The Artisan (Part 2)

Upon awakening, stirred by the pulsating ache in his back, dusk was casting its veil upon the world. Through the window on his right, he beheld the waning radiance of the setting sun, suffused with hues of crimson and amethyst. Gazing upon its calming glow, a sense of solace enveloped him.

"How fares your condition now?" Lady Illaine inquired, entering the room with a tray laden with nourishment.

"I am on the mend," Brad fabricated, striving to conceal the tears welling in his eyes.

Fortuitously, his gaze was fixed upon the window, not the doorway. He was remarkably strong. If another had occupied that space, the torment ravaging his being would have surely unleashed a piercing cry.

Lady Illaine delicately placed a steaming bowl of fragrant onion soup upon a nearby table, extending it to the knight with an encouraging gesture. Brad made a feeble attempt to shift his position, only to find his body unyielding and immobile. Wordlessly, the aged woman took up the task of nourishing him, spoonful by spoonful, as if orchestrating a silent ritual of sustenance.

"In your candor, Brad, lies my preference," Lady Illaine whispered, her touch upon his hand akin to a tender invocation, seeking to assuage his pain, if only momentarily. "I regret that I can merely offer transient respite from your affliction," she explained.

"No, my lady, it is I who should proffer my apologies. The distinction between reality and truth eludes me in this tumultuous time. I have been subjected to grievous deceptions."

"Does suspicion taint your perception of all, Brad?" Lady Illaine inquired, her countenance contorted with concern.

Brad remained silent, his quietude serving as a gateway to myriad potential responses.

"Rest assured, within these walls, you are safeguarded. This sanctum is fortified, Brad, by the hallowed invocations I have entreated," Lady Illaine reassured, gesturing toward the sacred parchments adorning the chamber's stone walls.

Knowing a little about the language of ancient blades, Brad discerned the origins of these prayers, crafted with skillful hands by adept priests, bestowing upon him a modicum of solace.

"And the medallion shall ever shield you," the aged woman interjected.

Brad's hand instinctively sought the medallion, its touch suffusing him with solace, for it was a relic of divine consecration.

"My lady, I beg forgiveness for my wavering trust," he confessed, his voice laden with remorse. "But my thoughts are entangled, and my back, it throbs as if impaled upon an assemblage of innumerable nails..."

Lady Illaine offered no immediate reply, instead bowing her head in solemn supplication, her lips moving silently in reverent prayer.

Within the labyrinth of his mind, Brad weighed the tempestuous thoughts swirling relentlessly.

Enveloped by the potent aura of the woman's entreaty, he discovered himself standing a touch taller, sensing a modicum of respite. Each sinew within his back relinquished its vice-like grip of torment, and his gaze caught sight of crimson rivulets seeping through the bindings. The dense scent of iron saturated the air, and he inhaled it deeply, drawing its essence into the depths of his being.

"The sentry who stood upon the bridge was none other than Maleckhie," he managed to utter, his voice trembling.

The elderly woman stifled a sob, her hands flying to her mouth, suppressing the cry that longed to escape.

"I knew, within the recesses of my heart, that he valiantly defied all odds," she exclaimed, her words punctuated by tearful sobs. "Behold! The illustrious Orion has at last heeded the fervor of my prayers."

"I am remorseful," Brad uttered, his voice trembling even more. "Within me, I failed to summon the strength to liberate him from that place." His countenance turned a deep shade of crimson, burdened by shame.

The woman extended her hand, tenderly touching his shoulder, seeking to offer solace. "I am confident that you exerted every effort, Brad. I can perceive it," she whispered gently.

"I have faltered in safeguarding him once more," Brad lamented, his voice resonating with anguish, as he rose to his feet. The very act seemed to embody his profound sense of disgrace and disillusionment.

Every wound adorning his back had been reopened. Faced with such a harrowing ordeal, an ordinary individual would have succumbed long ago, perhaps even succumbing to the intensity of pain with a faint. Yet Brad refrained from releasing a solitary scream.

"Once again, he fought with unwavering dedication to rescue me. And I, consumed by my own self-centeredness, indulged in the fantasy of overpowering my dearest comrade, abandoning him in pursuit of that ethereal, divine radiance. I was consumed by selfish desires," the knight confessed, his voice tinged with agony as he swallowed hard.

In the end, his body succumbed to defeat, and he collapsed back onto the bed.

"It was not of your making, Brad. A formidable enchanter relentlessly toyed with your mind," Lady Illaine reassured him.

"If only I could confront him now," Brad burst out, his fist tightening in a fit of anger. "That accursed sorcerer weakened me to the point where I could barely stand, let alone think clearly when I reached Maleckhie. Without his aid, I would have remained trapped in that wretched abyss. Maleckhie guided me out of the swirling vortex by forcing me off the bridge," he confessed, acknowledging his dependence on his friend's intervention.

"Compose yourself, Brad. The time has come for you to uncover the true identity of your adversary," Lady Illaine urged, gently shaking him.

"Why does this wretched individual play such treacherous games with me?" Brad questioned, his disheveled hair dampened with sweat as he ran his fingers through it.

"Do you recall the images I presented to you upon your awakening?" Lady Illaine inquired.

"Yes," Brad replied.

"The initial sigil was etched upon your back, while Ismeth and Caleb bore the others," Lady Illaine divulged.

As the realization dawned upon Brad that Ismeth and Caleb had endured a similar torment, his fists clenched with fury.

"The mastermind behind these depictions is known as the Artisan. With your consent, I shall now unfold his chronicle before you."

"Please, proceed, my lady."

"In a bygone era when elves and humans dwelled apart, secluded in their respective realms, when the Illuthar Continent exclusively housed the elves and the Ankhyra Continent belonged solely to humans, a prodigious artist faced banishment from the elven domain. He became the inaugural exile from a people entwined in an impassioned bond."

"So, this Artisan is the name of the individual in question."

"Indeed. The Artisan and his devotees embarked upon a southerly odyssey. They braved the desolate expanse of the Barren Lands, surmounted the perilous Xal Mountains, and undertook an arduous expedition spanning countless kilometers. Their sojourn culminated in the heart of the Ankhyra Continent, where they encountered Romdaht, the city-state that governs the twelve renowned polities. In the present time, we regard six of these polities, namely Coripolice, Peatrapolice, Pharrah, Artropolice, Mistra, and Sinistra, as significant threats to our nation."

"Prominent pawns of our formidable adversary, Romdaht," Brad stated firmly, his voice brimming with determination.

"However, those cities were not as tainted as they have become in the present day. In that era, the Artisan held people spellbound with his intricate illustrations meticulously crafted on stretched animal hides framed with wood, and through the creation of magnificent statues and temples. He amassed a devoted following among humans, steadily increasing his influence until he was crowned as a king of unmatched authority. Once he wielded invincible power, he enslaved those whom he introduced to the mystical Averan Dust, marking their bodies with his intricate designs. His first creation was the emblem of his throne, the Dark Tower, and thus the Dark Tower came into existence. Each marked slave became a vessel of his growing might. And when his strength reached its pinnacle, he inscribed the portrayal of the Black Desert, a realm known as Mistra, which would become the dwelling place of the mist elves."

"But Awyrgad, the successor to Therion the Dark God, is often depicted with a different persona and tale," Brad interjected.

"Artisan fashioned the Dark Tower in an age far more ancient than when Therion acquired such tremendous renown," Lady Illaine replied.

"Yet another deity lost to time?" Brad inquired with disbelief.

"Perhaps so. What I can tell you is that your adversary is a devoted follower of this god. Their approach to magic is vastly distinct. They navigate through astral realms, enfeebling their foes with mind-altering substances and harnessing the marked sigils on their bodies for their sinister designs."

"So, Ismeth, Caleb, and I have fallen into their snare?"

"Most likely."

"Allow me to guess. The Artisan is the one behind the creation of the Book of the Damned?" Brad questioned.

"To some degree, yes. The adherents, the disciples of his secretive sect, have come to recognize the profound potency concealed within the Artisan's illustrations on human flesh, prompting them to transcribe it into the form of a sacred tome. Some even contend that dark sorcery emanates from such origins."

"It is a repugnant perversion," Brad declared, seething with anger.

"Three centuries past, the tome emerged anew within the city of Lazzar, once a vibrant center of artistic brilliance. Its name echoed across realms for the exquisite mastery of paintings and sculptures that graced its streets and galleries. Alas, the city's fate took a dark turn, plunging it into the depths of damnation, forever known as Pagancity."

"So you perceive a web of connections between these events?" Brad inquired.

"I am certain that this enigma unfolds upon a tapestry of intricate history. The power to shape both present and future rests within our grasp. We possess the means to dismantle this cult," Lady Illaine spoke with hope in her voice.

"I am prepared to acknowledge the intricate interconnections at play. Nevertheless, there are still gaps in my understanding that yearn to be filled with illumination," Brad gathered his thoughts. "Previously, you presented me with three illustrations, one of which portrayed the Tree of Life. However, I am curious about the revelations held within the other two Elven inscriptions, my lady," he inquired.

"One bears the mark of Lathvaryl, while the other carries the inscription of Ursa-Taneras."

"Lathvaryl, the name resonates as the central northern realm of the Elves. However, Ursa-Taneras remains a name unknown to me."

"We delved into research, Brad. In the ancient Elven tongue, Ursa-Taneras bestows the meaning of 'guardian of the eternal forest.' Lo and behold, a vast woodland bearing that very name of Taneras thrives near the realm of Lathvaryl."

"Allow me to venture a guess. You believe that within this verdant domain, the Tree of Life, Gaia, shall flourish?" Brad asked, a smile gracing his lips.

Lady Illaine fixed him with an icy gaze, her response held in abeyance. She contemplated for a moment, allowing her thoughts to unfurl. "The extraordinary life cycle of the Gaia Tree, the one I spoke of, Brad, is undeniably real. Its significance reverberates throughout this realm. You must grasp its import," she cautioned the knight.

"My lady, may I speak with candor?" Brad queried.

Affirming his request with a nod, the lady granted him permission.

"Whether the Artisan's existence is rooted in the annals of history or woven within the tapestry of myth holds no sway over me. I tread not the path of fables. Be it a clandestine sect or an individual adversary, I confront an enemy, and in due course, I shall unearth them. Have they left me cryptic signs or laid cunning snares? Have they inscribed their mark upon me? So be it. I harbor no trepidation for the depths of darkness. This quest has assumed a deeply personal resonance. Come the morrow, even if I must embark upon this odyssey alone, I shall undertake it."

"You shall not traverse this path unaccompanied, Brad. A stalwart team upon whom you can rely, who shall guard your back, is imperative. This is a venture of utmost importance," Lady Illaine insisted, her voice resolute.

"Very well, then. If you alllow, my lady, I would rather have the privilege of handpicking the team. For we shall soon face a cunning and elusive adversary. I have no desire to be surrounded by men whose trustworthiness I question. Moreover, some of those I have in mind are already under scrutiny," Brad declared, a smoldering glimmer of revenge flickering in his eyes as he uttered his final words.

"To ensure your safety, I insist that you bring Shaeala along. And Priest Centavius too. You must surely remember him from your lessons. He possesses exceptional knowledge in North history and herbalism. As for the rest, you may exercise your own choices," Lady Illaine replied.

"A monk and a priest are indeed splendid choices. However, I have one more request for you," Brad asserted.

"Of course. Pray, tell me who that might be?" Lady Illaine inquired.

"Christine."

"No, she is but a mere child of ten."

"We require her extraordinary talents, my lady. Without her, this Artisan, this impostor demon, might entangle us and drag us into his realm. I need Christine to apprehend him. And, what's more, Maleckhie himself recommended her to me. That is why she holds such significance in my eyes."

"I shall ponder it. And only if she agrees shall I send her."

"That is fair and just."

"And what of the others?" the High Priestess asked.

"Once they consent, Ismeth, Caleb, and Asvelas shall join us. Furthermore, I request the inclusion of Derek and Elphered, the apprentices of knighthood. We shall require familiar faces and, naturally, their swordsmanship. Lastly, we shall need a specially commissioned vessel departing from the port of Smyrnia."

"Very well. Rest now. I shall furnish with the necessary instructions for the preparations," Lady Illaine said, and she gracefully departed the chamber.