The source of evil lies not in the Heavens, or in The Dark, but within the souls of all men and women. Human, elf, and dwarf alike. We simply prefer to blame divine forces for our own failings.

Crovus Trunsdun, Steward of the Fourth Crimson Throne, 5814-5828 GR

Her hands wringing themselves raw, Daphney's feet simultaneously wore a path back and forth across the floor.

Sayra reiterated her previous request, made numerous times already, to the cleric. "Please, you should lie down and continue to rest."  Rolling front to back in an antique rocker, creaking with every year of its seven generations of use by members of the family once residing here, Sayra stroked the scales on the back of her pet blue dragon.  Sheetah sat curled up in her lap and on the verge of sleep as the methodical rocking mirrored Daphney's own pace.

"I can't."  Daphney abandoned the uncomfortable bed not long after fully regaining her senses.  For two days straight, she'd been caught in this constant cycle of needing to move in between brief moments of fitful sleep.  The worst migraine she ever experienced was pounding on her head like it was a drum, while her body felt as though an entire convoy of military supply wagons had run her over; twice.

The modest residence in Telga was nothing of significance.  In all, it was quite plain.  While certainly less prone to drafts than the moth hole riddled tents she's lived in since Rwan came to her village and she'd left to join the rebellion, it never really held any sense of home to her.

The owner abandoned the dwelling to the cleric when she arrived, and once her and Gwen Havarston came to an accord about how things would operate between the two of them.  The man had not relocated his family out of threat of force or even upon request, but out of servitude and reverence.  And ever since, she'd lived here while he, his wife, and their only child moved in with neighbors and into an equally small home that was most likely way too crowded at this moment.

This was someone else's home, and it would never be hers.

But the local man wouldn't take no for an answer. And not wanting to sound rude, Daphney accepted the offer.  She'd come to accept that some people were devout enough in their faith that they would not be satisfied until they'd done something they considered right.  No matter the cost to themselves.  And, for a brief moment, she thought of Trast and his sacrifice.

 "Stressing yourself out is not going to help your headache," the elven woman with silvery hair said.

The conversation presented Daphney with a reason to change the tract her mind had taken.  "I think it's getting worse." Brow furled, the cleric gripped at her head during her droning and repetitive course as it continued without interruption.

Beyond the annoying and lingering effects from her most recent encounter with Lady Noranda, Daphney's memory possessed a host of discomforting gaps.  Several whole five days of her life couldn't be accounted for during her state of incapacitation, leaving the last thing she remembered before waking as being helpless before Lord Hedric's demon queen, trapped in those black tentacles, while death riding on a single word bore down upon her.

As the might of the command encircled her it began to pull the cleric out of existence and drawn down into The Dark itself.  But when all seemed hopeless, her life ending in defeat, the word came again.  That powerful word, spoken a second time, rose out of darkness to preserve her life, not destroy it.

"What do you know about the Word of Power?" Daphney asked of the elf as the memory of every syllable from the unforgettable word lingered within her.

Sayra continued with the task of soothing her pet, sensing it still clinging to the edge of consciousness, but losing the battle against pending sleep.  "It is said to be known only to the gods themselves.  Fabled in stories of old and many of the holy texts for the raw might it contained.  A word of both creation and destruction.  A word that, once spoken, could do impossible things."

"I've heard it."  Daphney finally ceased her circuit, turning to stare into the eyes of the silver-haired elf who peered back at her with enough curiosity that she ceased petting the azure scaled creature, now fast asleep, in her lap.  "Not only have I heard it, but I know it."

"The Word of Power is not meant for mortals."

"Rumors were that mortals, at least the select few deemed worthy enough to be entrusted with it, also once possessed  the Word of Power."

"And it was purposefully forgotten, because the strength of such knowledge was too great." Sayra recalled what she had learned of history with a particularly dour note to her speech.  "Where it'd been written down, its pages were torn out, or the Word blotted out of existence with ink.  They burned other instances of the recorded Word of Power to remove them from this world.  Men and women would destroy themselves by using it, believing that they could control the might behind them like the fools we mortals often are.  Knowing that you know it?  I would never even ask you to share it with me.  The temptation to use it would be too great."

"Even for you?"

"Even for me."

"You seem to possess such an extraordinary amount of the typically fabled elven temperament."

Sayra broke her gaze away to stare off.  "I am still only elven.  As you are only human."

Daphney bowed her head.  Even just thinking the syllables in her mind, the cleric could experience the power swelling up inside her, desiring to be unleashed; almost urging her to do so.  Like it was a living thing yearning for its freedom.  It was difficult to forget any part of the word once it had been heard, and she knew it well.  As though she'd known it all her life, and it was carved into her soul from before her first breath.

If she even attempted to recite the word aloud? That power would grow exponentially, raging forth to do anything she commanded of it.

"This word? The one on my lips? It dares me to speak it.  It could turn the tide of the war if I could master it."  She realized the word was not something to be taken lightly, however, and using it would come at a cost.  For nothing of such might can be without consequences. Still, its temptation was all too real.  And in a way, she envied Sayra for showing restraint she struggled to possess.

"You saw what even a fraction of its might could do."  Sayra's warning was as bold as it was plain.

Flexing her hand, taking in the pale, ashen color of it, Daphney replayed the entire encounter with Lord Hedric's demon queen, recalling how, up until recently, it brought up the worst feelings of dread in the cleric.  "I did."

"Yet really all this is just a distraction from what really vexes you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."  Daphney moved as far away as the cozy residence would allow, staring at the far wall.  The accusation was true.  She most certainly did preferred the horror of the battle with Lady Noranda to the other vision banging around in her mind.  Which is why she dwelled on the former.

Try as she might to ignore it, one devastatingly painful picture, one worse than almost dying at the hands of Lady Noranda, could not be wiped from her memory.  As her eyes cracked open from her near death slumber, Daphney proceeded from one undying hell to an even more horrifying ordeal.

Her first vision upon returning to consciousness was of Anthony, but he was embracing a blond-haired stranger Daphney had never seen before.  As she laid there, unable to speak, her mind still reawakening, the kiss he shared with the woman was one the cleric would not soon forget simply for the amount of passion evident within it and the length of time their lips lingered together.  And the wounds caused by it would be longer lasting, she feared, than any other she ever sustained.

It had been two days since that trauma scarred her more deeply than what Lady Noranda and the recitation of the Word of Power had attempted to do to her.  Despite repeated pleas for Anthony to come and see her, he had not.  As though he were purposefully ignoring her and the very obvious questions she would put to him.  The problem was, if he came, Daphney possessed no idea what she would say to him.

At first she believed what she had seen to be just a terrible nightmare; the man she loved with another woman and flaunting their affections before her.  But, in the past day, she learned from the elven woman with silvery hair tending to her it was no hallucination.  What it was was a dreadful reality.

When the knock she'd long sought came at her door, and she didn't respond, it cracked open anyway.  Sayra reacted more than the cleric as Anthony slinked inside, his eyes downcast like a beaten dog.

"I think I'll leave the two of you alone," Sayra said.  In her arms, she cradled the still sleeping dragon as she leaned forward, rose, and departed the premises.

Daphney remained impassive, the wall before her garnering every bit of her attention.  But, eventually, the young woman choked out the first words that came to her mind.  "I waited for you.  You know that?  How could you do this to me?"

With a deep breath in, Anthony allowed his response time to form, fighting back residual feelings that still lingered, but that he would not allow to overtake him.  "Daphney, it's not what you think.  I didn't mean for this to happen."

"I guess that's supposed to make everything all right?"  Placing herself weakly on the edge of the bed, Daphney allowed herself to look upon the man she still loved.  "You told me you'd always be there for me.  Just tell me something.  How long did it take?  Was she the first pretty face you came across?  Or did you at least wait until the second or third?"

Anthony scowled at the pale cleric as she sat there hurling anger at him.  "Daphney, you talk about Reane like she's some harlot.  You don't even know her."

"Oh?  And I'm sure you did?  She offers you passage to Fimmirra and you sleep with her?  Is that how it works?  Was that part of the price?  No wonder you didn't want me to come along."

The continuing barrage of accusations forced Anthony to pull at his hair with angry tears of his fingers.  "I can't believe we're having this conversation.  You're talking like I planned this?"

Daphney rested her head in her hands.  "Ever since I met you, I thought we'd be together.  Now this?"

Anthony took two steps towards the cleric but stopped.  "I never meant to hurt you, Daphney.  Honestly.  I never thought that Reane would be the sort of woman I could get serious about." 

"A little late for apologies."

"Don't give me this attitude of yours!  For the love of—"  Anthony bit his tongue.  "This conversation is over.  I can't believe you're acting so—so—"

"Immature?  That's what you always thought of me, isn't it?  Nothing more than a scared little girl?  Well, Rwan trusted me. And for reasons I can't explain, so do a lot of others!  These people hang on my every word.  And some have even died for me.  A man named Trast died for me.  That's far more loyalty than you've shown." 

"Enough, Daphney!  You're obviously still not feeling well."  Anthony forced his voice to regain some semblance of calm.  "I'll take that into account when remembering all that you've said."

As he started to vacate the residence, Daphney lifted her head up and called to him.  "Time doesn't heal all wounds, Anthony."  

He stopped for a second as he opened the door.  "Then I'm sorry.  Twice over.  First, for hurting you.  But second, because you'll be hurting for a long time."