Blood of Vol

Merrick Hearthsong was once a well-liked and respected, although not entirely famous, Bard. During the War, he tried to keep taverns and inns filled with the sounds of joy and laughter. Being Brelish, he plied his trade mostly in Sharn and would often be given offers of a residency in one inn or another but he turned them all down, knowing that picking a side might well result in his career being shot down before it had even really taken off.

With the destruction of Cyre and the signing of the Thronehold Treaty, it was safer for Merrick to ply his trade farther afield than in the relative safety of Sharn’s entertainment districts. It was, however, a strange letter that arrived at his home one fateful day that led Merrick into striking out for the Mournland. An old flame of his had been in Cyre on the Day of Mourning and the letter concluded that there might well be a chance that she had survived. With the money that he had saved, he hired a few mercenaries from House Tharashk and set out for the now-ravaged country of Cyre.

For two months, no sign of Merrick Hearthsong was seen nor heard. When he did resurface, he did so alone. His mercenaries were nowhere to be seen and Merrick himself simply stumbled along in a daze. It was as though he was being drawn to some place, and eventually he found himself on the steps of the temple of the Blood of Vol in Atur. Dropping to his knees, Merrick sang once again but instead of one of his beloved favourites, the song which ushered forth from his mouth was a dirge, powerful and melancholy, a song which caused passers-by to stop and stare at this bedraggled figure of a man who was pouring his heart and soul into his music. Once the song was finished, Merrick collapsed on the steps of the temple and a cleric hurried forward, two Bone Knights flanking him.

“You’ve come to the right place,” the cleric said sardonically as the two Bone Knights lifted the prone Merrick up off the ground. “You two take him inside,” ordered the cleric as he turned on his heels and marched back up the steps. With a nod, the Bone Knights silently hauled Merrick into the temple and its heavy doors swung shut.

*****

A few hours later, Merrick woke groggily, his vision swimming. As he tried to sit up, a wave of exhaustion washed over him and he fell back onto the soft bed in which he had been sleeping.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a soft voice spoke from beyond his sight. Moving his head to try and get a better view, Merrick squinted to try and clear his vision.

“Do not exert your self too much, Merrick of Breland,” the voice continued. It had a seductive quality to it, like the feeling of silk pulled across a naked body. “You have had a long and hard journey.”

“Who are you?” Merrick called out, eager to see who it was that spoke to him. Silk curtains slide away to reveal a pale Elf regarding him with a light smile.

“Hello, Merrick,” she said softly. She sat at the end of the bed, her hand resting lightly on his foot. Merrick gulped down some apprehension. She was an exquisite vision of beauty.

“Where… where am I?” Merrick managed to ask finally. The Elf maiden caressed his foot before looking up at him.

“You’re in a Blood of Vol temple in Atur,” she said simply, shifting her legs so that she sitting next to him on the bed. “You came here from the Mournland. It must have been quite a trek.”

“A-Atur?” Merrick asked incredulously. “I-I remember entering the Mournland but that’s it!” Merrick lay back in a daze. Karrnath! How did he manage to get here without any recollection.

“You’re here for a very special reason, Merrick,” the Elf whispered, shifting her body again so that she was lying next to him. Her hand rose gracefully and rested on his chest. Playfully, she caressed his chest and slid a little closer to him. “You were called by my mistress.”

“Your Mistress?” Merrick felt a gnawing sense of dread. The Elf moved so close to Merrick that her leg draped lazily over his, and her arm slid under his head.

“Yes, Merrick,” the Elf said, her voice barely louder than a breath. “I serve Vol.” It was as though a hammer had been struck on the back of Merrick’s head and everything that had happened in the Mournland rushed up to greet him. Such was the suddenness of this experience, Merrick threw himself from the bed and vomited. One image stood out amongst the rest. It was Merrick, dropped to his knees in mud with the swirling mists of the Mournland circling him. He was repeating one phrase over and over.

“I serve Vol. I serve Vol. I serve Vol.”

When Merrick shook himself from his reverie, he saw the Elf standing off to the side. She looked at him with a bemused look.

“You’ll find yourself not really wanting to sing your little ditties any more, Bard,” her tone was ice cold now. Merrick slumped, her words hitting true. All he could feel was sorrow, anger, malevolence.

“From now on, you won’t be a bard but a dirgesinger,” she continued with a mocking tone, “You serve Vol now, fool, so go and sing her praises.” Merrick stood slowly, and felt his old self slipping away to be replaced with something else, something… evil.

“Yes, your Grace,” Merrick answered before turning from the Elf and striding purposefully towards the door.