Chapter 76
The five warforged stand silently observing the companions and awaiting further explanation. The leader’s armor glows a purple hue, shimmering slightly in the dim, foggy light as it shifts its stance. It stands a few inches shorter than six feet and moves confidently. Its helmet forms typical human facial features, other than a flat area where the nose would be. The eyes glow a dim yellow and a three-inch-high ridge extends from its forehead to the back of the head, like a fish’s back fin.
“We didn’t expect to be here. We’re on a quest for a docent and saw you traveling in the same direction. My name is Dolor and these are my companions.” The others nod their heads in greeting and Grindlefoot blurts out, “Hi, it’s amazing to meet you!”
“I am called Mercy. We are pilgrims and spend much of our time searching for artifacts from before the Day of Mourning. Being a pilgrim is difficult and challenging. A docent is an interesting thing to be seeking, they are special. Why do you need one?”
“We don’t want to keep the docent, only use it to help us find another item. Our magic works oddly here. We think a docent might unlock a magical item of ours, allowing us to locate the item we need.”
Standing behind Mercy there is a warforged with ornate facial features, similar to the intricate helmets artisans craft for expensive suits of plate mail armor. It speaks quietly, yet firmly. “Mercy, not all can be trusted, even the kind.”
“You are correct, Justice. We must be cautious. These are not easy times.”
Another of the warforged speaks, a variety of warm copper tones color their slightly dented armor. “You are strangers here. Do you need respit? Do you need aid?”
Dolor responds for the companions, “No, thank you. We need information.”
“We need rest. You are welcome to travel with us. I am Charity.” Pointing to the remaining two warforged, “This is Pious,” a pale gray warforged raises a hand smoothly to its waist, acknowledging the introduction, “and this is 404.”
Shorter than the others, with horizontal slits in its metal head for its eyes and mouth, 404 asks, “What are your names?”
The other companions introduce themselves to the group of warforged and 404 asks another question, “Did you choose your names or were they given?” The companions explain that they received their names from their families when they were infants. 404 tilts their head, as if thinking about the responses.
Charity turns to 404, “You could choose another name.”
“No! Name not found!”
As they continue northward, the companions join the warforged walking two-by-two. Mercy strides next to Dolor, matching the tiefling’s pace at the front of their caravan. Looking ahead, Mond sees an uncanny similarity. Mercy’s metal armor is a shiny, vibrant purple that shimmers in the dim light. Dolor’s skin is a deeper shade of purple, almost lavender in its coolness. The tiefling is a foot shorter than Mercy, yet his stride is no less purposeful. The sorcerer listens to their conversation.
“We are pilgrims. We seek to understand our history, to learn from it, and to preserve it. Through our pilgrimage, we seek purpose. To understand why we are here. We believe that it is for more than fighting and waging war. We were built for battle, but that is not all we are capable of. There must be more.”
Dolor pauses to digest Mercy’s philosophical words. “You’re experiencing what many, if not all, biological creatures go through in life. We see those around us, others we love and care for, taking paths that lead them in different directions. They’re searching for the same thing, some sort of meaning or purpose to life. Yet, we see them making decisions and choices with which we fundamentally disagree. I recently read “My quest for meaning” by one of your kind, named Thinker. From their journey and what you’ve told me, you and the pilgrims are living your lives with curiosity, grace, and compassion. That’s an admirable life.”
Mercy continues a few steps before responding, “Thank you, Dolor. Your words soothe my anxiety. Your kind is new to the Mournland, and so I shall enlighten you to some of the dangers. Not all believe as we do. There is a faction, not so small in numbers, who follow the Lord of Blades. They remember who and what they were before the Day of Mourning and, more importantly, they have retreated into those memories. They are violent, zealous warriors who only desire power. Glaive is a fierce and loyal lieutenant in the Lord of Blade’s faction. They hunt humans and similar biological kind. They will hear of your arrival, and they will track you. When they find you, they will show you no mercy.”
Walking a few paces behind the leaders, Justice attempts to make themselves a little taller next to Gven. A full foot and a half shorter than the half-orc, they seem to be comparing their stature. Lost in thought, Gven doesn’t notice. Dolor’s philosophical words of encouragement brought thoughts of her brother to mind. Torp’s transformation into the religious zealot, Davanor, continues to confuse and bewilder her. She’s lost count of how many times each she asks herself, why did he choose that path? What could she have done differently?
As they walk, Mond asks Pious, “What do you do with the bodies of the dead? We were told that they do not decompose.”
In a soft tone, “There are two schools of thought on the matter, lay them to rest or leave them as a sign to those who remain. When forced to make such a choice, I prefer the first but rely on the situation, especially when the context of their death moment is apparent. I am never certain of being right.”
Coming out of her rumination, Gven turns to Justice, “I don’t see any weapons. How do you defend yourselves from the Blades or other threats?”
“Like this.” The warforge’s right hand and forearm transforms, pieces of metal sliding out, upward, and downward, revealing a finely sharpened blade the length of a shortsword. At the same time, its left forearm reconfigures into a buckler, useful for both defensive and offensive measures.
“Impressive.” Touching Tempest Edge’s pommel with a grin, “Not quite as big as mine, but they’ll work nicely.”
“We were born to be weapons.”
Pious hears Justice’s comment, “But we can choose not to be.”
Speaking loud enough for all to hear, Dolor asks the warforged, “Did you have your names before the Day of Mourning?”
Justice is the first to respond, “I chose mine.”
Pious says, “As did I.”
Charity explains, “Mine was given to me because I bury the dead. It seems right.”
From the back of the line, 404 says loudly, “Not given. Not taken. Not found!”
The last to answer, Mercy replies, “Mine was given.”
404 interjects, “Given by Justice!” To which Mercy does not respond.
The fog seems to dissipate slightly as they approach a settlement, the ruins of a village once inhabited by organic creatures. A windmill towers above what’s left of the other buildings. The sides and blades are reinforced with rusted steel plates, protecting whatever might be inside from the elements. Attached to one side is an outbuilding, dilapidated and barely standing, it appears to be the remains of a mill. Bilwin doubts it’s functionality. Muddy roads, more like paths, criss cross the gathering of rundown structures.
“Welcome to Ialos.”
Mond notices that tens of warforged walk around the settlement’s buildings, moving with purpose yet displaying a solemn demeanor. The sadness and mourning in the air is almost palpable. It’s as though each one carries the weight of the past upon their shoulders, the shared loss an invisible burden.
Entering the center of an intersection, the companions see a badly weathered statue of a humanoid draped in colorful cloths.
“This is the Founder’s Statue. None remember their name, but they established Ialos long ago. We mourn their loss and all of the biological creatures who died on the Day of Mourning. We decorate the Founder as a gesture of respect, and a promise to do all we can to learn from the past. We are grateful for this settlement, where we continue to mourn.”
“You may rest here or wander about the village. I must speak with others about your request. I will return.” Mercy turns and walks towards the windmill, disappearing around a corner.
Grindlefoot breaks the silence, “Anyone want a delicious goodberry?”
A few hours later, in the gloomy late afternoon fog, Mercy finds the companions resting by the Founder’s Statue. With a nod of their head, the warforged beckons them to follow. Ten minutes later, the group stands at the entrance to the decrepit building attached to the haphazzardly patched windmill. From the open door, Dolor can see the small room is lined with shelves and a few tables, all filled to varying degrees with a plethora of oddly shaped and sized items.
“Treat this room with reverence. These are the artifacts we have collected.” Mercy leads the tiefling into the storeroom. The others remain outside, it’s too small a space for all of them. Dolor sees a block of tapestries hanging from a wall, paintings wrapped in protective leather stacked up underneath them, a few sculptures, and many small items he can’t place scattered across the tables and shelves.
Mercy reaches to the back of one shelf, where there are six or seven tiny metal orbs. Most of them are dull or cracked, but there’s one that appears to be brand new. The tiefling can’t quite tell the object’s true color. It shimmers in the dim light, changing from vivid amethyst to vibrant magenta to languid periwinkle and seems to settle on dull silver-gray.
Retrieving the color-changing orb, “Most are no longer functional, but this one is. You may not keep this, but we can try to use it with your magic.”
Turning around, Dolor finds Bilwin standing in the doorway, holding the second piece of the Rod of Seven Parts. Mercy moves closer to the dwarf and touches the docent to the end of the magic talisman. A loud metallic ping erupts from the two pieces. Bilwin’s body remains still, only his breathing causing any movement, and his’s pupils dilate as his focus turns to somewhere the others cannot see.
Only moments pass before his eyes return to normal, Bilwin looks at Mercy and Dolor, “I can sense it. The next piece can be found inside a massive colossus, one that’s even larger than what we explored yesterday. It’s half-buried in the side of a mountain,” and he points eastward, “that way.”
From behind Bilwin, Pious speaks up. “We have heard tales of this behemoth, called Landro. It was not powered by a docent, but a graymatter engine that incorporated an artifact that came from the heavens. It was also said that the graymatter engine created a magical barrier around Landro, making it impossible to enter the colossus except where the barrier was broken.”
Dolor offers their gratitude and Mercy responds, “You are most welcome. I am glad to feel a sense of purpose.”
From outside the storeroom, 404 proclaims, “Purpose found!”
At Mercy’s invitation, the companions decide to rest for the evening in the village and begin their journey in the morning. They’re given an abandoned building to use for their camp. It has three exterior walls of varying height, the three-foot high remains of an interior wall separating two rooms, and no roof. But it’s spacious enough for the group to spread out their sleeping rolls and build a fire for some light. The sky isn’t any more visible at night through the heavy fog than it was during the day. Grindlefoot imagines this world’s stars hanging in the darkness of space, glittering in the shapes of its gods, daring heroes, and mythic creatures.
Gven looks to Dolor, “Mercy seems to have taken a liking to you. Might be worthwhile seeking them out, see if they’ll offer up any more information that can help us.” The tiefling nods in agreement.
As it happens, Dolor stands up to leave only to see Mercy approaching their camp from another structure, roughly a hundred feet away. When the warforged reaches them, “I have come to check on your status. Do you need anything else before your rest period?” As a whole, the group expresses their appreciation and says they have all they need. Turning to the tiefling, “May we speak privately?”
Dolor follows Mercy out of the ramshackle building and a ways into the darkness.
“You have been good companions. We value that. I do not remember much from before the Day of Mourning, but I do recall having a warforged companion named Filch. If we used the word friend, that would be how I describe them. I do not know what happened to them on that momentous day, we were separated and I have been unable to search for them. This brings me sorrow…and shame. Others depend on me and it seems selfish to leave them, but still…. Will you search for them in your travels? They wear blue and red armor. I would be heartened to learn of them.”
“We would be honored to search for your friend. You shouldn’t feel guilty, Mercy. It’s obvious that you’re a respected leader among your people. You are serving your purpose courageously.”
The group has learned the secret of Mercy, they feel guilty that they haven’t searched for their friend, Filch.