Mythic Quest - The Awakening

SEASON THREE EPISODE ONE

  The three companions awoke in a haze of pain and disorientation. The chamber around them was dim and warm, its air heavy with the sound of slow, steady breathing. Rows of cots filled the room, most occupied by unmoving figures. Only three stirred: Tyrannis the First, Navilla Horvoth, and Kyzikos Silverhand. Their memories were shadows, their identities stripped to nothing but names. Four others remained unconscious nearby, their bodies alive but unresponsive, their faces marked by the same strange heritage.   Before they could orient themselves, a voice intruded. It was a voice not spoken, but woven directly into their thoughts. The summons pressed upon them with quiet authority, drawing them toward a narrow stairwell at the chamber’s edge.   Below, they entered an armory where a long table lay set with weapons. Each relic shimmered with an unseen call, pulling one companion inexorably toward it. Tyrannis reached for a greatsword wrought with austere grandeur, Nevilla’s hand closed around a starknife of impossible grace, and Kyzikos claimed a quarterstaff etched with the twin mask of Nethys. At the moment of contact, clarity surged through them. The nausea and confusion that clouded their senses lifted, replaced by a revelation. These were no mere weapons but living echoes of their faith. Tyrannis bore the sigil of Gorum, Nevilla the butterfly wings of Desna, and Kyzikos the two-toned mask of Nethys. Each weapon restored more than strength—it whispered of a divine bond once shattered and now reforged.   The companions continued to explore and discovered the truth about their surroundings. The place was no fortress or keep but a sanctuary beyond worlds, a safe house folded into its own dimension. A hearth burned in the common room, where chairs and tables stood arranged as though waiting for occupants. A kitchen brimmed with food untouched by time, its supplies as fresh as if gathered that morning. Nevilla found her hands moving with instinctive familiarity, preparing a meal despite the fog of her lost past. In a quieter chamber, Kyzikos was reunited with Sir Dhamocles, a cynical scorpion that greeted him with the weary recognition of an old friend.   Other rooms offered further wonders. A workshop gleamed with tools of magical craft, its shelves lined with rare components and curious devices. A small coffer etched with conjuration runes held three potions of healing, its faint aura suggesting renewal yet to come. A chamber of green crystal seemed designed to hasten enchantments, while a blue-lit portal shimmered as a doorway to elsewhere. Upon a desk lay the most telling discovery: a letter penned by an unnamed benefactor.   The message revealed that a catastrophe had driven the companions here, their belongings scattered across distant planes. To recover their strength and stave off hunters who sought them, they would need to journey forth, beginning with the First World. With the letter came a silver bracelet, a tether to their refuge, able to draw them back should they need to.   Armed with this knowledge, the companions set about shaping their relics to their needs. Tyrannis tempered his blade with cold iron, Nevilla wove returning magic into her starknife, and Kyzikos bent his quarterstaff toward spellcraft. Armor, rings, and other treasures found within the haven gave further strength. That night, they ate and drank from the kitchen’s bounty, the meal and brew carrying enchantments that lent swiftness and courage. Each retired to a private chamber conjured as if by design, their dreams touched by both comfort and unease.   At dawn, they stepped into the blue portal and emerged into the First World. The air itself shimmered, every color sharper, every shadow deeper. Forests of radiant green gave way to groves blighted with strange fungi, a land both wondrous and perilous. At a crossroads, where the wilds deepened into swamp, the companions met their first foes.   A regal hamadryad, a mighty norn, a bowman, and a bardic muse with hair like fire barred their way. They named the companions Heralds of the Gods, enemies in a land where fey claimed abandonment. Battle followed.   Kyzikos’s spells erupted in flame, twin fireballs scattering the enemy lines. Nevilla’s starknife carved radiant arcs through the air, striking true with uncanny precision. Tyrannis thundered forward, his greatsword shattering an enemy spell and cutting deep into his foe. Haste carried Nevilla into a blur of movement, her starknife returning to her hand as swiftly as it left. The fey struck back with arrows, sonic force, and spellcraft, yet could not pierce the companions’ defenses.   When silence fell, the crossroads lay littered with the fallen. From their enemies, they claimed treasures: a longbow, the golden shears now inert, and other remnants of fey craft. These would serve not only as plunder but as essence to strengthen their divine relics. Victorious yet wary, the companions pressed deeper into the First World, aware that each step carried them closer to the truths of their past—and to the enemies who would see them undone.