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[Tay Thormear]

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He jerked straight up in his bed; once again a nightmare had struck him. The dreams were the same, flashing skulls and the voices speaking clearly “It is time”. This time something new was added, a burning sensation around his heart. Blood dripped from his eyes followed by the beads of sweat covering his face. Lifting his arm he wiped both the blood and sweat from his face.

“This is becoming to much…” he began to whisper quietly. His body slammed back into the bed and the burning became quite hotter. His head throbbed of pain, grabbing each side of his head he held on tightly. Both the burning and the throbbing overwhelmed him. Rolling off the bed he fell on the ground, curled up grasping his head for dear life.

Tatiana fumbled out of bed to run over to Beowulf. She cried out softly as he lay hollering on the ground, she glanced down to his chest. A cross slowly burnt into his left peck, she could hear the sound of sizzling. She cried out louder and fell to her knees at his side.

The pain was excruciating, he had felt nothing like it. Not that the burning chest and throbbing head wasn’t enough, but the crying of Tatiana tipped it off. He uncurled from the ball and sat up on his knees, pulling his elbows to his sides he bent his arms. Clenching his fists tightly he embraced the pain, the burning, the throbbing. Snapping both of his forearms out he sent a wave of flames out of the window, lighting up the darkness surrounding their home.

The pain slowly faded away, he was able to regain control of his body. Standing straight up he leaned over and lifted Tati off the ground. He placed her gently on the bed and opened the door to his office.

“I’m fine dear, I’ll be back later. I promise.” He spoke sternly.

He strode over to a bookshelf beside his desk, standing tall filled with books. He firmly grabbed two books at once and pulled them off of the shelf, behind them sat a bowl of blood. He carefully lifted the bowl with both hands and placed it on his desk. Glancing down at his chest he saw the cross-burnt into his chest.

“He shouldn’t mind. Not that I care.” he told himself. He remembered back to when the group of paladins had banished him from this world to the Underworld. A close and unknown friend had told him before it had happened, “If those paladins or clerics try to curse you with markers, fill the markings with this blood. The blood of a paladin will fill you veins, it will ease the pain, and keep them from marking you anymore.”

Beowulf shrugged slightly, he had nothing else to try. Lifting the bowl to his chest he poured some on the contents over the burnt cross. The blood soaked into the burn, it began to grow a deep tint of red. The skin slowly began to heal over it, leaving a red cross has a permanent marking on his chest.

“Just my luck…” he muttered quietly.

After placing the bowl and books back to their original spot he made his way to the basement. He felt it coming over him again, the throbbing in his head. Grasping his head with both hands he dropped to his knees yet again. Veins popped out of his forehead from the stress and frustration this was causing him. He leapt onto his feet and ran off as quickly as possible. Using every bit of strength he had he hollered the words “Kal Ort Por” sending him off to his place of privacy.

The throbbing finally died down, but for how long? It was beginning to drive him insane the dreams, the pain. It was too much for him to handle it was torture.

His body now covered with sweat he paced around the forest. Slamming his feet into the ground with every step he cursed quietly. What had he done to deserve this? He had no idea what was causing all of this grief.

He had recently visited Umbra for answers; he was only able to speak with a large skeletal looking man. He knew who he was, the leader of The Ebon Skulls military. Beowulf had pressed his luck at the end of the meeting. Zalar had given him a warning to not insult him once more. As they exited the temple Beowulf began to mount his magical steed. He glanced at Darmug and spoke quite loudly.

“Upgraded from slave to scum eh Mug?” he chuckled afterwards. That about tipped them off, Zalar gave the command to kill him. It didn’t take long for the three of them and a slave to finally catch him and take him down.

He mumbled to himself thinking back to the skirmish they had had. He didn’t think it was The Skull’s causing the dreams anymore. It wasn’t hard for them to lie but he just had a feeling it was a different source. Though something was unsettling in him, he reluctantly spoke the words for a spell to send him to a different location.

He stood in Umbra now; the cold breeze slapped his face. The stench of dead corpses and dirty peasants occupying the area filled his nostrils. The City of the dead and undead, he felt calmer here. He had only come for one reason though, something wasn’t right after the dream he had had, and something was missing.

Wandering around the town he searched for a lost soul. He hadn’t taken long to find a spirit in this town. He glared slightly at the hovering spirit. It began to speak, it didn’t come out as the proper words Beowulf were use to, and instead it came out as a hushed howl. He shook his head slightly trying to focus harder. Still the spirit only spook hushed howls.

“Wha’ the ‘ell?” he questioned himself. Pressing his eyelids closed as tightly as possible he concentrated. He was able to faintly make out the hush howls, but only for a moment.

“It is time.” It howled quietly.

“Not you too!” Beowulf snarled loudly. Swatting his hand towards the ghost, it swooshed through the air and hit nothing. Snapping his fingers he appeared outside of his house. There was no more need for adventure this night, or questions.

He had lost the ability to speak with the spirits. This dream was the worst of them yet, leaving him with a marking of a cross, throbbing pains, and a lost ability. He was going to become insane if this continued on, the pressure was too much, and so was losing this his ability to speak to the dead. What was going to happen to him next? Who was doing this to him, and why? These questions would have to be answered some other time, for tonight could not become any worse.


* * *


The circle of clerics chanted loudly, the five of them standing holding their hands together high in the air. A purple crystal lay in the middle of them as they enchanted the curses. Their eyes closed tightly, and a purple glowing orb surrounding them. They chanted the words “It is time.”

Paladin guards stood separate around the group, swords and shields in hand. They would let nothing get by to disturb this ceremony. They were in the safety on Trinsic, working out of the bottom of the town, a part that no one knew of.

The paladins and clerics that had banished Beowulf so long ago had risen again. They felt the threat of his power growing once more. They had gathered once more to rid Beowulf of his evil powers. They would try something new this time though, perhaps finishing the evil off for good.

“The possibilities…” one of them spoke quietly as they finished the chanting.