We live, we die, the world forgets.
Somewhere
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I call my focus to me, and prepare to rend this animate travesty back into the debris from which it was assembled.
The guardian's voice seems familiar . . .
Seren calls from behind, “That’s Japheth's voice!” And indeed, the wizard speaks true.
The guardian intones, “Depart, or see your organs pulled from your flesh moments before Kelemvor claims your wailing spirit.”
It wears a crown of smashed shells and a cloak of sea mist. Its eyes are smoothed stones, and its hands are rusted nails from shipwrecks.
1
The guardian before me is an animated accumulation of dockside debris—tattered sails, fish teeth, matted seaweed, gull feathers and dirt.
I duck inside. The vestibule smells of damp, soot, and salt. Another door blocks the way, but it is guarded by a construct of malice.
The kid raises the alarm. I shrug, then lash out with a front kick. My heel smashes the reinforced door from its iron hinges.
We come to a place where the alley widens. A kid lounges on a terrace above, watching the gulls. The dirt-smeared sentry is no more then 10
The Dreamheart is here in Veltalar, I'm sure of it. It's so close that its influence is overwhelming the Sign's ability to track it.
With me are Seren and Captain Thoster. Neither understands why it's so important I catch Japheth. Coin compels the wizard, but Thoster ...?
The Sign points me to this alley in Veltalar... and it stinks. I'd guess equal parts rotting fish, dead rats, and urine.
Wait . . . the Sign. It's finally found the wound in the world. It points me toward the stolen Dreamheart! Japheth, I'm coming for you.
My three burdens: Angul the the sword, the Cerulean Sign spellscar, and my failure to protect my daughter from the Year of Blue Fire.
When I think of how Japheth stole the Dreamheart, the urge to break something vital to the Green Siren's integrity overwhelms me.
The memory haunts me: the warlock Japheth steps backward into the darkness of his cloak and vanishes, taking the Dreamheart with him.
The simplest forms require the greatest subtlety of muscle coordination to achieve surprising power; I always try to keep this in mind.
I lean back and bring my right hip over. My leg follows, smashing into the bag like an iron ball on a swinging flail.
I jab the bag, rotating my arm so the top of my clenched hand is horizontal to the target as it strikes.
I set my shoulders, then twist in the opposite direction. My elbow snaps around and hits the bag. Sand puffs with the stinging blow.