Tears of Dyson

The march through the marsh had turned into a plod. The entire group was exhausted and snapping at each other while mindlessly putting one foot in front of the other. The heat of the day and the chaotic ending from the job had sapped most of their energy.

They had been walking for hours and the land had turned more and more unfamiliar. None of them were quite sure where they were, though all their directions had told them they were headed in the right direction.

***

As the fire died down, Gunder decided to take the first watch and everyone stretched out. With as exhausted as Dyson was, he should have dropped right off to comatose, but sleep was naggily far away. The events of the day weighed on him. It was not every day that one saw a man die, in such a mysterious way.

He decided to get up and make a quick sweep.

As tempted as he was to use a spell to see in the dark for a second, he knew that it would only give him a headache, so he grabbed the end of a flaming stick and used it to light his path.

It was a dull walk, not much to see beyond the beauty that was left on this temple, christened “Swamp Temple” by Cinnaro. Dyson ran his hand over the etchings and appreciated the talent that was needed to create these things. He had almost made a whole sweep when a shot of energy ran up his arm from the wall.

Drawing his hand back as if burned, he inspected his fingers and saw a faint purple glow. The same glow radiated from a group of symbols etched low in the wall. Inside his head was a low hum.

Almost without his volition, his hand reached out again. The glow from the stones had dulled but as he got closer, it brightened again. The hum in his head grew louder. It began to sound like voices speaking over themselves. Whispers too numerous to pull out any bit of words.

He drew away again. The voices quieted to a low hum again. He cocked his head and looked around to see if maybe he was hearing his companions talking but all was quiet. He turned back to the carvings and realized that maybe he could read them. He mouthed the words silently and again the voices were back.

He heard his name in the whispers. One group of voices telling him to say the words, another warning him not to. The groups warred in his mind. “Dyson, say it.” “No, Dyson, walk away.” They warred within him.

An unseen force raised his hand and he found it pressed against the symbols, the purple blinding him. And, from somewhere outside of him, he heard his voice say the words…

There was a flash and the voices rose. They sounded like cries of victory mixed with screams of despair.

The bricks popped free and inside was a staff. A twist of wood. A simple twist of wood that glowed lightly with a purple light. The compulsion to reach for it was so strong that it gave Dyson pause but the whispers were back.

And one voice topped them all. That voice. The voice that lead him to so many places. The voice that had saved his life only this morning.

This one spoke was in Elder Speech, a language he had learned only for spells and not much else. This one spoke no spells. This one said only one thing, with a quiet command that he could not resist, though it was said with such sadness: “I’m sorry, Dyson, but you have to take it. I’m so sorry.”

If he had been able to see himself, he would have seen the blackness take over his eyes, and his body begin to glow as he reached out to place his hand around the staff. He gripped it and lifted it free from its prison of the wall. Around him, there was a flash, within him the voices crescendoed and power surged through his body.

In the crescendo, he lost sight of the outside world and his body fell to the floor.

***

As the purple flash faded from his eyes, he found himself somewhere else. Had to be somewhere else, no way of knowing where.

The room was simple and the chair where Dyson found himself sitting was soft. There was a table in front of him.

The figure across the table from him was in shadow but when they spoke, Dyson knew their voice. It was That voice. The one that told him to take the staff.

The staff in question was gripped in his hand and he leaned on it for support.

“I’m sorry, Dyson,” the figure spoke, still speaking in Elder. “I could not do anything to stop it. They wanted you to have it. Even the ones that didn’t.”

“Who,” Dyson asked, “Who wanted me to have it?”

“You will find out in time, but when you do, remember that this is how it had to be.”

“But why….” Dyson shouted out as the scene faded again.

Before the dark took over again, he heard the voice say again “I’m sorry…”

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Coming back to himself, Dyson found that he was face down on the ground, head dangerously close to a stone. The staff was still in his hand, pulsing slightly. Wanting nothing to do with it, he shoved it back in the hole and dragged his aching body from the ground and took himself back to the direction of his bedroll.

Gunder looked up from sharpening his ax and asked, with some concern, “Everything alright out there?”

Dyson chuckled a little to himself, “Yeah.”

Used to Dyson‘s sometimes monosyllabic responses, Gunder shrugged and went back to sharpening. “Get some rest, we will head out at first light.”

Dyson went to his roll and slept like the dead.

When Vincent woke him the next day, the night before was like a dream. He shook himself and packed his bags with the group. As they started their walk again, Dyson said nothing about his strange dream. They did not need to know that he was having weird dreams.

It was not until Cinnaro turned to him miles from the temple and said “I like your new staff” did Dyson realize the staff was in his hand and he had carried it out of the marsh with him.