A folly, a folly...
I can't even hear my own thoughts anymore, but that is because the are not there. In fact, the noise is so great, so... natural... that I don't hear anything else, either. I just react, with my body; snarling target on my right, parry his morningstar, dodge, slice, dodge again, allow myself a moment to cooperate with a spearman who is screaming while charging the bugbear and then past the rag of meat and bones that was my target, past dozens of targets, forward, forward. Toward the center, toward our doom.
Thayan wizards in the command are responsible for most of our losses and I am determined to drive toward them no matter what. For a brief time, there is a chance (Tymora be praised for it) for me to scream at my lieutenant to get covered and rejoin the troops while I order a sergeant and two groups to guard my flanks. Then, as the first wave of elite defenders, worst orkish and bugbear scum, howl toward us, I let the beast roar.
Burned corpses crushed beneath our feet, I plunge, my men following closely as if some unfathomable, divine hand removed their fears and relieved them of thinking about life after this butchering... we swing blades, bleed, spill blood, howl and scream, we push forward. What was once a valiant platoon of two dozen men is now my sergeant, bleeding badly, and seven men, all in very bad shape. But it is worth it, as there are no more beastkin to hamper us; even the few archers have been slain and the path is clear.
I can see the shimmering of enchanted red robes and sense strong magical fields of protection. The Thayan wizards, ten of them, casting asif nothing else exists around them, as if they were in a lecture hall and not in a field of battle. A small part of my brain applauds this commitment; the rest of me waves to my remaining support to protect my flanks as I scream from the top of my lungs:
"To Hells or Highcliff! Devils have come for theirs!"
They are just a bit surprised, but seemingly not shaken by a madman in bloody armor, running straight at them with a 5-foot sword. Immediately, I felt their magical attacks; force missiles, fire arrows, acid, cold, all manners of pain were inflicted on me, multiplied tenfold... and I bled. And all it managed to do was enrage me to the point where I didn't even see red anymore - all I saw and felt was the need to swing my blade forward and indulge my lust for screams.
When second fell down, nearly cut in half despite all his magical defenses, and I plunged at the third, that's when someone panicked. Or I just think they have panicked; to this day, I will not understand what kind of a being dismisses own allies and even friends, with such ease. I guess that it comes with being a Thayan. In any case, I have felt the gripping deep inside of me and sharp pain in lungs, but when I glanced around me, I have seen remaining wizards shriek in pain just s I did... I could not recognize the spell, but it must have been a necromantic incantation, since one by one three of them turned into rotted corpses; moments after that, somewhere in the distance behind me, I have felt surges of healing thrown at me, a cleric perhaps, but it was too little and too late. I was dying and all I could do was to make my death a costly one. Then, Tymora smiled on me for the last time.
Still stumbling forward, beaten and bleeding, I have managed to catch first glimpse of our enemy's commander; a tall, thin, imposing robed figure was looking down at me and if looks alone could crush someone like a bug, this one would. Methodically, he raised his arms above his head, not uttering a word, and then he started casting colossal spells, one after another after another, on top of us all, which rained every known destructive energy upon me and everyone else around. Screaming became loud, too loud; until I realized most of it was mine.
When I got a second's rest, I saw myself on my knees, gripping the sword that was completely broken up. Everyone around me, orcs, Thayans, Dale's men - everyone in a huge radius - was dead. Everyone, save me and the red wizard who was about to finish me off with some cantrip, his beard revealing a sinister chuckle. Chuckle that froze once he saw its mirror on my face.
I am... or rather, was... well, will be very soon... a Harborman, by my mother's side. They are stubborn, hardy folk; they live under threats constantly, be it Merdelain's dead, thieving raids, monsters or just gods, deciding to make a sequence of years one with lousy crops. And when you live like that for decades, you become one with hardship; you learn that smiling in the face of misery and laughing at own lousy luck is only way to stay sane. Or just breathing, for next few moments. So I grinned at him.
The sod certainly didn't expect a soon-to-be corpse to just jump up, throw claws at him and aim with his bare teeth toward his throat. No one would, not me either. But the beast in me was not satisfied, and it would not be satisfied for all eternity if thre wasn't at least some sense of payback left for it and me. So, I lunged at his throat and drank his blood like it was Cormyrian wine for what seemed like ages... until he stabbed me several times beneath armpits, threw me away like a rag. Last image I had was him, utterly shocked and enraged, holding his throat and casting chilling rays at me. Last noises I recall were ones of battle, coming closer and closer...
...I am in a peculiar state now, not knowing what is going on, am I still partially alive or dead. Only certain thing I know is that I am dying; my vision and hearing are gone and I can barely feel any pain; but I must still b alive, since I don't see angels or devils yet. Until I do die, I will keep repeating this last message, over and over. Someone might hear and if it is a friend, it might be noted down for her.
tellvanyailovedhertellvanyailovedhertellvanyailovedhertellvanyai-
The Return Home.
