Several in the gathering ran forward to assist and calm her, still in shock and full of questions. Hands and faces surrounded Sameska, filling her sight, all but blocking the view of the multi-hued glass dome above. She'd been helpless, trapped in her own body, fighting to speak past the power that had clutched her throat and used her voice.
She wanted to scream, feeling as if raped. She wondered if Savras had been with her, within her. Deep down, a black flower of doubt blossomed in her heart. Its roots spread and were cold, twisting her gut as bile boiled in her throat. How, she wondered-how, with all the wards and protections in the temple, could it have been anything but his voice? The ceiling spun in her eyes, the dome becoming a swirl of sickening color as questions filled her ears and clawed at the core of her reasoning. She fought again, squeezing her eyes shut and breathing deeply, calming herself and avoiding the well of sorrow that yawned in the back of her mind. Blinking, she looked closely at the faces above her, not yet hearing them, and saw their awe. They looked upon their high oracle, overcome by the power of their own faith. They sought the wisdom of she who had borne the voice of Savras, she who had spoken to them with his words. The horror that had so consumed her moments ago gave way to pride and wonder. The questions slowed, becoming more distinct. All of them echoed the same words, the same query, over and over. "What do we do? What do we do?" Doubt tugged beneath her gathering tears. Slow, swallowed sobs met with her inner exultation at being returned to her rightful place in their sight. She knew all that she had said, knew it all to be true, though it had not been delivered as she had planned. Who was she to question the wisdom of her god, here in this temple, shielded from his enemies? Collecting herself and clearing her throat, she motioned for silence so she could speak. She sat up and pushed her words past the lump in her throat, past tears of amazement and the pervasive doubt that settled in her stomach like a ball of lead. In a solemn voice of command and practiced wisdom, she responded. "Nothing. We must do nothing." Elisandrya stood at the balcony, clinging to the rail in white-knuckled anger and frustration.
Dreslya knelt below, listening as Sameska finally answered the barrage of questions, her answers loud enough to be heard by all. Dres turned to look at her sister, worry and confusion etched in her face, tears trailing down her cheeks. Eli looked away. Her eyes fell on a place to the left of the altar, shadowed, but just within the radius of newly lit candles close to Sameska. Others noticed as well. Those who had heard what they needed from Sameska turned to that spot, frightened and curious. Sameska eyed these, hunting for doubt in their whispered voices, seeking any hint of disbelief among them. Glinting in that flickering light, a stain of dark crimson slowly turned brown, marking the place of the oracle who had bled when the temple went dark.
The people of Targris milled about the streets, searching for family and friends and retrieving possessions cast into flooded gutters. Most of the fires had been quenched by the heavy rain, but the damage had been done, leaving several structures blackened and shrouded in steamy mist. No one neared the scene of the terrible battle or looked too long at the warrior. Quinsareth slumbered for some time, having passed out on the porch of the late mayor's home.
Curious children had crept closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of the stranger. Seeing his half-closed eyes, with their thin slivers of milky white showing beneath fluttering lids, they ran away. Rumors of the "demon warrior" ran wild among the youngsters and were only partly dismissed by their parents and fearful older siblings. After Mahgra's fall, Quinsareth had crawled to the steps of the house and attempted to dress his wounds with strips of cloth from his cloak and massage strained muscles. He'd been alert, certain that at any moment, his field of vision would liquefy and waver, showing him the distant shadows calling him elsewhere. He'd sat for some time, pretending that no one else existed, hoping that any thankful souls would leave him in peace. After a time, he saw that few were bold enough to even look in his direction. The weather had improved in that time, leaving only the rain to patter loudly on the roof of the wooden porch. The shadows never came and the sound of the rain lulled him into a long-overdue slumber. His dreams, when he had them, were nearly the same. Always he stood on the edge of a great cliff, overlooking a lush valley growing wild with greenery, flowers, and massive trees. The air was charged with energy and creation. He would run all day, looking for a way down into that strange, dreaming home. He had never reached that faraway land. Many times, he had considered jumping from the cliff, but silent hunters would appear at the edges of the forest below with bright blades in hand. Fey creatures regarded him curiously-lithe bodies sheathed in radiant armor, dark stares colored in shades of threat.
They gave him pause as they watched him with pearly white eyes, so like his own. The porch roof leaked, and before long, fat drops of water splashed into his upturned face, waking him from forbidden dreamscapes. He spat water from his mouth and wiped it from his eyes, flinching as his back complained at the sudden movement. His entire body ached as he rose to sit on the top step, rubbing his left shoulder gingerly beneath his armor. He had often slept on the ground without removing his armor, and it seemed so natural to him that he felt strange when afforded the opportunity to sleep in a real bed.
Judging by the lack of onlookers, no offer would be forthcoming any time soon. He looked at the people in the distance picking up their lives and casting off those bits destroyed or befouled. He shook his head, but could not feel the surprise he supposed he should feel at still being there. The call of shadow had not come, would not come until his work was complete. Much as he wished it, the ogre mage was not powerful enough to have been the source of what he'd seen-or not seen-in Logfell. Something else held him here, though somewhere deep inside, he questioned his own motives. He could easily leave on his own. He had no covenant with Hoar, merely a vague understanding, a meeting of the god's purpose and Quin's lack of direction. Somewhere deep inside, in those places that dreamed of the verdant land he could not reach, there was a sense of shame. Much as he knew he could travel any road, only the shadowed one led him to the kill, to injustice and to blood. He struggled to stand, but something on the porch caught his attention. A basket, laden with what food could be gathered, and a skin of wine were placed near to where he'd been sleeping. He looked around, but no one was near. Through the rain he saw a middle-aged man, standing just outside the charred remains of the small temple razed by the gnolls, who looked in Quin's direction. His face was expressionless, and he leaned on an oak staff. He nodded to Quin, acknowledging him. Quin, unsure, nodded back, taken off guard by the man's steady stare. Quinsareth turned away, back to the food. He picked at it slowly at first, then allowed his hunger to take over.