Descendant Shell

Part 4 of Vegapath's Heroes

A late summer storm lashed against the exterior of the small structure. Its walls, though lovingly constructed, were not yet ready to hold back the horrible wind from pushing cold miserable rain through the gaps in the boards and along the seam where the roof joined. The wood-shingled roof managed to keep out most of the water from above, but several buckets had been strategically placed to catch what they could where needed.

Above the roar of the wind, and the crash of waves down near the docks, singing could be heard. Hymns and praises lifted to the Lord of the Morning resonated within the small room filling the souls of those present with hope and joy. Hope for the coming dawn, and joy in each other’s company.

The building was new. Very new. A thickly oiled leather tarp served as a door for the small building, and it hung heavy even against the pervasive wind. Candles flickered and danced, seemingly in time with the melody, and the smell of pleasant incense filled the room. There was no seating in the space, and indeed, there were too many bodies in the small temple to allow for seats to be present regardless. The little house of worship was full of people. From all walks of life. Young and old. Strong and infirm. True believers and those not yet convinced. Yet they all held one thing in common. Their need. For reassurance. For hope of a future. For community. And here, in this new house to the great god Lathander, they found what they needed.

Lord. Face of the Dawn. May your mercy shine down on us night and day.

Lord. Patron of Spring. Your renewing grace is a boon to our souls.

Lord. Great Morning Lord. Your golden rays chase the darkness away.

Lord. In whose grace we stand. Your goodness and mercy exist without end.

The tone of the hymn was simultaneously uplifting and ominous. Resonant with power and gentle as the morning rays of sunlight. At the head of the gathered group stood a man of average build. His brown hair was cut in the manner of priests. He wore a red robe, belted with a faded, once garish, pink sash, and his voice carried the hymn to even those in the back where the wind rattled the walls the loudest.

As the final song faded, the man spoke to those gathered, and authority bolstered his voice.

“My children. Lathandarian’s of Alaron. Citizens of Caer Callidyrr. Peace to you on this difficult evening.”

The man’s tone did not match his appearance. It caught the attention of the people. Drew them into what the speaker wished them to hear. It was a voice made to convince sinners to repent, and parishioners to sacrifice.

“Tonight, we have a guest. A man who wishes to tell us something of one of our own. Of a brother we have all come to cherish. Salm, my friend, won’t you please join me?”

From the front row of the gathered crowd, a tall and strikingly handsome man moved to join the priest. His features were graceful and full of life. Vibrant youth, apparent and able to inspire jealousy in others, hung about him like a cloak that he wore quite well. His eyes were pale hazel, almost golden, and the slightly tipped ears marked him as being of elven decent at some point in his lineage. Cornsilk-fine hair draped in waves to his shoulders and faded into the pale yellow of his tunic. Soft, buck skin trousers and shoes allowed him a freedom of movement that few other garments could match, and a small silver pendant in the shape of a harp with golden strings completed the ensemble.

As the tall man spoke, the music in his tone was infectious. Smiles came unbidden to those in the small chapel, and the sounds of the raging storm seemed to fade into the background.

“Thank you, Dawnbringer, for allowing me to speak this evening. You and your congregation have my appreciation, for, without you I would likely be in a much more damp state of affairs. Your roof is a blessing, your company a miracle, and your attention a pleasure.”

Salm inclined his head to the Dawnbringer who had seen fit to step off to the side when the tall man had begun to speak. The Lathandarian priest inclined his own in return before settling himself to listen. Once more, Salm turned to take in the gathering of those before him.

“Tonight, I come before you all to share with you a tale. Some of you may have heard this before. It is a good tale and one that many have drawn inspiration from. Myself included. For others, this may be the first time you will hear the name of Holy Hale or the title with which he has been honored. Now, I bid you, listen closely. It begins in a fortress called Vegapath. Where Holy Hale, the Descendent Shell of Lathander, walked among us.”

There was a collective gasp from those assembled, audible even above the blowing rain. It was a title never heard before referenced, but which contained obvious and incredible implications. Was this man, this guest, this, perhaps, unbeliever saying that a chosen vessel of the Morning Lord had been sent to the ffolk of Alaron? Or was he saying a fathered scion of the great god had lived among, and died for, them? Or was it something else altogether?

After pausing to allow those gathered to calm themselves once more, Salm continued.

“The morning of this fate-filled day started differently than most. Holy Hale, a god-fueled dream dominating his attention, presented his plan to those he’d chosen to accompany him. Now, you may be wondering at the significance of what I have laid before you, and you would be right to do so. The gods visit many mortals. In our dreams. As we walk. Upon the field of battle like the great Thunder Bear. But, you see, the significance lay not in how Lathander visited Holy Hale. In a dream. Instead, the significance lay in that this man was, quite literally, incapable of dreaming. In fact, Holy Hale was not even a man as you would expect. There is no simple word to describe the Descendent Shell. He was a man, that is sure. However, his soul rest within the core of a body made not of flesh, but instead wrought of steel, iron, and bronze. These were his skin, his bones, and his blood. A living golem. A blessed vessel.”

Once more Salm was forced to pause for the gasping crowd. Murmurs of disbelief. A few muttered accusations of falsehood that quickly gained in volume. But, before the voices of dissension could gain traction, the Dawnbringer of the church raised his own voice from the rear of the dais.

“My children. Silence, please. Allow this man to speak and hear his words. I have listened to this tale, and I tell you with confidence that he does not lie. Please, Salm, continue.”

“Thank you Dawnbringer.” Salm replied inclining his head towards the priest. “Friends, I understand the strain my words may cause. But please, listen to the story and then judge for yourself how you wish to believe.”

Then, drawing a deep steadying breath as the last of the crowd’s objections faded, Salm continued the tale.

“As I said, Holy Hale spoke to those he had gathered for the purpose. The dream fresh in his mind, and his goal clear. He had been bid to enter the domain of an evil beast. A black dragon slain by the soldiers of the Fort in perilous combat. There, it was shown, the Descendent Shell was to find a spark of the divine. A manifestation sent to this world meant for a purpose greater than could be believed. He had impressed upon even the famed Sweet Drake, commander of the Fort, the importance of this task and as such she relented to allow soldiers to divert their attention from the war effort to the South in pursuit of this quest. And so, after a swift briefing, the soldiers departed. Holy Hale led a mighty group from Fort Vegapath that day. The Hellchild of Light, whom he deemed a worthy friend. Pim the Indomitable, who was lost too soon to darkness. The First in Silence, a mysterious mage whose destiny it was to die, and in so doing save us all. And the Horror of Ogden long before his redemption. Five there were. Five to complete the will of Lathander.”

Thunder rolled outside of the small church as the storm continued its rage, and the pounding of waves could be heard even here. But the people gathered felt their spirits soar along with the speaker’s words.

“Many events of importance happened that day. A foreign hunter was dealt with as good ffolk should, with respect and welcome courtesy. The return of wildlife was noted after those darkest early days of the war. Wolves there were, and not those cursed with evil hearts. But the most important events, those that would shape the day and the subsequent days since, did not take place until the group gathered in the old dragon’s domain at the heart of what was once a swamp.”

His tone turned conspiratorial, and even though it dropped in volume, those in the back and closest to the rattling walls could still hear his words.

“Everything had changed. The swamp was gone. The water dried and the land arid. Cracks and crevasses split the ground and the earth was so devastated by fire that it crumbled beneath their feet. The roots of mighty trees, once holding the land together, were now burned to ash and unable to support their own bulk. Pim lost his footing during this dangerous march and fell into a hole filled with burning ash and flame. He was nearly lost there in that foul pit before the others could save him. Trees exploded from the intense flames that burned within their living trunks. Smoke and poisonous gases filled the air, and it was as if the hells of Avernus itself had come to Alaron. But our heroes prevailed. Through even this, they could not, and would not, be dissuaded from the goal Lathander sent through his chosen Descendent Shell.”

Once more, thunder erupted and shook even the floorboards of this building. Like an angry god striking the land with an open hand. But those gathered barely noticed over the telling of the tale.

“It was not easy, but the group did make it to the center of the swamp. The home of the dragon was a tunneling hole dug into the earth. Where once dank swamp water would have surely filled the space, now it was dry. All moisture was gone, and in its place, the arid heat of an oven. The entrance glowed from fires burning within the earth itself, and the light of that glow was enough to illuminate the deep tunnel ahead of them. In they strode, bravely into the depths in search of Holy Hale’s dream. Down, down, DOWN, they passed. The heat grew more intense with every step. Until they came to a massive cavern. Whatever it was that caused the earth to give way had left a massive hole that would need to be crossed. Spanning the hole were platforms of rock on natural pillars extending from below, and as the group looked down into the dark space, they could make out the unmistakable presence of a river of flowing magma. Its dim light illuminated the sure death that awaited any who lost their footing during the crossing. For indeed they could see, in the faint light, a wall with another tunnel entrance. An even more brilliant glow coming from within it.”

Slowly, the smell of the incense changed. Burning stone and dry air replaced the pleasant aroma that once filled the space. They could taste the sweat of Vegapath’s soldiers as they stood at the precipice of the gaping cavern floor. And faintly, they could hear the growing sound of growling creatures and screeching beasts mingled with the booming thunder outside.

“They chose to press forward, and it was not long before they encountered something out of nightmare and flame. Creatures, some would say they resembled giant lizards though appearing to be made of the magma far below, climbed up onto the pillars to block the party’s crossing. Our heroes were forced to fight to press on, and so they did. These creatures did not seek to preserve their own lives in any way. They attacked ferociously and without fear. Their breath carried with it flames that burned flesh and singed away hair. And to add to this confusion, cave-dwelling flying beasts called Darkmantles, some of you may know of them, descended to add still more wounds to the soldiers. Taking advantage of the battle to sate their hunger. Though dangerous, with the risk of falling ever present, the battle did not last long. The minds of beasts, however unusual, could not match the tactical mindset, nor the combat training, of those soldiers Holy Hale had placed his faith in. His choices proved well-founded, and shortly the beasts and fire lizards were driven back or killed, opening the way for the Descendent Shell and his companions to continue.”

A new smell began to replace that of the burning stone. A mildewy scent that reminded those of swamps and rotting vegetation.

“The dragon’s cavern was massive. The soldiers marched for a great deal of time getting ever deeper into the earth. It’s hard to say how much distance they traveled, the tunnels twisted and turned making it impossible to know where they were in relation to the outside world. But eventually they came to the heart of it. The dragon’s own lair, or so they believed. A pyramid of stone stood before them in another large cavern. Another blocked passage led away from the area, but they did not care to explore that at this time. Instead, feeling a call like never before, Holy Hale led his companions into the entrance of the strange pyramid. Inside was another sight to behold. A small lake of rolling liquid fire, its heat nearly unbearable and its brilliant light nearly blinding lay stretched before them. A transformation of water to fire that could not and should not be possible, but here it lay. Undeniable. The pull of the dream forced Holy Hale’s feet forward to the edge of the lake of fire and suddenly the air shimmered before him. A line of blue light split the air and opened as if a door had been pulled inward. The area beyond was a pure darkness that the light of the lake could not penetrate, and from the doorway strode forward a demon. The hate and malice that poured from it could be felt as a physical presence. And it was all directed at the Descendent Shell himself. With a wordless roar of challenge, the demon called forth…things. The liquid fire of the lake began to swell and shift, and from within shapes emerged and took the form of gigantic bears made entirely of fire. Their roar was that of collapsing bonfires, and their touch left stone blackened and cracked. And with their own defiant roar, the soldiers of Vegapath, burned and tired from their long day, rose to meet the challenge. The battle was nothing short of perfection. God inspired perfection. The Hellchild called down divine power and smote one of the fire bears into nothingness returning it to the lapping waves of the fire lake. The Horror of Ogden, with customary stolidness, placed himself between the oncoming threat and those behind him, offering his strength and great size as a living wall of defiance. Lines of pure elemental destruction were woven through the air by the First and wherever they touched demonic flesh tore and living fire dissolved into nothingness. And above it all, ensuring those he had led to this place lived through the injuries inflicted upon them by these great evils, stood Holy Hale. Speaking healing words and shouting defiance into the face of evil, he pulled forth Lathander’s divine judgment. Great columns of holy light burned even the fires the demon called forth. The Morning Lord’s mace manifest itself into conflict with the creature from the Pit and swatted it from the sky like an annoying bug. The cavern rang with the sound of holy prayers and demonic curses, and in the end, righteousness prevailed. The fiery bears returned to the lake defeated and destroyed. The demon sank into the fires of the lake, its body broken, its evil crushed. And as it did, the spark that Lathander had sent his Descendent Shell to find lept from the doorway. A pearl of light so brilliant and pure that it outshone even the golden rays of Lathander’s answered prayers lept forth and drove into the heart of Holy Hale.”

There was a silence that descended upon the temple then, and for an absolute perfect instant there was nothing but the silence. No one spoke, no one breathed. The rain stopped. The wind fell still, and the thunder quailed and shrank from the divine power of the moment. Through the spaces between the wooden boards of the walls, the first rays of dawn began to shine. The night, and the storm, had passed into serene morning. A line of golden light lay upon the brow of Salm making him stand out even more from the gathered crowd, and he began to speak once more.

“We will never know exactly what it was that Lathander showed to his Descendent Shell at the moment the light entered his chest. But we do know that a vision was given. A vision of a god. Of creation and renewal as one. Of potential and the danger that accompanies such things. And we know that he accepted it. Holy Hale accepted what his god, your god, called on him to do. Even though it would risk his life. Even though it would eventually lead to his destruction. He accepted that his god had a calling for him, and he would not back away from that calling. Holy Hale became a hero that day, in the greatest sense of the word. His legacy, what he would eventually leave behind, was born. And though it would cost his life to do such a thing, he gladly accepted such a fate to provide a chance for this world to live on.

Tears filled many of the eyes in that small temple to Lathander as Salm concluded the tale of Holy Hale’s legendary beginning. The acknowledgment of a man seeking to better the world, even though it would cost him so dearly. The recognition that an immortal being, a living golem, would choose to risk eternity here on Toril for the chance to provide succor to so many other lives, hit home as Salm began to softly speak once more.

“I want to thank you all again for allowing me to speak with you this evening. And to the Dawnbringer for inviting me. Though I do not share your specific calling to follow Lathander, it is with recognition of his divine power that I humble myself to the story of his Descendent Shell. I would ask one thing more of you before I depart and allow your day to begin as it should. I speak often with the people of this city. It is my calling and my pleasure to spread the tales of the heroics of the soldiers of Fort Vegapath. As such, there is a phrase of recognition that I would like to share with you. And I ask that you hear these words, take them to heart, and offer prayers of your own to those who, even now, risk themselves for you and I. Much like Holy Hale once did.”

At quiet nods from those gathered, Salm would repeat words he had so often spoken. A mantra of his own faith. And those gathered listened intently.

“To the heroes of Vegapath. To those who stand before and for us. To the fallen who have died for us, to the injured who suffer for us, and to those who remain steadfast in their dedication to us. I offer my humble thanks in remembrance of your sacrifice.”

Turning enough to nod to the Dawnbringer who stood behind him and to the side, and receiving a nod in return, Salm walked through the densely gathered crowd. His passing stirred the air and the lingering smell of mildew from earlier changed to the fresh smell of early mornings and growing things. And as he swept back the heavy tarp door covering the sun shone directly in through the opening temporarily blinding all those within with its brilliant glory. The tarp dropped and shut out the painful rays of light, but that lingering image stayed with Lathander’s faithful as they continued with their devotion.

As for Salm, he met the day like many others before. With a mind towards the next story. The next group of people to teach about the heroics of the soldiers of Fort Vegapath. He turned and strode towards his next destination with a hum in his throat. A call back to the hymns earlier sung by the worshipers of Lathander. He had many more such people to meet, and many more tales to tell.