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<span class="mu-s">Religion 30 vs DC ???</span>
Your only response to the demon that has wormed its way inside of your head is the words of an old prayer. One passed down from the good father of the congregation you belonged to as a child, shortly after you became an altar girl. For the Dark One delights in casting temptation after temptation upon those whom hold their faith in the Lord of Light near and dear to their hearts.
This must be the voice of that dark miasma which has been sealed into your arm and your eye. The final parting gift of the Arbiter before she fled from battle with the cultists in tow.
"Oh, Lord of Light..." with hands clasped beneath your cocoon of blankets, you mummer out a silent prayer. The maids pay you no mind, or perhaps - in this dream - they have no mind to pay you. "Drape me in your cloak of seven colors, the shining bulwark against the moonless nights. Let my faith become a shield against the darkness, that guards my heart against intrusions by the sla-"
The voice sounds furious when she cuts you off, thundering that, <span class="mu-s">We are no slaves to the Lightless. <span class="mu-i">Fool girl</span>.</span>
<span class="mu-i">SPLASH</span>
Right. You let yourself get distracted from the vision by the voice, and the maids did what they did nearly a decade ago. The white sheets that had once been your cocoon have unfurled like the triumphant banner of Jacques de la Monte, when his forces relieved the Castle Stonepier from Roslander siege. Now as then, you find yourself thrown unceremoniously into the water, splashing down like a fallen log, and naked as the day you were born.
At Stonepier, you had least had a long swim to look forward to, which ended at a cache of goodies that had been buried on the shore. Old armor silks that fit a bit snug around your bosom, a set of fifty year old folding plate that was in dire need of maintenance, and a sword whose hilt could <span class="mu-i">not</span> extend into a proper haft, marking it as an antique barely worthy of the battlefield. Oh, and most importantly, eight casks filled to the brim with blasting jelly - a khemical that ages like a fine wine.
You beat the retreating Roslanders to the bridge they used to march across the Ivystem.
A magnificent piece of architecture, it spanned the half-mile crossing of the river in a magnificent granite arch. Broad enough to fit ten carts abreast with room enough to spare for pedestrians walking between them. One of the Great Roads, build when the Imperial Garden encompassed all the land, with every flower gathered under its banner and meticulously cared for. They built their roads to stand the test of time, to be their contribution to the history of the world, a girdle of stone that connected all mankind.
