Deraj

[Deraj]

Deraj is an average looking man who appears to be in his mid-thirties and stands at a height of 6'0" with auburn hair and brown eyes. He is almost always clad in his armor, seeming to prefer its discomfort to the relative comfort and vulnurability of normal clothing. Deraj bears several scars from previous battles, although none in particular are distinct enough to define his appearance. Usually he is quiet natured and reserved, and he tends to look as if he were contemplating something.

[Deraj]

A carefully folded letter, that had the appearance of an ancient document, and the feel of an otherworldly object. Clearly, it had traveled a long way.

"My Lord Deraj,
I pray this letter finds thee as it leaves me, in good health. Much time has passed since I had the pleasure of conversing with thee, and verily, I miss those old days of working in the Kirk. It grieves me to state that the Kirk is no more, and the land around it has become barren and forgotten. I hardly travel there anymore due to the aggressive creatures which now dwell upon those lands.

I spend my days traveling, as thou once did, from inn to inn, practicing my craft and meditating upon the virtues. I help where I can, but I believe my days of adventure are nigh at an end. Whatever happens, I can live in peace, knowing that I am free. I shall never forget what thou didst for me. I thank thee for saving me.

May the virtues guide thy path,
Christof"

From the letter, a small pendant dropped into Deraj's hands. It was a crude thing, with a bizarre, menacing image of a skull and small runic symbols, the meaning of which had been long forgotten. He held the object in his hand as he once did many years ago, the memories it invoked appearing in his mind and compelling him to reflect, as he was rarely inclined to do, on a neglected past....

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The distant tolling of a bell.

Dawn breaks. A soft light illuminates the room. A child awakes.

The stern face of a monk. "It is time to wake up, brother Deraj."

The boy stands from his place of rest, a blanket covering a pile of hay. He rubs his eyes and yawns. "Aw, do I have to?" The old monk cannot help but grin. "Yes, child. It is time to begin our daily work."

The sight of sheep in the distant field.

"Oh! Can I watch the flock today?" The monk pauses in contemplation, then laughs. "Dost thou not want to work in the fields?" The boy looks out the window. "I like the sheep. And the other animals, too." "Aye, lad, thou canst watch the flock. I will still need thy help in the fields later."

The boy turns back to the monk. "Yes, brother Edward."

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Nearly buried in trees and brush, the old, ruined manor slumbered within the deep forests of Spiritwood. It seemed like a place forgotten by time. Deraj cut down vines blocking the crumbling doorway, and wondered silently if his master had sent him on a fool's errand, for who could possibly dwell in such a miserable hole? He pushed the heavy brush above him with his shield, and entered that sad place. Inside, the dim light of the sun peaked through cracks in the roof, revealing an interior almost completely overcome by nature itself, and the silence in the air invoked a strange sense of tranquility. Before him he could see a great staircase that opened up into the heart of the sanctum. No doubt, if Christof was here, he would be lurking within.

And so, lighting a torch, Deraj descended the staircase and into the darkness below. He was led into a long corridor to which no end was apparent, that was shrouded in a seemingly impenetrable gloom. At each step, the feeling that he was being watched grew stronger, and that feeling grew into an unshakable sense of despair in knowing not only that he was at a disadvantage, but that there would be no hope of surviving what lay in wait. After traveling down the corridor for what felt like an eternity, he stood in a lonely place, darkness concealing the path ahead and the path behind. It was then that a voice called out to him:

"Hope does not live in these shadows, stranger. Thou knowest it. And soon, thou shalt feel it."

Deraj continued to walk, his armor and backpack rustling as he moved, and his torch crackling. The voice continued, echoing in the far distance:

"Light does not penetrate this domain. Virtue does not dwell in it. Life does not persist in it. Only sorrow lives here, stranger."

Suddenly Deraj stopped, for in the distance the light of his torch revealed the vague contours of a man. It was him. He threw the torch on the ground and drew his sword. Now was the time for action. However, Christof acted quickly; before Deraj could act, he conjured a fiery blast which filled the width of the corridor screaming towards Deraj. Quickly raising his shield, it was all Deraj could do to deflect the blast, but the force knocked him to the ground. Deraj then heard the distinct sound of a bottle striking the floor and breaking into pieces. He immediately stood to face Christof once more but was then faced with a strange cloud of gas which seemed to come from what was now the remains of the broken bottle. Deraj started towards Christof but was overcome by the noxious gas. Choking, coughing, and struggling to breathe, he felt overcome by lethargy, and once again fell to the ground; watching the contour of Christof step back into the darkness was the last thing he saw....

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"What is Justice, Deraj?" the old man said.

Draped in an ornate, ceremonial robe, he sat behind a desk covered in books and other documents. Behind him, a crackling torch cast a light over a tapestry; an ankh with the bottom formed into a blade and beneath it a flame. The symbol of the Inquisition of Light. Deraj pondered the question, but knew it was not meant to be answered.

"It is the hunter of evil!" the old man declared triumphantly, hitting the table with his fist. "The evil prey on the good... but the evil fear the Just! And do you know why?" He sat back in his chair, crossing his fingers and staring intently at the young warrior. "Because evil can run, but they cannot run from truth. The bringers of Justice shine the Light of truth into the dark prison of their soul and force them to see the twisted monsters that they have become! And as they stand in the cold light, their schemes and sins laid bare, their only remaining truth is one of retribution. Swift, cold, and merciless." By the time he finished his sermon, he was standing, leaning forward with his hands flat on the desk. "Truth will chase evil with or without us. But we can help it by carrying a torch into dark places."

Deraj said nothing. There was nothing he could say.

"Christof is old evil. I have sought him for a long time. His unlawful and dangerous practice of magic cannot be tolerated. His crimes are immeasurable. His lies...", the old man paused for a moment, looking towards Deraj, "...unforgivable. He must be stopped. Our proud order has nearly met its demise. You, Deraj, are my last hope."

Deraj bowed. "Yes, Lord Stovek." He departed.

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Moonlight from the outside penetrated this forgotten domain, casting a pale light over two men. One lay in the corner, beaten and bloody, bound by chains, and barely conscious. The other sat nearby, hunched over, his arms resting on his knees and his bloody hands clasped together. Somewhere nearby, the sound of water drops pronounced each excrutiating moment. Deraj was determined to not yield any important information by torture, but Christof had never asked any questions. After having spent two days and nights in painful captivity, Christof broke the silence: "Who art thou?"

For a moment, Deraj was stunned. He could not believe that the interrogation was only now beginning. Perhaps Stovek had been right. Deraj turned himself towards Christof the best he could, and after coughing up blood, mustered the strength to speak. "I am Deraj.... from... the Inquisition.." Christof did not seem excited or even interested in the revelation. "Oh." He looked up towards Deraj. "Stovek sent thee." In his state, Deraj could not be bothered to feel, much less express, anger. He merely watched Christof through dispassionate eyes, trying to understand. Christof continued, "What is it the Inquisition does again? It's been so long, I've nearly forgotten." He sounded as if he were lost in thought.

"The Inquisition... serves to hunt down those practicioners of magic... those who become lost in a quest for power... those who wield it with monstrous brutality... those that seek its power... for unlawful purpose..." Deraj said.

Christof responded. "That's right, I remember now. But I forgot, who put thee in charge of determining what is the right, and the evil use of magic? Whence dost thou derive thine authority?"

Coughing up more blood, Deraj pressed the side of his face against the cold stone floor, knowing full well the painful truth within that question. Who was he? Who was the Inquisition? An order founded by a man intent on bringing criminal mages to justice. Were they anything more than vigilantes? Yet how many legitimate villians had they vanquished? "It's true... that in this line of work... exists gray areas.... but in some cases... those that murder the innocent... such questions do not exist..." As he spoke, he looked up towards Christof; their eyes met.

"Thy sincerety leaves no doubt in my mind," said Christof wearily, "But the truth lingers within thy mind. The knowledge of thy master made known, and his true nature revealed. Yet, thou comest."

Deraj winced in pain, both physical and mental at the thought of recent revelations. He turned away, once again facing the wall. Christof stood up and walked to Deraj, kneeling down and placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Yet, thou comest," Christof repeated. "Why? What hath driven thee? If not Stovek, if not vengeance, nor justice... why didst thou come? What dost thou seek...?"

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[Deraj]

"What is Humility, brother Deraj?" the old monk said.

A warm breeze comes through the open window. Outside, crickets chirp in the shadows of the summer night. The boy looks up from his studies, and puts a finger to his chin. "Humility? Umm... that's to not be prideful, right?"

The monk smiles. "That's a good start, brother. But Humility is more than simply not being filled with pride. Just as the virtue of Honesty is our way of perceiving the world, Humility is our way of perceiving our inner selves. And just as one cannot be valorous without feeling the chill of fear, one cannot be humbled without first having pride. Aye... one cannot call themselves humble and be humble; instead one can only be humbled. One must first become strong before their true weakness shows. One must fly before they can fall. The fall, brother, is the moment of truth. The moment of humility. The moment where we see our limits. Knowing thy limits is a part of knowing thyself."

The boy tilts his head. "What if a man has no limits? What if a man never fails?"

The monk looked on thoughtfully. "Then he is a god, and has no need for Humility. For us mere mortals, on the other hand, we come to wisdom through failure. One cannot be humbled if they have convinced themselves that they are without pride, nor can one find humility if they only coddle their wounded pride instead of facing it."

"Why?" says the boy, "What is the point?"

"The point," replies the monk, "is to understand what one can control, and what one cannot."

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It lumbered forward, in a clumsy way, rising slowly from a place of rest and taking uncertain steps. From its clenched jaw came an unsettling hiss that gradually transitioned into rattling bones. Torn garments hung from its torso and in its hand was an old, worn axe. Seeing the dead walk, Deraj could hardly believe his eyes. Chills of fear ran down his body. He looked back over his shoulder; behind him an older woman clad in armor stood straight with crossed arms looking on with a stern expression. "You can do this, lad. Skeletons are simple foes."

Deraj looked forward again, taking slight steps backward as the skeleton slowly approached. His hands trembled as it drew near. Sweat began forming on his forehead. He said nervously, "Ashlynn... I don't know if I can do this... this monster is going to kill me!"

"Not unless you kill it first. Just remember the techniques I showed you. Fight or die, Deraj."

He took a few uncertain steps forward, closing the distance between the skeleton and himself. Carefully considering his next move, he held his sword back and took a mighty swing from right to left. The sword struck the skeleton in the head, causing it to nearly fall, but in a split second it reared back up and swung the butt of the axe's handle onto Deraj's head. Without hesitation, the skeleton lunged forward, grabbing Deraj's head and pulling it down, while holding the axe on high ready to strike at his neck. Immediately Deraj grabbed the skeleton's axe with his hand to stay it and wrestled the monster. As he pushed it away the skeleton's hand, losing its grasp, raked Deraj, leaving a very bloody wound on his head. The skeleton toppled to the ground.

Overcome by adrenaline and the intensity of the moment, the boy took heavy breaths and watched the skeleton through a red haze of his own blood. A strange sense of clarity fell over him. He raised his sword, yelled as mightily as a boy can, and lunged at the rising monster.

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The skeleton lowered itself slightly, preparing to pounce and released an unsettling hiss, but was abruptly interrupted as a sword came crashing through its skull with precision and strength, shattering it immediately. The force brought down by the adult hand wielding the blade was immediate and severe. The monster did not rise again.

"Close the gates!" He bellowed, "Close them now!"

Smoke rose on high from the burning forests on the other side of Trinsic's walls. The sounds of battle, the howling undead, and the suffocating heat permeated throughout every ounce of his being. He looked above; there was no longer anyone controlling the gate. Taking swift action, Deraj grabbed the gate himself, and pulled it down as hard as he could with a kind of superhuman strength born from desperation. His effort was contested by the legion of the dead spread before him on the other side of the gate, the forefront of which acted against him by pushing the gate back up. Despite his efforts, enough monsters had gathered to force the gate open, leading to a surge of foes charging right for him.

The wall of bones and blood came crashing down on the two of them - a few stragglers remained further back to ease the burden, but both of them stood alone at the very maw of the undead legion, knowing that every second of delay, and every monstrosity beaten back, was a momentary peak into a far-off victory. Smashing down a bone knight, Deraj was afforded a momentary pause, one in which he could not help but glance to his left to see another kind of carnage playing out before his eyes. In a flurry of swift motions, Kyla fended off the encroaching legion with lethal precision, cutting them down in a deadly dance which to an untrained eye, must have appeared as an incomprehensible whirlwind of fury. To Deraj's eye, however, every move and every strike was made with measured accuracy and faith to form. It was a testament to strict training and hard won experience; a show of discipline and an expression of pure willpower. Upon her countenance he observed a kind of intense, meditative focus. She was in another place, a place where he could not be. His focus was on the gate, but her's was elsewhere, where he needed it the most: to fight, and to do it better than anyone else.

Standing back to back, they fended off the surrounding legion to the bloody end. Rising black smoke cast a shadow over Trinsic. Amidst the turmoil, he could hear the cackling of a lich. Soon, not even their skill would save them. The surrounding horde grew larger and larger in number, and their situation became frighteningly perilous. Is this the end? he wondered. The cold steel of a blade entered into his abdomen, producing a profoundly painful sensation. As reality seemed to slip away, his last conscious thought was of Kyla. Together they fought, and together they fell.

Darkness fell over the City of Trinsic.