Son of Zaphkiel: The Balance of Pain and Healing

How does one begin to express the sorrow and disappointment felt for ones self? To whom does one turn to for comfort and solace? The man doesn't know. All he does know is that several people are now dead, and his inaction, or rather his attempt at diplomacy, resulted in more innocent blood being spilled than would otherwise have been. If the man had acted swifter, if he had been more forceful, he could have slain the attackers and defended the Inevitable, her crew and passengers. Even if he could not have saved the ship entirely, he could have at least bought time for the captain to get closer to the ground so their crash wasn't so dramatic.

But no, the man had faltered. He thought he could reason with the attackers, he tried to get the goblin leader to call off the attack, he didn't want to shed blood. Ever since Anya...the thought of blindly jumping into battle has turned his stomach. No, he would not slaughter someone else's loved ones, just because they were in his way, or he in theirs...

And yet, the image of the doctor and the young woman, falling and screaming while the ship above twisted and began to fall, and only having enough time to try and catch one of them. The man went for the doctor. There was no real reason for the one over the other. Any life has value and it's irrelevant debating over whose life were worth more. He should have been able to get there in time, to catch and save the doctor. But the man's timing was off and he arrived in time to see the doctor's terrified, pleading face...before crashing into the ground. A moment later and a second shriek wailed close by followed by a crunch. The young woman. And then the ship struck the earth several hundred feet in front of him. All of the screaming voices were silenced, either drowned out by the crash, or else ended forever.

The man screamed. Fists clenched and teeth bared, he wanted to pound the earth and call down death upon those responsible. But no, that was another day, another time, another man. He was not that man anymore, he didn't want to be that man again, and so he picked himself up and flew with all speed to the wrecked ship.

The man was no healer, not anymore. The only thing he could really do at that moment was search for his ironwood crate. If the creatures within escaped, all would be for naught. And so, ignoring the moans of pain and horror, he pulled piles of rubble apart, looking for tell-tale signs of his crate. Hoping it would be intact. At last he found it. A crack ran down the side, but it looked otherwise functional. He'd have to do something about the crack, make sure it didn't get any worse, but for now it was good to simply know that it wasn't shattered and its contents released. He tapped the crate and the creatures thumped back. They survived. Good.

With his crate under one arm, he joined with the other survivors in helping the wounded. The trolls were found in varying stages of regenerating and so they were carried and thrown onto the burning rubble of the ship. They would terrorize no one else. The corpses of the other passengers and crew from the Inevitable were also given a fiery burial. Tali'a would have approved. It wouldn't do to leave the bodies behind for beast and fiend to have their way with. The man knew all to well what could be done to a corpse that wasn't given a proper burial.

He shuddered. There was no time for that. These people were weak, but they couldn't stay here. They needed to move before more goblins, trolls, or worse, came to the wreckage. The smoke would reach thousands of feet into the sky, acting like a beacon to any who might be interested. There was a nearby town, nothing big, but sufficient to get some basic aid before heading on over the mountains...What they'd find along the way, he could only imagine, and it wouldn't do to lead these people on to their deaths. No, it would be best to strengthen them against the trials ahead.

Varstoka was not the peaceful land it use to be, and so before going even to the small town, the man flew ahead to scout out the town. Destruction and blood. Fires smoldered across the town center and only the large manor on the edges of town seemed to have escaped destruction. Returning to the group, the man took Goban, the plucky gnome who volunteered to come and explore the town in greater detail. Together they found the town center where most of the gore was concentrated. They found an odd symbol written on the wall of one building, and in examining it, were ambushed by foul creatures the likes of which the man had never seen before.

Goban struck them with a fireball and the creatures retreated into the small buildings surrounding the plaze. Not wanting to engage them in close quarters, Goban rained fireballs down on the buildings until they blazed and the creatures were destroyed. One of the remaining buildings was a mercantile, and knowing that they would need gear, he and Goban went in to see if there was anything salvageable. Immediately, a gaping maw wrapped around the man, long spiked tentacles dug into his flesh and dragged him toward the chomping mouth. Still holding Goban, the man told Goban to run for it and let him down before the creature could get Goban as well. Goban, ever the brave one, shot a fireball at the back of the creature but failed to convince it to release the man. And then a second abomination appeared. The man yelled at Goban to run for it, his own life seeping out of him through the many wounds the creature was ripping into him. And then, luck struck. The man wrestled his way free of the creature and flew out of the building, Goban right behind him. Together they flew back up out of the creatures reach and rained more fire upon them. They died and dissolved into nothing more than bits of bone and ooze.

They regrouped with the rest of their companions and reported on the events they faced. Together they decided to go and explore the manor at the edge of town.

The building was empty of inhabitants and looked as though it had been just another day. Beds were unkempt and unfinished meals adorned the rooms, but nothing that bespoke panic or terror. Just the ordinary affects of daily life. The man found a room filled with stacks of parchment, each sheet of which bore the same strange symbol that he and Goban had found painted on the wall in the town center. Strange. He took one of the sheets with him and continued in his search.

Half an hour into the exploration, a young woman was found hiding in the attic. She was half starved and, judging by the hallow look in her eyes, half crazed. They were able to calm her down sufficiently enough to get a basic description of the events in the town, how the famous playwright who lied in the manor was to be performing her newest piece, how the girl had been late in arriving to the performance and came in just in time to see horrible creatures tearing everyone to pieces, how she ran and hid here in the attic.

The man removed the sheet of parchment bearing the symbol on it and asked the girl if it meant anything to her. At once she began screaming and moved to flee from the room and the man's heart ached for her pain and fear, and he hated himself for his foolishness. Of course she wasn't ready to be interrogated for specifics. If Beldre were there, she would have coddled the girl, calmed her, fed her, helped her to heal, and then sought for answers when she was strong. But the man was not Beldre, and he again had caused great harm where there should have been great compassion and healing.

He did what he could for the young woman, holding her until her screams abated. And yet, to the man, it seemed that her silence was worse than her screaming, as though something inside of her had broken in ways that could never be healed. He wept silently for her, whispering his apologies to her, knowing that she would not hear and feeling his heart break for it.