, praying it would be a weapon of sorts but instead a strange Gate opened.  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 and stripped of his arcane powers, Mask moved cautiously, gripping his belt dagger.

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.

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

The stranger seemed to consider this.  "A fine name."  His right hand slowly moved towards his dagger.  His hand suddenly leapt up, the dagger piercing Kalam's throat.  Choking on his own blood, Kalam slumped to the ground, his last sight being that of the stranger quietly approach 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.

Everywhere he went he found change.  The Parliament chamber was there but of the High Council he saw no sign.  His first thought was that he had travelled through time but soon discarded it.  It was his time or near enough.  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 moved him to another Shard.  A chill descened upon him.  Everything he knew ... gone.  Worse was the possibility of an Erik Pelantine living in this land.  He could not use that name, his by birth.  An alias was needed.  As was a job.

He approached the outer gate of Cove, seeing a solitary guard vigilently guarding.  The man was clearly elven and held the halberd clumsily.  Upon seeing Mask he yelled "Halt, who goes there?"

Mask approached.  "My name's Ravenscar, Kalam Ravenscar.  I'm looking for work."
Watchman Garak Nightchill nodded.  "Welcome to Cove."