Athos: The Return

Session LXXIII: A Slow Ride Through the Fog(hat)

Chapter 73: A Slow Ride

From the personal diaries and journals of Lenore Uruhua, the Heartbleeder

The brow of the ship cut through the choppy waters near the coast of Sysitar. We could start to see the rocky shore near morning, though our destination, an ancient village harbor, remained undetectable against the muted colours of the craggy backdrop. It wasn’t until midday when we realized that the morning mists had yet to dissipate, and had actually thickened as we approached the coast line.

It was sudden, a thunderhead of black fog rolling across the frothy whitecaps, sucking up light and sound as it approached, enveloping us in an inky darkness that all but blocked out the sun. I watched by brother Anatolious sliding down the mizzenmast, his sword in hand and a glow with blue fire, as the dark fog seemed to suck the very light from the flames. Simon was just next to me, and as I looked up to his face, I could see him mouth the words: “Vile magics!” as he readied his own weapon and prepared his arcane energy for battle, but I could not hear him, the fog was so thick.

Our ship was soon engulfed in the inky blackness, and though we were still being tossed about by increasingly choppy seas, I would swear upon the Light of my Father that we were adrift in the pitch black well of space. The moments stretched into eons, waiting, watching, ready for an ambush. In seconds that seemed to stretch into hours, tendrils of fog crept over the sides, and began to pool at our feet. From these noxious pools, forms began to emerge; dread golems of pure fog, shedding gaseous ichor took heavy steps towards us, searching for the warmth in our blood, seeking to take us beneath the waves as corpses.

The creatures were wicked, and fought like so many gladiators I have faced: the assault was without reserve, they kept nothing back, and feared no reprisal. Though easy, one might think, it would be to take advantage of a combatant with no defensive mind, it took complete concentration to avoid their onslaught. In my haste to try and cut them down, I was struck to my core by a viscous tendril of dark fog. I was cut so deep, I felt my very soul slipping free of my mortal flesh. It is only by grace of my most faithful brother Oberon that I lived to transcribe these events. He raised my spirits and my stamina, and returned me to the fight.

It unfolded in bitter seconds that seemed to drag on into hours, but at last the final specter succumbed to our steel and spells. We patched our sails and tightened the rigging, and made the last few hours of headway into the ruined harbor before us.
We did the best we could with the rotted and decrepit docks, and stuck the ship fast by anchor before Oberon, Anatolious, Simon, and myself went ashore. The dark sand crunched in ominous ways as we approached that blasphemous idol of my fallen sibling, Nox; a massive obsidian statue erected in his visage. We took inventory of persons and affects, and as we prepared to begin our trek to the fortress of my most diseased brother, he himself emerged from the shadows of his tainted effigy.

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