From: hutch@hfglobe.intel.com (Stephen Hutchison)
Subject: [DQ] Week 14 Kadrys - "Nor Iron Bars a Prison Make"
Reply-To: hutch@ibeam.intel.com
Organization: Intel Corporation
Date: Thu, 12 Nov 1992 00:27:58 GMT

[ADMIN]  This is posted for Andrea Evans.

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"Take them to the holding area," Lord Raven commanded, and the DQers were
dragged off.  "And Krastin, why don't you show our new friend around the
place?"  Krastin nodded quickly, and led Lancos off.
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Kadrys is flung into the cell by a huge scaled fist.  He hits the ground and
whirls reflexively as the cell door slams.  There is a rumbling hisssnarl of
draconic laughter.  Then, the hallway trembles faintly to the beast's ponderous
footfalls, and the slither of its tail on the stones fades into silence.

Kadrys changes instantly into mistform and tries to fade under or around the
door, but finds a seamless, invisible wall of magical force.  Some variation
on the usual 'protection from undead' forbidding, but one enforced by the
nauseating stench of evil rather than the burning flame of goodness.  Either
way, equally impassable.  He flicks back to his human form, crossing to the far
corner of the cell and sinking with eerie unconscious grace into a crosslegged
seated position.  At least he has time to think.

As he moves out of fight mode, as he grows calmer and begins to take advantage
of the chance for contemplation, his mind flashes back to the events of the
last few minutes, and the reaction hits him.  He hugs his knees to his chest
and drops his forehead onto them as grief crashes over him.  Flashes of memory,
incidents of friendship crowd his mind: 'Raelf assuming the forbidden form of
Maribel the Oracle, interceding to save him from his fate.  The two of them,
finding strange kinship in their midnight discussion.  The joy of watching him
at play amid waves of powdered death.  Amid these bright images are scattered
bursts of pain, moments from the more recent past.  Again he sees 'Raelf lunge
in front of him, shielding him with his own body from the arrow meant to impale
him.  He sees the barbed point pierce 'Raelf's forehead, the wide shaft shatter
his skull.  He feels his friend's blood splash his face (the warmth sinking deep
into him as his pores open in unwanted, mindless reflex and absorb the blood).
He watches 'Raelf's body fall, bursting apart into dazzling elemental fragments
before fading away.  And, more hideous than everything else, he watches as
'Raelf's soul is dragged screaming, helpless, into the priestess' trap, there
to await unknown atrocities.

His friend had died, _worse_ than died, to save Kadrys' life.  Kadrys had
sworn to repay 'Raelf for the inestimable gift of reunion with his beloved
Imariye'.  But what had he done to repay that debt? Nothing.  He had stood by
and watched 'Raelf die.  Watched his spirit imprisoned.  And had done not a
single damned thing to help him...

He draws a great, shuddering breath, ragged as if he is weeping, though his
eyes burn, hot and feverishly dry.  He moans softly in his mind, 'Ohh 'Raelf...
I'm so sorry...  So sorry...  If they give me half a chance, I swear...'

And with that, the hot flood of his grief crystallises all at once, into
something harder and colder than rage.  Determination.  He raises his head from
his knees, his eyes bleak as the Void, his mouth set in a thin line.  His mind
starts working in its old, familiar logic, clear and chill and implacable as
ice.  'Vows are for paladins, Kadrys.  Leave heroism to the heroes.  Make no
promises that you may well be unable to keep.  'Raelf, _if_ I get out of here
alive, _if_ I am able to, I will _try_ to release you.  That is all I can do.'

His mind turns to Lancos, and his frown returns.  Perhaps of all of the
questers, he most clearly understands Lancos' decision.  'Indeed,' he is forced
to admit, 'I might easily have been driven to choose such a path myself.  If I
thought it was the sole way to save my life.  If Maribel hadn't told me what
the outcome of that decision would be...  Can this be that accursed medallion
at work?  I _wish_ I'd ripped the damned thing off his neck and crushed it,
back in the Inn.' A moment later he shrugs, grinning sourly.
'What then?  These cursed items have a habit of looking after themselves.
Perhaps it would've killed Lancos rather than be removed.  Perhaps it would've
killed me.  Who knows?  It's futile to wonder about it now,' he thinks coldly.

He rests his chin on his knees, and his eyes go vacant as he turns over the
possibilities in his mind.  Images of his foes and their capabilities: known,
and guessed, pass one by one before his inner vision.

'Lord Raven: a vampire like myself.  Interesting possibilities there: of all the
questers I should be best able to understand him, know his weaknesses...

The dragon: still shaped like a silver, but coloured black now.  I wonder
whether it still has silver dragon weaponry, or has that been changed to that
of a black dragon also?  I think not.  I think the colour is only scale-deep.
Just Raven's version of a dogtag for his new pet.  I wonder what it would take
to break Raven's hold on the dragon? It must be possible: he was turned, he can
be turned back.  We certainly need him on our side...

That priestess: a follower of Loviatar.  Difficult to fight: pain, hers and
others, strengthens her.  Fight her with love? Not possible.  Not for me.  After
what she's done to 'Raelf, I have a personal score to settle with that bitch.
_If_ I get the chance.  Freeing myself and my friends is _far_ more important
than purely personal indulgences like revenge...

That unusually powerful wight matched the others' descriptions of the
necromancer they fought before coming here: what was his name? Vornick.

And I could swear I recognised the dark plate mail on that skeleton in the front
rank.  It could have been Krastin.  The bones were the right size, and still
fresh enough to stink of rotten marrow.  It seems this so-called Dark Master
is - unkind - even to his loyal servants.  If Lancos thinks he has eluded
danger by submitting, _I_ think he is very mistaken...'

He ponders the powers of his foes, and the unguessable abilities of the PCD,
and tries to assess his chances.  They certainly look bleak.  In fact, he
cannot see any way out.  All his projections, all his plans, when worked
through in his mind, logically lead to inevitable defeat.  His expression is
grim.  'Still,' he reminds himself in an effort to stave off imminent despair,
'I've been in terrible situations many times before...  And still, one way or
another, something has always happened to save me and somehow I have endured
it all...'

He adds reluctantly '...only to end up here.' He thinks darkly that the mix
of skills, survival instinct, and admittedly good luck which had somehow
managed to save him in the past, could easily prove worthless here.  He
may well have come at last to the final, irrevocable end of his long life.
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