Chapter Text
They took me three days outside of Eastbridge, where the road bends and the trees grow close enough to swallow even the sharpest sight.
I had been following a string of murders… and not regular ones. It soon became clear to me, that I wasn’t tracking some pack of bandits. These bodies were found arranged like sacrifices in some rituals. A goat strung up by its guts, a sun-mark carved into its hide. A shrine oil lamp filled with blood. And they were using imagry of the Morninglord, my god Lathander.
I assumed it was a warning meant for me.
I was wrong. It was a lure.
I remember their first attack. I remember the trees bending and croaking, my head swimming as I felt my mind twist, unable to comprehend reality. And then I remember waking in a room that smelled of wax and rot. Blinking in and out of consciousness, I hear a door being shut and mocking laughter echoing through whatever hole they threw me in.
And then the dark claimed me.
Cyricists don’t need chains. They want you trapped mentally just as much as physically, with your thoughts spiraling out of control and paranoia consuming every semblance of coherant planing.
Doesn’t mean they won’t use them though.
And with the eclipse drawing near - or the day of black sun, as they so reverently call it - I know what they meant to do. On that day, they murder a follower of Lathander in a sick ritual while they dance and feast and laugh at another's misery.
I curse myself. I should have been more careful. Instead I followed their trail like nothing could fool or touch me.
I laugh, once, quietly. The great Dame Valeria - caught and soon to be sacrificed for a ritual by a handful of scheming lunatics. I had grown arrogant, thinking that nothing could harm me while under the Morninglord’s protection.
I open my eyes once more to take in my surroundings: the room is small and dark, humidity clinging to the walls like a wet bandage, already soaked full. I can see metal bars in front of my face and a small light emanating from a candle on a table outside of my reach. There are no window and thus no daylight.
Already I can feel my strength draining, so disconnected from my god. And yet: I know that I cannot remain idle. There would be no rescue - nobody even knows of my recent quest.
Think, Valeria, Think
They would try to destroy my perception of time first. I know that sleep couldn't be relied upon to tell the time and my mind couldn't to count it. With my fingernail I scratch a tiny mark into the wet mortar and sit down crosslegged. Most people would lose themselves here, but I have something they didn't: I have my god.
With my mind, heart and soul I reach out to Lathander. The warm breath I take, the small fire beside me and my unbreaking faith - these are my anchors to center me when all else fails. It takes longer than usual but eventually I feel a warmth spreading from my chest and hope take the place of fear and uncertainty and I know: I would survive this place.
"O Lathander, Dawn's first light..."
The bucket hits the iron bars first with a loud clang. Cold water follows, soaking my clothes and hair. The warmth in my chest dissipates, like a candle pinched between fingers. Gasping for breath I try to orient myself again.
"See, she was talking to someone", a calm voice says, "It looks like madness took her quicker than most."
Another one adds mockingly: "Ask him if he heard you."
I hold still, water dripping from my lashes, sitting defiantly with my jaw set.
These cowards hide behind bars and mockery. I must pay them no heed.
And yet- when the footsteps retreat, I draw in a slow, shaking breath through my nose. The cold stings. My skin ached. And I reach out to Lathander once again, hoping to rekindle this snuffed flame.