Context: The party entered Northvalle and encountered a demon – the same demon who had been locked into the orb, taken over Ephram's mind, and communed with Ladiana. They nearly killed it, but then it grabbed Clarys and entered the portal in the monastery wall.
Formless and sightless, she floated in the ether. Stars twinkled and smiled, gave birth to new light and were snuffed out in an instant, the death of worlds in their wake. If Clarys concentrated, she could move in space, not unlike water’s flow. She could move from place to place, without regard to time and distance. Yet there was nothing to see but space and void. No heat, no pull of gravity, only the darkness’s icy touch upon her shoulder, upon her cheek. Her soul was equally exposed with an occasional wind from astral source.
When she had alighted upon solid ground, she could see red sands and rolling hills, far beyond the focus of sight. And then the pain began, a white heat from an unknown sun. Days and nights had past, without food, without water to nourish her resolve. Her stomach protested from mortal starvation, and yet she persevered. Sleep would not claim her and neither would death from the loneliness and boredom of nothingness.
Clarys accustomed to the lack of food and water. She bade her time with prayer to the Lady of Mysteries. The Lady did not answer her, for surely in this forsaken place, Her mystical touch could not be felt. Alone and untouched, Clarys grew in misery and despair.
And then the lashings came. Great tendrils of corded leather or some ethereal rope made of dragon skin, Clarys was struck again and again. The whip came from the sky, perhaps the sun in its molten anger, large and thick as an oak tree, she was thrashed and struck until she bled. Clarys used her speed and strength and avoided each blow, until, at last, hunger and thirst had depleted her energy and she succumbed to the deadly strokes.
Her skin was split, her flesh torn. Her armor was rendered useless under gigantic lashes. Beaten and battered, she was tossed from red sand dune to dark valley, her body a mere rag doll of empty husk.
When she awoke, a grey imp pestered her from above. The three foot creature was hairless and pale of skin, a greying hue that shined oily and smooth to the touch. Its hairless body was free of any markings, save its hideous smile and pointy teeth. It clawed at her clothing, prying breastplate and gauntlets from her.
Clarys had strength enough to wield Asher’s sword and she cleaved the imp in two! It screamed its last breath and she slumped back in exhaustion. And then, two more appeared. From the sand or from some other infernal source, two more of the creatures pestered her, ripping at her boots and he leggings. They meant to disrobe her and robe her clean.
She swung her sword again and cut one arm off and the other’s tail. They yelped and nipped at her ankles, biting her flesh with sharpened teeth. After some effort and skillful strokes, Clarys killed the two and slumped back down in a squat.
She prayed again to Mystra and heard no response. A day and a night passed, yet time could not be measured. Perhaps it had been a week on her knees. She felt she may have been in solitude for a month now, the passing of no moon to divine the sands of time.
More imps appeared and this time they were successful in stripping her of breastplate and tunic. She wore an undershirt and her leggings, with her boots still intact, she fought of five of them this time, yet many of them had taken pieces of her exposed flesh. She cried out in frustration and pain, and still they came.
Relentless and unyielding, the impkind bore down on her and offered her no respite. She lashed out and slashed limbs. But the imps kept coming. They sucked at her blood and ate of her flesh, ravenous little beasts, always biting, always hungry. They left her bleeding and coughing, curled up into a ball. She wanted to curl up into deathly sleep, and yet, sleep would not claim her.
Instead, something else claimed her. The blackness, the essence of all dark things, the immenseness of Belasco, all-consuming, all-encompassing. He came to her in her fetal position and he took her, again and again. She lay in stupor, having given in to the escape of numbness and no-mindness. And when she gave no indication of protest, no fight left in her soul, he beat her. He beat her as a waif or tavern wench from a brutal client. He used her and abused her, beating her with powerful fists and relentless kicks. Broken bones and face bludgeoned to pulp, the demon beat her throughout the ages. He revived her, gave her strength enough to feel the pain and suffering he dealt. He beat her without mercy. He beat her with mirth and malice.
When Belasco left, the imps returned, again to eat of her flesh and drink her blood. They danced around her broken body and tattered clothes. She was naked and exposed, the twin suns scorching tender flesh. She closed her eyes and prayed to her silent goddess.
Upon a time, her eyes blinked open and she smelled a stew simmering on the stove. Home. She smelled home. A small child—a girl—sat in a high chair at the kitchen table. The little girl, perhaps within a summer’s age, reached out with chubby arms and her chubby cheeks smiled at Clarys. Clarys furrowed her brows and saw that she could walk again. She stepped closer to the child, then realized there was food on the stove. She went to it and spooned out the steaming pot into a wooden bowl. She searched for a spoon, but hunger won out. She tilted the bowl into her mouth and drank of its steaming essence. Gulping heartily, Clarys felt strength renewed.
Then the little girl giggled. Clarys wiped her mouth and gazed at the toddler. “Who are you?” She felt foolish trying to talk to the girl. She was yet too young to form speech. Clarys stepped closer and the girl smiled at her joyfully, innocently. The girl pointed at the bowl of stew and Clarys found a wooden spoon. Carefully, she began to feed the child, missing her mouth on occasion. The little girl ate happily, despite her sloppy chewing. The stew was hot and Clarys remembered to blow on each spoonful before offering it to her. “Where is your mother?”
After her meal, Clarys searched the house. It was small and cozy, full of trinkets and comfortable furniture, memorabilia of personal histories that only the owners could fathom. Clarys felt at home, yet she knew this was all but illusion, made whole to confuse and confound her. She would remain wary and bide her time. She found clothes that fit her and she rejoined the little girl in the kitchen. All that remained of hers was the sword of Asher. Her shield, her armor, her boots, tunic, and pants, were gone, torn and shredded by the imps.
The imps! They were scratching at the door outside and cackling with malicious mirth. The little girl looked frightened and she glanced at Clarys. The imps were hopping about outside, trying to open windows or doors.
Clarys shook her head and gripped the sword, looking from door to window, waiting for their entry. The door buckled, its wooden planks creaking in protest. The child began to cry, reaching pudgy hands to Clarys. She glanced at the toddler. Still a mere illusion. Why should she care?
The imps burst through the windows and the door gave way. Dozens bounded inside and the little girl shrieked. Clarys used her sword and cleaved the first in two. Then another. The stew had rejuvenated her and she felt her strength in full. Whirling and spinning, stabbing and slashing, Clarys was a tornado of death and retribution. As an imp pounced on the table and on the high chair, Clarys lopped off arms and legs, sending imps to the floor and flailing agony. They howled in rage, gnashing nail-sized teeth at her feet. She stomped on them and continued to cut them in two.
Picking up the child, Clarys fought her way through the door and out into the forest. She stabbed and slashed, keeping the relentless beasts at bay. Eventually, she killed all the imps, perhaps a hundred, more or less. She sat against a birch tree, cradling the small girl in her arms. The girl’s tears had dried on stained cheeks, mixed with dirt and blood. Clarys searched the little girl, looking for cuts. She found none. The blood belonged to vanquished imps.
Clarys found a grassy knoll and the two slept under the eaves of mighty elm. She clutched her sword in one hand and placed her other upon the child’s belly. Sleep at last claimed them and Clarys awoke to a light rain.
She found refuge in a cave and, after finding a groundhog and cooking it, the paladin and the little girl shared a bland meal. “Do you have a name, child?” Clarys asked her. The toddler’s large round eyes looked at her without comprehension. She smiled and her chubby cheeks protruded. “I suppose I should call you something other than child. What about Rachel? I suppose that’s a good a name as any.”
The girl giggled and waddled over to her. She reached out and squeezed Clarys’s fingers with her pudgy hand.
They waited until the rain let up and then Clarys carried the girl through the forest until they came to the edge of the red desert. She remained within the treeline where it was cooler and safe from exposure to the suns. Setting the little girl down, Clarys built a small shelter out of fallen branches and leaves. Within an hour, she had made a decent hovel that protected from sun and rain.
Clarys collected berries and was able to hunt down a squirrel for their meal. She found a trickling brook as their water source. A prayer to Mystra and the two were eating quietly under the branches of their hut.
Clarys regarded the toddler at length. “I know you are but an illusion sent to tempt me or betray me later. I will play along, for now, but know that if I should feel any danger while I sleep, I won’t hesitate to end your life.”
The small child smiled at her with Cherub cheeks and her curly red hair flitted about in the warm breeze. She giggled once and reached a pudgy hand towards Clarys. Warily, the paladin accepted the proffered hand the two curled up for a long night’s rest.
A week, a month, perhaps more, passed. Clarys continued to improve the hut and expanded as best she could. She was not a builder, but their home provided safety and comfort. During her many forays into the forest, she had found her pack and her breastplate. The imps had ransacked through her belongings, stealing food and water, and some of her jewels and gold coins. But most of her equipment lay intact. Even the teleportation amulet that Ephraim had was left in her sack. She tried to use it, test its abilities, and nothing happened. All forms of magic on this plane were denied her. On another week—or month—she found her shield. She was nearly fully dressed once more and her strength had returned, with the healing of all physical wounds.
Perhaps a year had gone by, as Rachel’s vocabulary improved. Clarys had taught the little girl her alphabet and her numbers, and she was amazed that Rachel was so quick to form sentences and insightful thought. The girl was intuitive, sensing changes in emotions and intents.
It had been a year, perhaps, since her attacks and when Belasco next came, Clarys was far more prepared to fight him. But his next attack was not a physical one. Instead, he invaded the paladin’s mind, scouring and scratching at the surface, before burrowing into her deepest secrets. He plagued her with suspicion and despair, enough so to nearly cause harm to the little girl. Belasco made Clarys feel shame for all that she had done in life, all that she had failed to do. He gave her nightmares, dreams of the future.
Clarys saw nations fall, every city state under the cruel and abysmal rule of the Lord of Darkness. Arioch’s influence was everywhere, twisting relationships and destroying trust. Wars were waged, people enslaved. It was a bleak time and there was only darkness across the land. All valiant efforts had failed and all hope lost. Clarys wept into the night and into the morning, fearing to open her eyes to see it all had come to pass.
Even as she tried to block out his images, they were relentless and still she suffered through moans and cries of the broken, the tortured, the vanquished. Blood and bone, gore and broken flesh, all had suffered under the rule of Arioch, with Belasco at his helm.
Broekn and beaten once more, it was Rachel who had nursed Clarys back to health. Rachel, the baby who could barely walk, now five or six years old! “How long…how long have I suffered?” Clarys asked her.
Rachel shrugged. “Many years. You have been dreaming and talking. I saw you suffering and crying. And yet you never woke from an endless sleep.”
Rachel could hunt. She could cook and she had kept the hut intact. Clarys rose on shaky legs and she felt her body had atrophied. But in time, perhaps another year or two, she had regained her strength once more.
They moved from the hut and found a coastline. Along the seashore, they constructed another hut, this time far removed from imps and bugs. Animals were still plentiful, but now they had fish to live by.
Every night, Clarys prayed to the Goddess, and every night, she heard nothing. And every night, she looked at Rachel and silently gave her warning: “I know you are but an illusion sent to tempt me or betray me later. I will play along, for now, but know that if I should feel any danger while I sleep, I won’t hesitate to end your life.”