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as the world were now but to begin
Pathfinder!Lac meets an Angel
Permalink Mark Unread

Lac Miller is riding in a dwarf farmer's cart. The dwarf is even more taciturn than the stereotype, and they haven't spoken to each other in two days.

The lonely journey has called up an awful emptiness, and in that emptiness arises a thought - Lac is going to die.

It's not a new thought. He donated before he set out, to the churches of Iomedae and Sarenrae. He tries to be honest and kind, because he knows that the likeliest outcome of adventuring is that he dies before his third circle. He's probably Good, though he doesn't detect, yet. He has a place in paradise, and if he saves a life before a monster kills him then his place is all the more secure.

But Lac is a brilliant young wizard, and like all brilliant young wizards he wants to be an Archmage. He dreams of finding an ethical alternative to Lichdom. Of forging an order of ageless, teleporting, globetrotting 9th circle adventurers. He wants to Plane Shift to Hell and hear the mighty words of a Wish drop from his lips, feel his heart explode with holy fire that erases millions of devils and secures Good's victory for all time...

Lac is first circle. Lac is the most arrogant idiot in all of Golarion, because he left everything behind to chase his beautiful, impossible dream. Because he's going to die after abandoning his parents who loved him even though they never knew what to do with him, and he'll never again see his few friends or the baker's dog or his father's friend's beautiful daughter whom his mother thought would be a great marriage prospect.

Lac will go to Nirvana, his Da to Axis, and his Ma to Heaven, and all the things that stayed unsaid between them will stay unsaid forever.

It's a long road and there's no one else here.

 

 

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And then -

Something must've happened, because the emptiness is suddenly filled with pain.  Searing pain.  Probably more pain than he's felt ever before.

The cart might've also vanished, because he's lying on a wooden stretcher, which's bobbing up and down like it's being carried by people.  If he manages to look around, he's suddenly in a city.

"Make way!" one of the bearers is shouting.  "Coming through! Fetch a healer, quick!"

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Lac had a pretty cushy life. His mother was a healer and would ply her craft when he got sick. He never had to do hard labor or fight for his life, and most of his waking hours were spent reading.

So what happens when you give this sheltered bookworm a deep, wide wound in the center of his chest, cracking ribs and reaching dangerously close to his heart?

It actually takes a second for the pain to register, and then it hurts too much for screaming. Forget about situational awareness or anything - this is a couple notches past "wishing for death" and well into what his second favorite Irorian philosopher calls a "limit experience." 

Not that he's thinking about that right now. 

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"Hey, somebody, got a wounded fighter!"

"Can we get a healer over here?" the first voice calls out again, louder this time.

There're sounds of a crowd - not an army, not people running scared, but a crowd, maybe happier than an average day in a city?

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Then someone else in nicer clothes steps up closer (if he's looking).  "My, my, look at this!  But why would you drag a wounded fighter into the middle of the festival square? Couldn't he be carted off somewhere else, like... oh I don't know... an infirmary? Or an accommodating ditch?"

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He's in an infirmary?

Maybe Ma can heal him

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He isn't yet...

Another voice, a man sounding like he expects people to be listening to him, comes up.  "Make room, everyone step back! Now, what's the matter? What happened to him?" 

"Demons, Prelate!" says the first voice.  "We found him barely alive outside the walls of Kenabres!"

"The walls, you say?"  He pauses and continues in a suspicious tone.  "The enemy doesn't usually stray so close to the city. We must fortify the defenses, especially now for the festival..."

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demons? evocation doesn't work on demons

Lac is really losing quite a lot of blood.

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The Prelate turns back to Lac.  "Hold fast; don't die; we'll get you patched up now!  But first -- you there, guard, take his weapons.  Bearing arms is not permitted during the festival. Wounded or not, he can get his things back afterwards."

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He can feel... well, if he can feel anything now over the pain and blood loss, he can feel... some people removing some weighty things from the stretcher.

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The pain feels far away, or maybe there's less Lac present to hurt! He doesn't react to the loss of his weapons, paid for with utter tedium and laundry wizardry.

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Maybe the sinking feeling is real.  They're laying his stretcher on the ground now.

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The light hits just right, and a glowing vision of Hulrun's sun-and-sword sears into Lac's darkening visual field. The prayer is reflexive.

Iomedae-