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Whisperling
Centaur Soulknife
ACT I - Amidst the Calm
There was something in the silence that night.Fellkeep was a tired old town, hewn from the stones of history in a time before civilization. For thousands of years it had stood as a bastion in the center of the continent and had kept at bay the wild places by which it was surrounded. The harsh winds of the plains tore fruitlessly at the tired bones of towers and abodes, and though these bones would creak in protest they refused to back down. The humans and elves that had chosen to make this town their home were equally hardy. Though they may grumble, they possessed a spirit that would not yield in the face of adversity.
But tonight was a different matter. The ghostly breath of the plains, normally so pervasive and insistent, had stilled, granting the stone and timber of the stronghold a rare reprieve.
To most this was an unexpected and entirely pleasant development; an opportunity to warm the chill permeating the very core of the town’s residents. Whisperling was not “most.”
In fact, there likely wasn’t a soul alive who would consider him to be normal. By his very nature he stood apart from his peers. Half man and half beast, the centaur was out of place in most settings.
Even his name was unique, as he chose it himself and there was nobody around who knew him as anything else. Tonight, his abnormality manifested in a nagging feeling that something was amiss. He stood in the darkness of the city streets and peered at the stars as he pondered the uneasy quiet. To him it seemed a harbinger of something dire, and he feared what the coming storm would bring.
He was so engrossed in thought he hadn’t even noticed the two men who had drunkenly stumbled onto the street from a nearby tavern. When they spoke to him he was taken entirely by surprise.
“Hey pretty horsey, you want some hay?”
Their inebriated giggling was initially met with shock, but Whisperling couldn’t help but smile at the sight. “Actually,” he said, “I’d prefer some oats if you’ve got them.”
The two men had expected a much more emotional reaction. Having not received one they were left utterly speechless, unable to process a meaningful response through the alcohol clouding their minds. With a chuckle he reached down and ruffled their hair as he walked past them into the night.
“Don’t strain yourselves, lads.” He paused and smiled over his shoulder before he continued. “Best be getting home. It’s late, and your husbands must be worried.”
“Wha—“
The drunkards’ protests were cut short as a plume of flame rose into the southern sky. Several others rose to meet it even before the thunderous roar from the explosions washed over the alley. Already unsteady, the two humans were blown clean off their feet to collapse in a drunken heap against the far wall.
Whisperling frowned at the pair before directing his attention back south.
“Sometimes I hate being right.”
ACT II - Fire and Blood
The screams of goblins, humans, and elves rang shrill in Whisperling’s ears as he galloped toward the southern wall. In alleys he passed he glimpsed healers feverishly chanting over writhing wounded from the Drigonian Honour Guard, and still others closing the eyes of those who were beyond saving. The destruction was unthinkable.He clutched his fists in rage, pressing on with all his might. How could the goblins have made it to the city without the Red Sage detecting their presence? How did they become so organized that they could launch an assault on a bastion that has stood strong for thousands of years?
One thing was certain: much more blood would be spilled this night, and he was not about to sit on the sidelines while it happened. He was already shaking in anticipation of the violence to come, unable to quench the bloodlust and savagery of his heritage.
Suddenly he was there. Flames and steel swirled about the scene. The mighty walls of Fellkeep, once tall and proud, were now reduced puddles of molten rock by goblin magic, allowing scores of goblins to pour into the city. Across the court, more of the city’s inhabitants continued to rush into the fray.
Arrows rained down amongst the foot soldiers and explosions of magical energy rang out above them as the mages of the Drigonian Honour Guard faced off against the goblin witchdoctors and siege weapons beyond the wall.
It took only a moment to analyse the scene before him, and without missing a stride the mighty centaur sprang into action, grasping a longsword protruding from the chest of a slain goblin as he went. It was barely a knife to him, but it was sharp, and it would have to do. Excitement welled within him as the swarm grew ever closer, his hands shaking so vigorously he could barely keep his grasp on the blade.
It was nearly time.
The ride across the courtyard was only a few seconds, but to him it felt like an eternity. He had chosen to make his home in this city, and these beasts from the wilds were now threatening to burn it to the ground. This discourtesy could only be repaid in blood, and he would make sure that many a goblin would take part in the transaction.
One of the goblins, a scraggly beast wielding a crude spear, pulled his weapon from the back of an elven warrior who had been facing off against four others. Content with his kill, he turned toward the city once more with a savage fire burning in his eyes. That fire was instantly replaced with fear as his view settled on the towering centaur bearing down on him.
As their eyes met, the tremor in Whisperling’s fists immediately ceased. All of his rage, all of his bloodlust filed down to a single point within his consciousness; an absolute focus accented by a wave of perfect calmness.
The dance with death had begun.
That goblin was but the first of many to fall to the centaur’s precise and powerful strikes, followed by the four creatures the unfortunate elf had been facing before meeting his demise. Whisperling’s blade swung ceaselessly, cleaving goblins in two with each powerful blow, and goblin heads were crushed to dust beneath his hooves. As he advanced into the goblin horde he left behind him only a crimson mist.
For hours he fought, his sleek black fur enveloped in goblin blood. They were outside the wall now, and exhausted soldiers pressed forward with all of their remaining might to repel the invaders.
Blackness licked at the corners of Whisperling’s vision, but he refused to give even an inch of ground. His thick hide was covered in a thousand cuts from goblin blades, and pain wracked his every step, but he would not back down.
This was his city, and he was determined to keep it that way.
A goblin charged him from his left flank as he moved to dispatch a similar brute on his right. As he swung his sword he was sure it would end his foe, and so he directed his attention to the new arrival and prepared to strike.
But then he heard a piercing clang, and he felt his blade shatter in his grasp. In a panic he leapt backward and looked back to the goblin he thought should be dead. It stood there still, though it was three times its original size and had a wicked grin on its face. Its weapon, a roughly-hewn mace, had grown as well. Whisperling’s blade, weakened and chipped throughout the night, had snapped in two when it collided with the fortified arm, leaving him without the means to defend against the new threat to either side.
As panic welled up inside of him, so too did a force that he could not explain. Without thinking, he threw away the hilt of his ruined sword and focused all of his lethal intent into his fist. As he stabbed toward the smaller goblin he shaped his rage; let his will take form. As he did so, the air began to part, as if cut by an invisible force. In the rift an ethereal blade formed, and the startled goblin, so confident mere moments before, collapsed in a heap at the centaur’s feet.
Whisperling turned back to the fortified goblin who had destroyed his physical sword, a new wave of energy surging to match his resolve.
“I guess I should pick on someone my own size.”
ACT III - The Resolve of Home
“Let him through.”General Solomon set down the map he had been examining and rose to meet the warrior who had called upon him. He was no small man, but the centaur entering his command tent towered above him in both physique and countenance. The high commander of the Drigonian Honour Guard was not easily unsettled, but there was something in the air that made him feel uneasy.
“My men tell me that you were instrumental in sealing the breach to the southern wall. I would like to extend my gratitude.”
Whisperling looked down at the general’s outstretched hand, but couldn’t bring himself to grasp it. If not for his anger he likely would not have even been able to stand. All he could manage was a nod.
“I’m sorry general, but it’s been a very long night. I’m not usually one to skip the pleasantries, but I would ask that we get right down to business.”
The general acknowledged him with a tired nod and allowed his hand to fall back to his side. “As you wish. What brings you to my tent?” He considered offering his guest a seat, but a quick glance at
Whisperling’s four equestrian legs caused him to reconsider.
“How did this happen? There’s no way a force of that size could have made it all the way to Fellkeep without the Red Sage warning us.”
Solomon’s face sank at the question – a queue which Whisperling did not miss. It took him some time to find his words, but the centaur was patient.
“There’s been… an incident.” He paused, still finding the thought difficult to swallow. With a sigh, he looked Whisperling straight in the eye. “The Seven Sages have gone missing. We have reason to believe they may have been kidnapped and brought to Hell. We’re seeking adventurers to go after them and bring them back. In fact, we could use someo—“
“I’m in,” Whisperling interrupted.
Solomon was taken aback, and unsure of how to respond. “I’m sorry?”
“I said I’m in. Form your party, and include me in its number. I’ll not stand idly by while Drigonia is ravaged by beasts.”
He worked his mouth wordlessly for some time, unable to put his thoughts to speech. Eventually his managed a single word: “Why?”
“This is a desolate place, and its residents harbour no love for my kind, but I have made it my home. I do not take kindly to my home being attacked, and I’d rather it not happen again. Besides…” The centaur raised his hand and focused intently on it, mustering whatever willpower he had remaining after his night’s long battle. After a moment a long, ethereal blade formed in his fist. He turned it before him, examining the blade for defects or hidden mysteries that had yet to be revealed. “I seem to have a new talent that I wish to learn to control. It still takes some time to form the blade, but I feel like with practice I can make it a true extension of my will.” He looked away from the blade and deep into the general’s eyes. “I will have my practice.”
