This was originally going to be another instalment in the "zan's bad poetry" series. But zan's a kind soul deep down, and decided to at least spare you all that.
This is a twist, albeit one which would leave us without a game.
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I'm thinking again. It's all I ever do.
I am remembering the tales of my childhood, the storytellers weaving worlds, crafting their goldfish bowl utopias where a halfling might slay fifty giants, or a dwarf might find a city built from gold. Where nobody died.
In my world, people died. And I did nothing about it.
This is not how it is supposed to be. I have heard a theory which claims that every decision we make creates a kaleidoscope of tiny universes, countless pathways closed to us forever and seen only in our dreams. Perhaps it is true. I can certainly pinpoint the exact moment when I chose my current path. The memory haunts my waking hours, though my dreams these days take on a different cast.
We have escaped the underground maze after days of wandering. Magic dissipates, gemstone colours fade - and then I stand in the city market, a scream echoing in my ears. Our ragtag band lies scattered, blinking as the sun creeps over the promenade. Weeks spent below the earth have left my eyes accustomed to darkness, but I can see their shadows, framed by daylight - druid, ranger, thief, and myself.
In my recollections the city's name eludes me, but she knows, as she knows everything. She turns to me and speaks, her voice level even as her words cry out the need for revenge. But I denied her even this. I left her there in the dust and debris, because her presence alone spoke my flaws aloud, and I found myself cringing in her sight. Of course, I try to rearrange the memories, to somehow justify my behaviour - but no matter how skilled I become in the arts of deceit, I cannot lie to myself. The truth alone remains: behind her eyes I saw her husband, face locked in death, blood pooling patterns on the cold stone floor.
(We should have buried him. I owed him that at least.)
Normally, she hides her feelings well. But, caught in my own troubles, I speak daggers where I mean none, and her facade crumbles. She rages at my attitude, my indifference - and then she is shouting, but I cannot hear the words. Finally, hot anger cools to bitter disappointment, and she disappears into the crowded city. I didn't see her again. I hope she forgives me.
The ranger makes no argument, too broken inside to realise the truth behind my lies. The innkeeper was kind enough to employ him and give him a room, which was all I could do for him. Rashemen would never take him back, for without his friend and charge his dejemma is failed. He is nothing - just another piece of flotsam washed up on the city shores.
I told him we would go our separate ways for a while, that I had other things to do, that I would return for him in a few days. Now a week has passed, and I doubt he has even noticed my absence. Before my departure I would sometimes see him through the inn window, cleaning tables and absently staring into space. It is better this way. Those that walk with me inevitably die for me, or perhaps because of me.
The thief was harder to escape. This has always puzzled me - he knew us but briefly, and cared nothing for our stories or my failures. I tried to leave him there, concocted some lie to distract him, but my words were for nothing. For days afterwards he stalked me, a dark figure shadowing my movements, hooded eyes watching the endless aimless circles I traced throughout the city. Eventually he disappeared, and I heard he had died in a back alley, his throat slit by some past associate. Perhaps this is true, but I am no longer interested enough to check.
The living are relatively easy to discard or evade, but the dead cling to us for far longer a time. The fighter and the mage wait round every corner, in every unknown face, begging me to take revenge. She, meanwhile, lurks in my dreams. I remember her as I last saw her: a living ghost, haunted by shadows, running scared in Irenicus' carnival of horrors. I have heard it said that death lives inside each one of us, appearing the moment we are born and waiting for the moment we die. In the past I scorned this as a simple folk tale, until I watched her in the tunnels, and saw death lurking beneath her skin. Perhaps death is pretty. Either way, it will have stolen her from me now, as the wizards in the promenade stole her before, and the march of time before that. It breaks my heart to think of her, and every day her face is fading.
Last night, I dreamt of a voyage on a sea of glass, beneath a sky of fire. I was travelling to an island, a prison on a hill, but I do not remember why. I awoke in the Trademeet inn, as I do every morning, and went downstairs to begin drinking, as I do every day. I tell myself that today I will return to Athkatla, that I will reassemble my party, that we will save those friends still living and avenge those who are not. But this is a lie. An empty promise, made to calm the knot of rage in my stomach until the alcohol dissolves it completely. And so I fall once more to dull remembrances of the friends and fathers left flailing in my wake.
I averted a war, saved a continent, murdered my brother. They said I was a hero, and I agreed with them. Then I agreed, but now...now I know the truth. I am tired of constantly running or fighting, of the endless rounds of murder and hatred. I am a coward.
So I sit in a empty town bar, paralysed by guilt and indecision. I try to plan my return, but whenever Irenicus floats into my mind, he drags my former comrades behind him, and my sorrows redouble. And then I turn back to the drink.
In my world, people die. And still I do nothing about it.
