The last of the Deadeye

[WouldBeBard]

((The story of Mark Kelben has come to an end. Since it was left unfinished but too much IG time had passed on the server, I decided to play him in a Fantasy Grounds DnD group, with all he had done in Narfell as his background. Monday evening was his last session after a campaign that took well over 3 years.

Mark's last canon actions on the server are set in the war against N'Jast. Kara's betrayal was well known. Peltarch was under siege, and losing. This and the far more personal betrayal of Mark's former commanding officer was lead him to his next decision.
Gathering a group of brutal, vile and bloodthirsty adventurers to prey on N'Jast's innocents in a desperate bid to force their army to turn their attention inward.
This is where real life called, however, and the idea stopped at spitballing OOCly with DMs, and spitballing ICly with Sabre, who tried very much to talk the otherwise kind hearted Mark out of it.

This continuation is neither current, nor canon. A few of you have known the character, however, and might be interested in how it all ended. Indeed, one of you wondered why they encountered vampire Yolanda instead of vampire Mark in the Crimson Crossroad

Imagine a man that rode off to fight a personal war, a group of seedy cutthroats in tow. Failing spectacularly and forced to flee. Hunted by N'Jast up to its borders, and by devil worshippers well beyond them.
A man that eventually abandoned wife and children where he believed them to be safe, and set out to become the hunter. His methods sending him down a darker path, justifying it step by minor seeming step. Decades spent traveling both Primes and Outer Planes, his callous choices leading to the deaths of innocents and of companions, right alongside the cultists he was adamant to stamp out.

His last moments involved no combat, but a great deal of saves, curveballs and an excellent performance of the part of the DM))

Wind. An actual, tangible wind. There had been none for their entire stay in this place. The ship still managed to travel on perfectly still waters, the sails not billowing a single time. The water moved around the bow as one might expect, but fell perfectly flat again once far enough from the hull. There were no ripples. They left no wake.
There was wind now, though. The lightest hint of a breeze. Did his companions feel it? Unlikely, it was so soft it'd only be felt by sailors who'd been stuck in the doldrums before. At any other time, he would have considered it pleasant.
It would not remain pleasant, however. He turned his eyes windward and saw a single pinprick of light. There had been no stars in the Demiplane. No moon, nor sun. Yet, somehow, always enough light to see by. That pinprick on the horizon would have been most disconcerting. Would have been, as none of it felt real.

He remembered what real felt like. He remembered a great deal, in fact.

All these different memories of a life that led him here. He recalled in minute detail Celina's sleeping face the night he left, and the sight of the twins she cradled. Deacon and Renelde. He recalled the voices of the companions who had fallen under his command, and not simply because of the hauntings. He remembered the scent of the Phlogiston, the first time he crossed the boundaries of his sphere. The taste of Elysium's waters. The touch of Red's hand, and the magic flowing through it. The tiefling's attempt to stop a friend's mind from fraying.

He remembered what that pinprick meant. The Demiplane was dissolving. The breeze would turn into a gale which would turn a wild tempest. The reality of one Plane of existence rushing to meet them, tearing whatever the other Plane had been apart in the process. The violence of a dying world. Their odds of surviving that were slim enough without the Demiplane's master barreling down on them.

He remembered what had gotten them there. An orb with such power even the gods themselves wanted it. He remembered their agents, some far more evil than he, others a supposed greater good than his paladin companion. The wild race across the Planes to keep it out of their hands, even the goodly ones. Who knows what cataclysm they would cause? Balance had to be kept.
He remembered the worlds it had taken them. The wondrous sights. The peoples he'd encountered.
He remembered finding Kara. Finding Dentin. Or fiendish creatures that claimed to be them, to give him pause as they came for the orb. He remembered the meteor swarm his wizard companion had summoned to turn them to dust. The underwhelming sensation of vengeance. Its insignificance in comparison to the orb. Its mind numbing futility in comparison to wasted years. Wasted lives. Wasted innocence.
He remembered time after time of coming within a hair's breadth of failing. Yet, they'd survived.

They had evaded them all, but had been caught in a trap regardless. Tiamat, that clever beast, had stolen away the means to destroy the orb long before the orb was found, hiding it away on a Demiplane she controlled. She knew they would be forced to come to her. And then, they had evaded her too.
This was the aftermath. The frantic last moments to get clear before the Dragon Queen arrived to exact her revenge on a few foolish mortals.

The foolish mortals. He remembered meeting them.
Thrudd the Uthgardt, Thrudd Dragonsbane, Thrudd Dragonsire. A behemoth of a man on his own path of vengeance, now the guardian of a silver dragon wyrmling.
Red, the tiefling druid, whose life revolved around staying alive, staying out of the clutches of the Duke that had a claim on his soul. Yet willing to travel through Avernus to see the orb destroyed.
Church, the golem that had gained life. Fighting tooth and nail for his own soul, to keep control over the part of him that simply wanted to revert to being a killing machine.
Calder, the scholar of Candlekeep. The demons that haunted him had long since been put down, but he stuck with his friends to the bitter end, long after fascination at all they saw turned to horror.

He remembered them finding him in a dank pub in Waterdeep, drunk off his ass and arguing with Yala, his oldest and truest companion.
Yala, the paladin of Tyr. Sworn enemy of fiends and Thayvians. First into the fray, and always the last one out. The Rear Guard. And for her bravery and selflessness, a Red Wizard had killed her and bound her soul to his crossbow, a hundred years before his grandfather had even seen the light of day.
He must have made quite a sight to the heroes who'd already saved a nation, barely able to stand and ranting at something they could neither see nor hear.

He remembered it all. Remembered every step of the way. Remembered them clearer now than ever before. Remembered all his attachments, all his reasons. He knew the danger they were in. Yet, he could not begin to care.
None of it felt real. Oh gods, why didn't it feel real?

Asking the question brought the answer, one more memory coming to him.
Circumventing Tiamat to breach into her own Demiplane had required only one thing of them. Travel through the Far Realms. They had done it, but something had found him.
It offered what was left of Kara's soul, of Dentin's soul. His to torture for eternity. His to exact his own justice upon, until the memory of all that had happened faded even from his mind.
It knew he did not have the orb, but if he'd just walk away, just take the Spelljammer's helm and leave them stranded, all that would be his.
It was so certain its offer would work. For so long, the ends had justified the means. For so long, all he'd wanted was revenge. Until it had been his.
He had denied the creature, whatever it was. For all his failings and terrible choices over the decades, he could at least say he did that one thing right.
He might have chosen his words more carefully, though.

He'd told the creature he was not interested, and never would be. He'd tasted vengeance, and learned it did not matter.
It was wasting its time with him. The fate of the orb was the only thing that mattered.
It had laughed. A howling laughter that echoed and echoed, while the voices of long dead companions asked one question in unison. "Do you still not understand what we are, Mark?"
He remembered the eye of the creature coming from the darkness, growing ever larger until he fell into its pupil and the world around him shattered.
He saw the crystal spheres and the phlogiston, the Planes whirling around one another, the Far Realms surrounding it all. Then he traveled beyond them and saw the whole thing as a sphere of its own, surrounding by a different aether with countless more spheres floating in it, and on and on. Farther and farther. Layer upon layer. An endless fractal of worlds and energies he could never begin understand, with each new iteration driving home the true meaning of the word. Insignificance.
And for a moment of purest, undescribable bliss, when his mind could no longer handle the revelation, he'd forgotten everything

But it was not the end. Red's touch. The damn tiefling's attempt to stop a friend's mind from fraying. Waking him from a catatonic state, and helping him along to the device that could destroy the orb.

Now he stood there, on the deck of a Spelljammer. His mind occupying the body he knew was his, recalling things he knew he'd gone through. Yet it all seemed like it had happened to someone else. None of it felt his. Like a detailed book he'd simply read at some point.
And so he watched the pinprick grow larger and felt the wind pick up. He heard his friends argue as they attempted ways to travel away from that Plane. None worked. Low on spells and out of options, but unwilling to accept the inevitable, they would fight right until their last moment. He felt tears roll down his cheek, but even that felt like someone else's.

They pleaded for him to see if the Spelljammer could move, but it was anchored by something far greater than its magic. As their ideas for an escape became more erratic and their attempts more hopeless, he noticed something.
An elven woman stood on deck, glaring at him. He'd only ever seen her in a fever dream, and he was certain his companions could not see her now, either. He knew her, though. Attuned to him because his path would always allow her to fulfill her purpose as a weapon against fiends. Somehow, that felt real. As though she had stepped into the bubble from which he observed the world.

The woman that had chided him more often than he'd cared to remember. Scolded him. Argued him and his choices. Her will as a magical weapon trying to influence his. Acting as an eternal foil. Calling out his life being built on justifications, not Justice. Yet, always there to pick him up. Soothing him with memories of home. Always reminding him there was work to be done and urging him to do it. Painting the image of the man he had been, and promising he could be again, if he would just face Justice. Refusing to drop their attunement or be freed from the crossbow, because she believed she could lead him to atonement.

She glared wordlessly at him, and he knew. There was work to be done. He looked at his companions, still trying to come up with some clever way to avoid what was coming. Even as they argued, they encouraged one another. Encouraged him, despite that he must have seemed half delirious to them. He slowly came to a realisation. Despite that everything seemed so alien to him as he looked on, it was all very real. Despite that it might not be his, now or ever again. Despite that on the scale of endless realities it might not matter in the slightest, it was real to them. They existed. They were real. Significant.
He turned to look at her, and she gave him a weak smile. "I know your mind, Mark. I cannot say it will work. We might be ignored entirely. You might be left behind. I... might be destroyed. Or forced to move on. But if you agree, I will ask. For you. Join me in prayer, and I will ask."

He kneeled, not quite feeling the stares of his companions. His hand reached out to a hand they could not see. And on the deck of a ship sailing on a dying sea of dreams and nightmares, when a prayer they would never hear concluded, his companions heard him utter his first words since Red woke him. "I have come to be judged."

The world went white. At first he could see nothing. Time passed and he could make out metal creaking. He felt the ground under him shift, like a ship on natural water. The white surrounding him became a fog, and he could feel the droplets settle on his skin. Truly feel them. Through the fog, he could see Yala across from him. As he started to feel the joy of hope, he looked for his companions, but did not find them.
As the fog dissipated more, however, he realized he was not standing on a ship. He was standing on a massive golden dish. Chains seemed to hold it aloft, but those ran up into the fog so high he could not see their end. One half of a scale that held him and the paladin on opposing ends. Swaying for what seemed an eternity. Up and down, then up and down again. Looking into the paladin's worried face, Mark knew what the verdict would be long before it stopped, but not the punishment.

The world returned to them. He opened his eyes and saw yet more fog. This time, however, the creak came from familiar wood, and up in the overcast sky they could see the sun moving behind the clouds. His companions were there, alive and well. He heard his own voice ask what happened. Why had that come from behind him? He tried to turn and see, but found he could not. He could not see at all, in fact, realizing he was simply aware. He became aware of the slightly off position towards the voice he recognized as his own. He became aware of his inability to move on his own accord. He became aware of the hands carrying him, then freezing up and letting go. He felt himself hitting the ground, but did not feel any pain. He heard his voice again, speaking to him, overlayed in his mind with Yala's voice through their attunement as she cradled the crossbow she once called home.

"Mark? I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, I didn't..."