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Mer Fuhgoad D'Got
These three things I hear from thee,
Warden of the Maw,
To meet, to learn, to kill the king,
Thy word, 'tis true, is law.
I try and fail to shake my fist,
Rebel, revolt, resist
My will, it seems, is Warden kissed,
Forever to be missed.
Then all went black in Fuhgoad's mind as she fell into that deep pit of despair, while the Warden watched the world crush and shake her. This bargain was one she could not squirm her way out of, no matter how she reviled the Warden. The words, "Know only that you will do as I have said," rang in her mind as she began to regain consciousness again.
Mer stood, clothed in her regalia, pockets full of reagents, staff in hand. The others stood there, too. A very tall woman, who had no business being as tall as she was, clothed in blinding-blue stood to her right. Beside her a wisp, a thief perhaps, her fair skin bright in the sun. Near them a large, scarred Orc stood, hand already on the hilt at his belt. There also was a young man clothed in red and gold, clothed also in all the fair looks that youth affords. A man made of metal stood, clutching a spear as she clutched her staff, ambling in the blinking sun. Finally, there, looking back was a man who smelled strongly of magic and... Mer sniffed in his direction. No, it couldn't be dragons. She must still have the smell of her final brew lingering about her rags.
And how she longed to soar on the wings of a dragon into that bright and terrible sky, among the towering trees and distant mountains! Fuhgoad breathed in, and out. The dullness of her senses lingered from the stifling Maw, where nothing was as it seemed, and the moist dampness overwhelmed. The Dwarf cracked her neck unpleasantly, allowing the cacophonous crack to echo down her spine; seven cracks was a good number--a complete number.
When the Orc spoke his simple question, Mer began to feel inside her coat and pouches for some object.
"Where indeed that we may be,
Precious to behold,
For freedom an illusion see--,
The price as yet untold.
I wager near Malasta,
That Voice it did behest,
Cross valley, vale of aster,
To yonder Golden Chalice."
Fuhgoad D'Got produced a bundle of dried flowers, too sapped by time to be of any corporal use. Snorting, she cast around for a viable replacement reagent. Surely she found some, as the asters crept up to the outcropping on which the group now stood. The alchemist squatted down in the dirt to stretch out her aged claws and pluck blooming youth from the soil.