Heirs of the Lost Lord Part Nine
Second Day of the Twelfth Month 292 AC
You do not understand the whole of the tragedy played out before you but you can guess enough, enough to seek another path than slaying a guide of souls however it may have sinned. Not until all other paths are closed. A single look you share with Vee, a grim understanding to command her creatures to do what is needed if your gambit fails.
Like some insatiable beast the flames fanned of your sorcery arise, lapping at the old stone and consuming what remains of the bright spirit's sundered prison. The dead to not escape its touch; they scream and wail alike to a chorus of the damned, all save the dark one, the once-priest. Eyes of balefire turn to you in wrath as a dozen babbling mouths open along his form, spewing vileness and black sorcery in equal measure.
"Ashes be yer bed!" Vee calls out over the roaring flames, her hair whipping wildly about her face from the passage of the creaming specters... and as she wills so it is. Your flames crawl up the thing and whatever spell it had tried to weave is lost in the cries of anguish.
Ser Richard stands before the thing for a long moment, seeming almost to hesitate, then to your surprise he drops Oathkeeper and takes up the golden mace of the deva who had been watching all of this with near incomprehension. A single mighty blow of blessed gold banishes the thing back to whatever lonely hell it had wrought for itself.
With an almost uncanny suddenness there is silence save for harsh breathing, the shuffling of Vee's beasts and the blood still dripping from the armor of the fallen lord of Essaria.
"You must kill me," the bright spirit insists, almost feverishly.
"Before I... forget... myself..." His words come in painful gasps.
In a flash the last piece of the puzzle comes to you...
faith. You remember the Shadow Trader of the Orphne telling of how it empowered and limited gods and spirits all at once. The deva had not fallen to darkness, it had been bound by the fervent prayers of those who revered it in the dark days of the Century of Blood, and by that faith it had been poisoned. "They killed themselves after binding you, didn't they?" you ask, more weary than horrified.
"Yes... Kill me!" the angel begged, weeping as its withered wings brushed the hard stone floor.
Ser Richard picked up Oathkeeper and held high but he did not let the sword fall. Something like disgust and pity passed over his features like a shadow. "Coward," he says, so softly it might have been to himself, but no doubt the withered angel's senses are as sharp as your own.
"What would you have me do?" it asks. The question sounds almost like a lost child. You are not sure if the question is posed to the Stromlander knight or the specter of the ancient general that is bound to his armor.
"Your duty." The answer is hard as iron and just as cold, but to your surprise he offers a hand. Man and godling share a long look, then the kneeling winged figure rises painfully to its feet. When their hands unclasp, something of the silvery light of the deva lingers on the haunted armor.
How is the Armor empowered?
[] Power of Healing (+Aid, Cure Serious Wounds)
[] Power of Warding (+Remove Fear, Mirror Image)
[] Power of Sanctity (+Holy Aura)
OOC: That was... impressive. Neither Ser Richard nor his helper have great social skills. As another note this is not just about mechanics so choose carefully.
