EM.Lore Tristain's Visions

The First Vision

A crimson sun sets through thick clouds over Camp Resplendent, nestled at the foot of the Peaks of Flame. Overhead, the trio of volcanoes tower over the jungle, spewing constant coughs of smoke and ash.
  Rulidd Kurchin steps into the clearing, weary after another daunting trek through the jungle. He heaves a deep breath, the taste of blood in his mouth, and exhales a prayer of healing. Even in these dark days, Tyr is quick to hear his prayer, and honors him with a renewed vigor. Rulidd is grateful, the threat of the death curse prickling the back of his mind like a constant thorn. The shimmer of silver light flickers over his form, stitching the wounds left by the claws of the undead hordes wandering the jungles. He breathes easier, straightens his back, and enter the camp with the rest of the Knights.
  The Gauntlets are quick to welcome their reinforcements. Once assigned sleeping quarters, Rulidd finds the commander, Marquis Breakbone.
  With little pretense, they escort him through camp to the shrine of Ubtao and the treasure contained within. Climbing the stairs, navigating the labyrinth, and approaching the grand visage of Chult’s creator and protector.
  In the hands of the statue, a massive, tear-shaped gem, iridescent, shining brighter than their torchlight in the dark. Around the gem, the dust on the air seemed to drift slower and in strange patterns, ebbing and flowing in circles around the prismatic stone.
  The Guardian’s Tear. Rulid knew the history, drawing the text to his mind.
  The result of divine conflict and sorrow, the heartbroken tear of Helm. During the Times of Trouble, bound by his code of honor and oath to Ao to fulfill his duty of letting no god return to the heavens without the Tablets of Fate, the Guardian deeply regretted the death of Mystra he had been forced to carry out. In grave sorrow, the god had cried a single tear which, unbeknownst to all, fell to earth, mingling with the material plane and the shattered magic of Mystra’s essence, forming this azure gem of immense power.
  “They believe it to be an artifact of their god.” Scoffed the commander.
  “Understandably.” Rulid responded. “Something so powerful, reasonable to attribute it to the most power entity of your world, and so they did. We would do the same. Have they ever tried to activate or use it?”
  “No, thank the Triad.”
  Rulid nodded, thinking. “And what of the plans to extract the gem?”
  “We’ve lost too many to risk it now. with the curse.”
  Rulid rubbed at the edges of his unkempt beard. “For now, we continue to monitor and protect. Let us handle one crisis at a time. No one else knows it to be here, correct?”
  The commander nodded.
  “Then, let us keep it that way” Rulid continued. “And in less trying times, we will return it to its proper home in Sundabar.”
  The two stood in silence, basking in the cool glow of the gems divine radiance in awe and wonder.
 
 

The Second Vision

Rulidd stirred to the warning bell, his hand to a hilt absent from his side as he bolted from his bedroll. He cursed his fatigue as he re-donned his chest plate and belted his weaponry.
  Pushing through the tent flap, he drew forth his hammer, humming with a melodic tone of anticipation in his hand. Overhead, weak streams of moonlight and star shimmer pierced the smoke wafting from the Peaks of Flame.
  He followed the sounds of conflict, shocked to hear combat ringing out from behind camp, not at the entrance. How had the mindless undead wandered through camp unseen? Something was amiss. Terribly so.
  By the time he reached the temple, the stairs ran red with blood. He paused only long enough to offer prayers over those who were still breathing. Prayers for the dead would be wasted breath in these trying times.
  No signs of the undead amongst the fallen. No severed limbs nor dry husks. Questions and fears swam through his thoughts, instincts taking over as he burst up the remaining steps and into the golden temple.
  A shadowed form burst from the dark corner of the labyrinth, Rulidd raising his hammer just in time to knock the blow aside. Their weapons caught and locked against one another, Rulidd sensed he fought not corporeal dead, but a being of more cunning and intellect. Freeing a hand, Rulidd drove a gauntleted fist into the attacker’s gut. With then opening, the Knight made quick work of the assailant. The figure collapsed to the stone floor, blood pooling in the stone’s grout.
  Examining the figure, Rulidd pulled back the black cowl shadowing their features and winced as he recognized the dark sun and skull sigil painted on their face. Cyric had sent his forces. And they were going after the Guardian’s Tear, Rulidd had no doubt.
  He could not wait for reinforcements, were any still alive to aid him. He would press on alone.
  Moments later, Rulidd plunged a borrowed blade into the last cultist’s chest and withdrew, a streak of crimson striping the walls opposite him. Some dozen cloaked forms laid spilled along the stairs where they’d ambushed him. Rulidd dropped the cultist’s dagger and removed his helm as he steadied his breathing, wincing as his ribs ached where their spells had punctured his armor, driving shards of steel into his chest.
  He drew forth the healing magic of Tyr’s justice once more, but felt his reserves faltering. As the last silver light streaked around him, he marched onward. Delving deeper into the temple, towards the grand statue of Ubtao, where he’d stood basking in the majestic glow of the Guardian’s Tear only days before. Now, he found another standing in his place.
  Before the decimated statue of Ubtao, toppled into rubble, an infernal figure held the Guardian’s Tear, floating aloft above their clawed hand. The creature stood taunt, muscular grey-blue skin glistening with beads of sweat. The figure arched its shoulders, massive leathery wings unfolding and tucking back into place. Scars and markings spread across the demon’s chest and face, a pair of crimson-stained axes clasped at its side.
  “Draxhar.”
 

The Third Vision

An incredulous grin spread across the demon’s visage. At his feet, the Marquis lay lifeless. “You Knights were so busy scheming to steal away your little treasure, you never stopped to think who else might be looking for it. Or more importantly, what power it might offer. What a waste.”
  Rulidd tightened the grip on the straps of his shield, steadying his breathing against his stinging lungs and aching ribs. He held the Hammer of Tyr aloft, calling upon its holy might to deliver him the Even-Handed’s strength. He would need the whole of it, he knew.
  “Whatever your deceiver’s schemes entail, they end here.” The knight said through gritted teeth.
  “No, I do not believe that is true.” Draxhar said, eyes still on the gem. “Lies do not become you, Tyrran.”
  And with impossible speed, the demon closed the distance between them, drawing an axe from his side in the same fluid motion as he brought it down in a high arcing slash.
  Yet the Knight would not falter so easily, catching the axe with his shield. Locked in their struggle, the two fought as the clamor of steel against steel rung out in the ancient temple, their efforts lit by the only the gem’s prismatic shimmer.
  Draxhar struck with relentless fury, an unremitting series of blows, nearly overwhelming Rulidd, though the demon assailed him one-handed. With each assault, Rulidd felt his shield crack further, faltering beneath the fury of Draxhar’s infernal rage. And yet, he did not relent, holding his ground as the remained locked in their duel.
  For each blow Rulidd delivered, Draxhar only attacked with greater tenacity, ignoring the cracking of bone and the severing of sinew. Undeterred, the demon struck, never giving Rulidd a moment of respite. Despite his steadfast will, the Knight felt his strength faltering.
  Draxhar struck once more, the infernal axe shearing the shield from its bindings, exposing Rulidd’s already compromised armor. The Knight seethed effected breaths, his body growing sluggish, every muscle screaming in exhaustion.
  Rulidd swung once more with desperate determination, but his foe sidestepped, bringing his axe down, where it severed Rulidd’s arm at the wrist. The knight watched as his hammer fell to the floor with a deafening clang of defeat.
  Through blurred vision and a dizzying pain racing through his nerves, Rulidd sensed Draxhar leaning down over him, the Guardian’s Tear a distant, hazy radiant light in his hand.
  “Since you will die here,” the demon said, his words spoken with an unaffected confidence, “I will offer you a blessing few others receive. To know the Truth. For with this relic, Cyric will remake himself and the world, saving it from The End that is to Come. In that way, your failure is a blessing.”
  “You won’t…” Rulidd managed weakly.
  “Save your words. Soon, you will meet your god and answer for your failings.” Draxhar said, a wicked smile returning to his face. “And so die, knowing this relic — an impossible binding of Magic of Cyric’s beloved Midnight and Helm’s sorrow, a crystalized manifestation of Time itself — will serve as the catalyst for Cyric’s Ascension.”
  Rulidd coughed, choking on blood as his head swam. Only Draxhar’s cutting voice seemed to pull him back to the material world that darkened around him.
  “For as radiant as this Tear is now,” the demon said, beholding the gem, “it contains only a trickle of Mystra’s Magic. But in the vastness of Time, it can contain so much more. We shall harness the magic of this dying world, bringing this vessel to overflowing. And through it, carve a hole in Existence, through which Cyric will arise to save this universe from its own entropic annihilation.”
  Draxhar stood, his menacing shadow cast along the floor in the Tear’s light. Without another word, he disappeared, enveloped in the purple arcane tendrils of teleportation.
  Rulidd heaved his final breaths, ragged and short. His shield, shattered, lay aside him, a single shard of steel still affixed to his arm. He could not reach his hammer, that he might die with a weapon in his hand.
  Rulidd’s last thoughts were not of Draxhar, nor Cyric’s machinations, nor his own failings. He thought of the young man, even now in Sundabar.
  He imagined the blonde-haired boy in the courtyard beneath the golden-stained leaves, training with wooden sword and shield. He imagined him in his lessons, his vigils, his quests to come.
  He could so easily envision the Knight this boy would grow to be, strong and steadfast. The best of them, pure and true, noble and just.
  The unexpected son, saved from a sacrificial ritual. A life once to be wasted, now brimming with potential and promise. His son, Tristain, a resplendent light of hope, filled his mind as the world darkened around Rulidd for the last time.
 

The Fourth Vision

With a long-held sigh, a last gasp of relief expunged, Rulidd’s spirit, passes from this material world into the next, finally at peace.
  There is a pause, a moment where the world seems to grow a bit brighter. Light cuts through the smoke of the volcanoes overhead. The ancient temple, shroud in dense foliage, seems to shine through, the golden stonework shimmering. And then, the world seems to fade around you as you are transported to some other place.
  You blink and once again find yourself in the castle of your visions. When you first fell to the vampiric assault, you woke in this place between life and death. You spoke with Rulidd, he warned you of Cyric’s threat, though you could not understand at the time. And you realize, that could not have been your father, for his spirit was not in a place as peaceful and tranquil as this. And yet, your heart does not know fear in this place.
  Your second vision, following the defeat of Folio in Neverwinter, when Sir Isteval appeared to you, revealing your father’s lingering presence in Chult, leading you on this mission with renewed purpose. This place, these visions, this calling on your life has always been more, beyond the power of mere mortals to conjure.
  You realize, now, with a certainty and confidence, you reside in the great hall of Tyr, the Court of Lunia, hidden among the sacred Mount Celestia, home of the Triad and all the gods who call the noble pursuit of justice their aim.
  And so, trusting in your faith, you sit once more at the feasting table. You wait, listening as birds chirp, flitting in the trees beyond the window, watching beautiful streams of light through stained glass, depicting the lives and accomplishments of the heroes who have come before. A deeper sense of peace and restoration you have never known, as if the air itself were richer and more sustaining.
  The door opposite opens, illuminated by a glow of blue, purple, and white. Approaching is the silhouette of a figure, a burly warrior of great strength. Long, grey hair flows beneath a halo of white, a beard unkempt flowing over the figure’s resplendent armor of silver and blue. Over his eyes, an aged bandage, stained brown with dried blood.
  Tyr, the God of Justice, Even-Handed, extends his hands to you in welcome as he sits, joining you at his banquet table.
  “The death curse held your father’s presence, and the knowledge only he held, trapped for these twenty years. You have done a great mercy and a greater justice in releasing his spirit into my care, where Rulidd Kurchin can now rest and walk in the light of a life well-lived.”
  “But that brings us to darker tidings for you, paladin. For yours is the burden of the mortal present and a terrible fate hangs in the balance.”
  A forlorn look stretches across Tyr’s face. Though you cannot see his wounded eyes, you sense they fill with dread.
  “What Cyric has proclaimed is true. All of it. And yet, his methods are not the way. They are not just. They would tip the scales of justice towards his will, and in his madness, I do not doubt his ascension would be to that of a petty tyrant, set on the ruination of many.”
  Tyr stands, drawing the massive greatsword sheathed on his back. You recognize the blade, *Justicar*, said to be of Ao’s own making, having slain the demonic hoards who stood against Mount Celestia in the Era of Upheaval. Tyr holds the radiant blade overhead, and signals for you to kneel before him.
  “You must return to your companions of the Sword Coast. Even now, forces gather in the city of Durindale that might stand against the darkness. I will aid you in your journey, Paladin Tristain.”
  Tyr lifts the blade to his face, speaking over it, then touches it to your shoulder.
  “You shall rise, Tristain, the Hammer of Tyr. Wielding the sacred weapon of your father, which has broken bone and tasted blood of Draxhar, Cyric’s own. A weapon he will not have soon forgotten. You will rise, my Hammer, and shatter the will of those who wield tyranny and injustice as a cudgel against the innocent. You will rise, your every breath dedicated to defending and protecting all who seek goodness and mercy and justice. You shall so illuminate the gathering darkness as to sunder it from the world forevermore.”
  As *Justicar* touches your opposite shoulder, a radiant surge of life and energy flows through you. You feel a resplendent light shining forth within your chest, radiating warmth, like sunlight hitting your skin on a perfect day. The fire within you burns, a divine bursting of power. The world brightens, your eyes shining like stars, pushing against the void with an unremitting glow. Everything fades to white as you hear Tyr’s final words.
  “And so I say, Rise, Tristain Kurchin, Hammer of Tyr, My Chosen.”
  And when you return to the Material Plane, the light within you burns still, like flames pulsing through your veins, fueling your noble purpose and your desire for justice.
  As you open your eyes, you are no longer surrounded by the smoldering ash of volcanoes nor the dense foliage of Chult. You stand in the courtyard of Durindale, where even now, your allies make preparations for the coming War of the Chosen. And you are a most welcome ally, shining bright against the dark shadow of madness.