Screams cut through the night air. Candles and radiant light spells flickered through the windows in a small cottage on the outskirts of Baldur's Gate. A worried halfling paced back and forth past a closed door. He wanted to be inside but a stout dwarven midwife had since closed the door in his face as she muttered about a man's place during birth being nothing more than 'in the way.' His thoughts were racing so much, he didn't notice the screams had stopped. The sound the door opening snapped him back to reality. Jiem saw the dwarf wiping her hands while standing to one side of the door. She cocked her head and pointed with her nose to usher him in. He rushed into room ignoring the newest insult she was grumbling about.
He stopped just short of the foot of the bed "Are you alright?"
Avana, drenched in sweat weakly nodded her head, not breaking eye contact, "He's strong."
He sat on the side of the bed, "You had me worried."
"Chresh."
"Bless you."
"No, silly. His name is Chresh."
He smiled brightly. "You named him after your father."
She nodded softly, "He has your eyes."
He laughed to himself, "How do you know that? He hasn't even opened..."
As if, on queue, Chresh opened his eyes for the first time, bright green eyes shimmering even in the dim radiant spell light.
He smiled again and thought to himself, "She's always right, isn't she?"
A green eyed halfling sneered at the line of traders and customers lined up along the Coast Way heading into the city. Chresh sat under a shade tree overlooking the hustle and bustle on the hillside.
"Ants marching," he muttered to himself as he strummed on his lute, "they all do it the same way." He chuckled. He always smiled when he came up with new lyrics to songs in his head. Relating mundane life to music always helped him through any day. But that smile quickly disappeared. The thought of music still bothered him. It always delighted him as a child, singing, and strumming or tapping anything that made a sound. That dream of being a musician seemed to burn away in a silver flame. A cursed silver flame, he thought. He strummed harder and gnashed his teeth seeing his fingers glow with radiant energy. Sparks danced along the strings, brimming with magic; magic he never asked for. A gift, his father said in reverent piety. A curse, and a burden, more so. Acrid smoke stung his nose. He looked down in anger knowing what he had done. His new lute had a charred hand print and burned strings, another side effect of his new "gift."He never wanted to be saddled with religion. The Church of the Silver Flame always felt like a distant thought, the abstract construct that didn't seem real....till it was.
Only weeks before, Chresh was traveling late at night, well past his bed time, trying to sneak home. Halflings were never quite good in the dark, and the goblins bandits were always more active that time of the year. He was cornered before he knew what was happening, terrified and unable to move. Instinctively throwing his hands out, hoping to shield any cuts away from his body or push away his attackers. That's when it happened. It seemed like a warm feeling in his hands. That feeling grew and grew. Did they already cut his hands, and the blood was warming his palms? No. The heat grew, and finally the light seemed to answer the question for him. Power surged through him, light and aura dancing along his fingertips, catching the goblins off guard. A cone of flames erupted catching everything in front of him on fire. The goblins screamed in agony and rolled on the ground snuffing out the flames that licked at them. The crashed through the woods, running away in terror, cursing in their own tongue. He fell to the ground, feeling shaky and drained, still not understanding what just happened.
"Rise, young halfling," a soft feathery voice called out.
His eyes darted around trying to see in the dark.
Her voice boomed louder, "You were directed to rise!"
His head rang, as if the voice was coming from everywhere. He wouldn't realize till he was home that voice was coming from inside. He steadied himself against the boulder, "Who's there?"
A white flame seemed to materialize from thin air. It dances back and forth, pulsing with each word, "Your pure heart and the prayers of your family have protected you this night. I am the conduit, and you are my disciple."
Chresh shook his head, still disoriented, "What are you? What just happened?" He looked down at his hands, "How did I do that?"
The white flame surged and grew, seeming to take a metallic look of mercury on fire. Arms stretched from the mass, legs sprang down, taking a wide shape as the amorphous shape quickly formed into a beautiful woman. Living silver eyes peered at the nervous halfling. Everything around him seemed to be bathed in radiant silver light, but he wasn't on fire. She was like the stories his mother told at night. 'Tira was always watching those good people in her charge.' He ran his hands through his hair, feeling for bumps and bruises.
Her features curled into a loving smile, but her lips didn't move as she spoke, "You have been chosen, Chresh. You will take the symbol of the Silver Flame and be its Templar. I have seen your heart, and your purity burns with the spirit of the flame."
Flexing his hands, as the warmth began to return, "Why are you doing this to me? I don't know what you...." His words fell away as her words cemented into the profound realization. Tira Miron, the conduit of the Silver Flame was standing in front of him.
"You will be the radiant fury that will cleanse Eberron of evil." The fire around her morphed into a familiar arrow shape he knew too well, "You will be the tip of the spear, to destroy all those that oppose the light of the Silver Flame. You have been chosen"
He was shaking his head, only being able to make sense of parts of the conversation. Templar! A terrifying word that carried a weight he knew for many years he never wanted to hear. It wasn't a choice to him. It was conscription; a draft into a never ending war against everything that opposed the light. It wasn't the path he wanted. His mind raced. Could he run? Could he run from a god? Could he run from that responsibility?
The voice boomed in his head, threatening to split his skull from the pressure, "You are my spear. You are my weapon. This is not a debate, but a declaration of my will." Currents of fire and radiant energy formed into a column around Chresh, lifting him into the air, "This power is a sign of our pact. Let the radiance of the Silver Flame burn through you, to the bane to the undead and be a shield of healing power to the living."
Power flowed through him, fire engulfing his body, eyes full of light. The fire spun around him, filling him, roaring in his mind. And then it was gone. He fell to the ground in a heap. He sat up quickly, seeing the last remnants of singed grass go out, outlining the arrow burned into the ground. He rushed away, screaming in his mind, trying to make any sense of what just happened, pushing further and faster, like he was could outrun it all. Tears streamed down his face, choking down the flood of emotions roiling inside him. His life had changed, and he had no say in the matter. The lie his parents told him growing up flashed in his head as he ran. You can be anything. But you can't. His life was no longer his own. He couldn't be what he wanted. He would be the tip of the spear. Conscription into a life force onto him. Before he realized, he was home. He stopped at the door, sucking and gulping air. He ran faster than he ever thought he could. But he was out of breath. He wiped away the streams of tears. Maybe he could hide it. Maybe he dreamed it. He hit his head. He didn't just see Tira. He gathered himself and tried to laugh. That was it. He had to have imagined it. The goblins weren't real either. He was dreaming. He calmed himself, smoothing out his clothes, trying to compose himself, finally catching his breath. Nothing happened. Too much food, and a bad dream. He reach into his bag, to make sure he hadn't dropped anything in the run. A strange rock was in the bag along with the trinkets and food he brought with him. He grabbed it quickly, to throw it away, and the same energy he had felt earlier sprang forth. The rock glowed with a bright light, a cantrip of sorts. A familiar symbol seemed etched in the light. The weight of everything fell onto his shoulders. It was no dream. The conduit had chosen him. He gnashed his teeth and chucked the stone into the darkness.
Conscription. His mind fell back to the present. He was sitting under the tree again. He slammed his damaged lute onto the ground. Indignation filled him. He would be master of his own destiny. He looked into his bag again and pulled a new armband out. The symbol of of a mercenary guild embroidered onto the cloth. A fist on fire and an arrow with a hastily stitched X over the emblem. It was the sign of a bastard offshoot of the famed Flaming Fist, disgraced outfit of miscreants that cared more about the riches they could come into, rather than defending The Gate from foreign threats. Greed and wanderlust. The opposite of his calling. It was his way of escaping. A Templar wouldn't stoop to being a paid hand. It was beneath the status. It was against everything he was taught. It was against everything Tira had told him it would be. It was perfect.
Other parts:
https://steemit.com/dungeonsanddragons/@teamashen/a-path-forced-the-continued-journey-of-cresh
https://steemit.com/dungeonsanddragons/@teamashen/a-path-home-the-continued-journey-of-chresh-pt3
https://steemit.com/dungeonsanddragons/@teamashen/a-path-forgiven-the-continued-journey-of-chresh-part-4
https://steemit.com/dungeonsanddragons/@teamashen/a-path-reaffirmed-a-concluded-journey-of-chresh