The last thing he felt was the blade of her knife being drawn from his chest. After that, everything melted into a warm haze of sensation. Voltaire sat with his back against a tree, dragged there by a now dead shattered spear archer. He had requested to be left there as it was the sunniest spot he could see within the dense tree cover. The dagger he had hoped to leave in his enemy’s throat now lay unused beneath a crumbling wooden shield to his left, and in his right hand now slaked in his own blood was the amulet on Sol he held so dear; torn from its chains by a stonetooth spearhead. Every breath he took was harder than the last, and he choked on the blood pooling in his mouth. They finally managed it… Voltaire, The Ever Punctured, brought down by poisoned arrows and wicked swords.
A fitting end, he thought. His choice to stay behind and fight saved more lives than he could count, and promised hope for the shattered spear people. By the light, Sol would be proud. Even as his life began to fade he could feel the warmth of the sun comforting him. Soon, he would know what lies beyond the veil, and he would join his fallen brethren in the light eternal, ever watchful over the world of the living. His only regret was that he did not tell his comrades where he was going… News of his death may not ever reach them.
But his reluctant peace was interrupted by something… or rather someone, screaming. The knife being held to Voltaire’s throat wavered, and as though she could not believe what she was hearing the Stonetooth Hearthsworn turned her attention away. He could hardly make out the words over the ringing in his ears, but he knew that voice. It was Runa! Hersir Runa was alive? How?… Surely this warband had cut everyone down. How was she still breathing? Just then more voices joined the din. Yells of pain and barked orders. “Bring her down!” one voice shouted.
“It seems like you didn’t finish the job,” Voltaire rasped, his lungs protesting to even the lightest whisper at this point. “Perhaps you should take care of that first.” He murmured towards the Hearthsworn.
She responded by plunging the dagger into his stomach. Voltaire barely registered the pain. The pressure from the blow was more pressing, as the jolt knocked what little air was left out of his lungs. Perhaps not his best work, but as far as last words go, one final jab at the competence of your enemy seemed an apt use of breath. He would not take another. And as his vision began to dim, the last thing Voltaire saw was the light of the sun beaming through the leaves above.
The darkness that welcomed him after was calm and inviting, like the hug of a long lost friend. His thoughts turned to home… the home he knew before Mardrun. Faerun spread before his mind as though not a day had passed since the last boat set sail for the new world. Before the dead scourged the land. He could see the rolling hills and dunes of his childhood home. The merchant village he and his father called home for all those years before the fall. He remembered long nights of practicing forms from his father’s old martial manuals, trying and failing to perfect his footwork. He thought of his father’s sword… gleaming in the firelight of his home set ablaze… the snarls and growls of the dead. He heard the screams from that day, as loud and as clear as could be imagined. As though he was right there again. He stepped forward, to match the walking corpses shambling toward him. And as he raised his sword, his footing faltered. Teeth found purchase on his arm. Then his leg. Then his neck.
Voltaire awoke screaming. His heart pounded in his ears and his breath struggled to catch itself. He gasped for what little air could be found before he realized what was happening. He was… breathing. His heart was beating. Startled by this revelation, Voltaire shot up from his back, only to be rudely interrupted by the sharp protest of his stomach. He winced at the pain, and corrected his approach, slowly raising himself into a sitting position. He scanned his surroundings carefully. Voltaire found himself on a small cot in a dark room of a wooden cabin. The only light in the room came from a small lantern hanging on the wall by his bed. In the flickering light he saw the glint of his ruined armor resting in a heap on the other side of the room, and beside that were his shield, sword, and spear. Everything was caked in dark red stains. Relief began to take hold in his still racing heart as he turned his attention towards the gash that had been torn through him mere moments ago. Or… well… what he thought was mere moments ago. How much time had passed? Where even was he? The last thing he remembered was losing consciousness deep within shattered spear territory. Had he been captured and nursed back to health by the enemy? Was he enthralled? Where was Runa?…
These questions raced through his mind as he examined his bandages. Around his torso was wrapped a large roll of cloth, strained red with blood. On his leg was much the same, as well as left arm. He lifted the dressing on his chest, flinching at the initial sting before examining ragged stitches running nearly from his clavicle down to his sternum. Along his abdomen was a gash held closed by fine twine and a herbal paste. His head held a small quilted pad affixed with what seemed to be linen cloth soaked in tree sap. Whoever had done this was obviously no stranger to battle wounds. This was the work of a professional to be sure. And as he felt around in the shadows of his body he came across a wound he didn’t remember receiving on his right shoulder. Below a small bundle of cloth tied down with a scrap piece of burlap was a jagged little arrow wound. Voltaire knew the feeling all too well. He’d taken more arrows out of his body than he’d care to recount. But how did that get there? He never took an arrow there, and certainly not one like this.
Just then, the door to his dark little room creaked open. Voltaire’s breath caught in his chest, realizing too late that whoever might have closed his wounds might still be around. From the doorway blew in a cool breeze that sent an uncomfortable shiver up Voltaire’s spine, which was closely followed by the shadowed form of a large man. As the light from the lantern fell upon the man, his eyes were the first to catch it. They were brilliant emerald jewels against the inky blackness behind him, and they bore a fresh hole into his heart as he stared. Ulven for sure. Even in the dim light, his fangs could be seen beneath his lips. The ulven man and Voltaire locked eyes for what seemed like an eternity before the silence was broken by an uncomfortable cough from the unknown man. He cleared the distance between them in two strides, pulled up a stool from one of the less illuminated corners, and sat beside Voltaire.
“So you are alive then. Good. I was worried I had finished the job.” The ulven man said, a hint of embarrassment edging into the low rumble he took for a voice.
“It would seem so…” Voltaire replied cautiously. He still had no idea who this man was, and so reserved his words.
Silence fell between them before the ulven spoke up.
“You… were in pretty bad shape when we found you, human. Your wounds were great. It was no small task pulling you back together, and even after that we had no idea if you would survive.”
Voltaire perked at that. “We?” he questioned.
“Ah… right. There are others here. My pack-mates. We were resting at this hunting camp when you stumbled out of the trees half crazed and covered in blood. We are awfully close to the forest you see, so I thought you might be a ghost…” The ulven winced a bit as he pointed at the arrow wound on Voltaire’s shoulder. “That would be my handiwork… My apologies.”
Voltaire considered this. “I see…” He trailed off, his mind trying to piece together the story. He had made it all the way to the forest?… From shattered spear territory?… That’s nearly 80 miles! How did he?…
“I… uh… Just wanted to let you know that you don’t owe us for this, if you were worried about that.” The ulven man said sheepishly, interrupting Voltaire’s concentration.
“Huh?… Oh… right. That’s… Very appreciated,” Voltaire recovered quickly. Questions that deep could wait. “So, I’m guessing I have you to thank for this stitching? I have to compliment you. This work is superb.”
The ulven man looked taken aback for a moment before smiling and letting out a small chuckle.
“With these hands? I’m lucky I can hold my bow as steady as I do! No, this is Halthgotha’s work. She’s our trapper. Not just handy with iron, she’s also a magician with a needle and thread.”
“Halth-goo-tha… I see.” Voltaire pondered that for a moment. He never would have expected a trapper to be capable of this. “I’ll be sure to thank her when I can stand.” Voltaire let a small smile cross his face. The ulven man regarded him and let his smile grow in kind.
“As well you should!” He quipped. “Were it not for her keen eye, we would have cut off your head!” The ulven man’s casual mention of brutality unsettled Voltaire. He tried to remain composed.
“Ha… Yes, that would make sense if you thought I was a walking corpse.” The irony of that wasn’t lost on him. He must have certainly looked the part. Voltaire the ever punctured rising again as a member of the living dead of which he’d spent the better part of 20 years fighting against. The jokes at his rotting expense would be legendary.
“Well, regardless, thank you for NOT taking my head. Halthgotha is a kind soul if nothing else just for that.” Voltaire tried to shake the thought from his head. “So… What is your name?”
The ulven regarded him once more, a warmth in his piercing green eyes. “My name is Skal. Skal Birchfodder, of Pack Timberborne, Clan Whiteoak. And you are?”
“Voltaire… My name is Voltaire.” He replied.
“Just Voltaire? Well now I feel a bit overdressed,” Skal snarked. His mood had noticeably improved since the beginning of this conversation, and it seemed now he was happy to make jokes. “Seems an awful shame to have just one name after what you’ve been through.”
Voltaire thought for a moment on that. Back to his youth. Voltaire was the only name he had ever gone by. His father insisted it was a family tradition… or something approximating one. Last names were reserved for those who accomplished something great. And when you had earned your name, you would be given it. You did not choose your name. The closest thing Voltaire ever got was his mocking title of the Ever Punctured. Initially a joke at his expense for always being the first to take a wound in battle, but now a badge of honor he wore with pride. But… not a name. Not his last name.
Skal must have noticed Voltaire’s expression fall. “Are you alright, friend?” He asked, compassion in his voice.
Voltaire shook himself. “Yes!… (ahem) yes… sorry. Got lost in thought there.”
Skal turned to the door, then back to Voltaire. “Well, We’ve got a fire going outside. Care to take a chance at walking? I’m sure the warmths will do you good, and I’m sure you’ve got a hell of a story to tell!” He encouraged. He rose from his stool, which now looked comically small next to Skal’s imposing frame. He stood nearly a head over Voltaire, and was just as broad. His hands were large and adorned with simple jewelry, and his clothes were drab and utilitarian. Really it was his size that made him stand out. But despite his intimidating size, he held a softness in his eyes that put Voltaire at ease.
“You know what? I think I’ll take you up on that.” Voltaire replied chipperly. Skal offered his hand, and Voltaire took it readily, wincing against the aches in the rest of his body. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and attempted to stand, but his legs would not obey. Before he hit the floor, Skal was there. He muscled Voltaire back to his feet, and then hunched over to offer a shoulder for support. Together, they slowly tottered out into the crisp evening air.
They had indeed been in a humble wooden lodge. A shack, by the looks of it. Animal skins and worn iron traps hung from the rafter beams of the overhang just outside of the door, and beyond this covered porch was a modest campfire. Around it sat 3 more Ulven in similar garb to Skal. Two males and a Female. The female he immediately recognized as Halthgotha, the one who had patched his wounds. The other two males looked on in bemusement.
“What have you got there, Skal? Is that dinner?” the first male barked, laughing at his own cleverness.
The second male chimed in, “That’s about the biggest thing I’ve ever seen you take down, Skal! We’ll be eating well tonight!” The two men jostled each other in delight.
“Oh, will you two shut it? I swear, you pups must have been dropped on your heads growing up.” chided Halthgotha. Her voice carried on the wind like a thunderclap, and the two raucous men were cowed no sooner than Voltaire and Skal had reached their seats near the fire.
Skal placed Voltaire on a log that was acting as a bench for the group, and then sat down as well, letting out a contented sigh. The fire crackled and spat sparks, the slightly damp firewood being all that was available. The air around them carried the scent of pine, birch, and cedar. Voltaire took a moment to savor the sensation. Something about nearly dying has a way of elevating the simple things, it seems. But as he sat drinking in the fragrant air, Halthgotha spoke up.
“Im glad to see my work paid off, human. Skal there was worried sick you wouldn’t pull through. The big softie thought that arrow he shot into your shoulder did you in,” She smirked. Skal let out a grumble as she continued. “But really, after you didn’t die the first few days, I was pretty sure you would survive. I kept telling him ‘Skal, with how bad his injuries are, that arrow is the LEAST of his worries’, but he wouldn’t listen. He sat beside your bed for nearly 5 days. Until today, that is.” Halthgotha gave a wink.
Voltaire looked up at Skal, who at this point was turning an amusing shade of red. “5 days?… By the light, how long have I been out?” Voltaire wondered aloud.
One of the males from across the fire spoke up next, “You mean you don’t know?… Do you even remember Skal mistaking you for a Drauger?” He said, a hint of mockery creeping into his voice once again. Halthgotha hissed at the man without a second thought, and he promptly dropped his grin.
“No…” Voltaire replied honestly. His voice was low and soft. “I dont remember a thing…”
Hathgotha leaned forward on her stool, seeming to engage more than she already had. “We found you stumbling out of the great forest. Skal likely told you as much when he no doubt apologized for that hole in your shoulder. But what WE are wondering,” She made a sweeping gesture to everyone around the fire, “Is how you got into the forest in the first place.”
Her eyes were now locked on Voltaire. Halthgotha seemed to be an older ulven woman. Somewhere in her 40s by his guess, though its hard to tell sometimes with Ulven. They seem to visibly age faster than humans, though best he can tell they can live just as long. Her hair was dark brown with streaks of gray, braided into long and wild locks adorned with beads and feathers. Her eyes were a vibrant yellow, reminiscent of the wolves from which they take their namesake. She regarded the wounded Voltaire with equal parts suspicion and curiosity, and Voltaire could do nothing but squirm under her gaze. She was intense. He tried to gather his thoughts as quickly as possible.
“I was never IN the forest!” Voltaire blurted out.
Now even Skal was staring at him. Not with Halthgotha’s scrutiny, but sheer curiosity.
“But this is where we found you,” chimed Halthgotha, Her voice betraying growing distrust. “If you say you were never in the forest, then where the hell were you? And how did you get here?” She was pressing now. Judging by her demeanor, she was the leader of this small group.
Voltaire tried to gather himself. These people helped him… they saved his life. They just want to know what happened. So just TELL them what happened!
“I… was in shattered spear territory. Skal knows this much already, but my name is Voltaire. I am the High Martial of the Blades of Sol. I had made… a terrible mistake in the line of duty that put hundreds, if not thousands of shattered spear lives in danger. So… I reached out to Hersir Runa of Clan Shattered Spear. I told her that I owe her, and her people, a debt. One that I intended to pay dearly for….”
“Hold on! Hold on, wait,” piped up the other man, “YOU… were fighting for Clan shattered spear? You! A human…”
Nobody bothered to reprimand the interruption this time. It seems the question was on all of their minds.
“Yes, I did,” Voltaire continued. “Runa sent me word not a day after my offer saying she planned on taking advantage of that blood debt. And so I secreted myself away from my allies. I met with Runa and her cohort, and together we went north to link up with Clanleader Laifnar Icefury. But I must warn you… from here, it is a long story.”
Again, nobody spoke up. The group seemed intent. So Voltaire recounted the events of the mission that led to his presumed demise. The ambushes, the outpost raids, his one on one combats with several stonetooth warriors, the lives lost, the lives saved, and the heroic last stand he and his fellow warriors made as the main Stonetooth forces closed in on the region. The group of ulven hunters around him seemed to hang on his every word.
“And then as she heard those last words, she plunged the dagger into my stomach and WRENCHED across. After that… Well… You actually know the rest of the story from there.” Voltaire concluded his telling with a small amount of charades, much to the chagrin of his aching bones. Skal and Halthgotha had been leaning forward in their seats listening intently. The other males, whom Voltaire now knew as Flouky and Raulk, had been participating in the retelling by acting out the fights in dramatic fashion. By the end, everyone was enthralled. Skal was the first to speak.
“Unbelievable… You managed, somehow, after having your guts spilled for people you will never meet and not even your own, to crawl your way across nearly 80 miles of wilderness, just to have another arrow wound added to the pile of scars you carry,” Skal shook his head with a sigh. “By the wolf, I feel even worse now.”
Voltaire scooted closer to Skal and gave him a reassuring pat on his wide back. “Oh don’t feel bad, my friend. It’s just another story to add to the pile of mishaps for the Ever Punctured.”
Halthgotha, without skipping a beat, and barely stifling a giggle, “wait… the ever punctured? By Gaia’s grace, is that what they call you?” Her mirth was terribly hidden, but Voltaire beamed with pride regardless.
“It sure is!” He proclaimed, “Right, I think I skipped that part. Voltaire, the ever punctured! That’s me! That’s a story for a different day, but the short version is that despite my armoring, my enemies always seem to get past it. A Mordok once pounced on me during an expedition, and it snaked a dagger beneath my breastplate to get right at my heart! It took two healers to drag my carcass to a bed and staunch the bleeding before that same Mordok, infuriated that I was still alive, rushed the camp just to kill me! You’ve never seen a half dying man flop out of bed so fast in your life!”
At that, the entire crew burst into laughter. The twins Flouky and Raulk were rolling on the ground in hysterics. Skal had nearly fallen off the log as his head threw back in a deep belly laugh, and Halthgotha was clutching her stomach she was laughing so hard. Voltaire too was chortling along with them as much as his ribs would allow it. This band of weary souls told stories and laughed together all into the night, sharing drink and food until the sun began to crest over the horizon. And as the golden rays shined down on a brand new day, Voltaire felt at home. Not the home he had grown accustomed to here on Mardrun, not the home he had found in his comrades in Lumaria. No… This felt like how it used to be; how he imagined true home felt like. Strangers made friends from the most unlikely circumstances, stories and songs traded over firelight, and the promise of a life well spent clinging to every word. This is what he fights for. This is the life for which he holds such high regard, and would gladly give his own to defend. Voltaire watched the sunrise together with these Whiteoak Ulven in pure contentment before Skal began to speak.
“Voltaire, the Ever Punctured. An unbelievable story for an unbelievable man… Makes me think.” Skal began. Halthgotha snorted.
“Oh no, you aren’t thinking of writing a song about this guy, are you?” She said, disguising her contentment with sarcastic contempt.
Skal’s face once again changed shades. “Well… I haven’t decided yet.” He admitted bluntly.
Voltaire simply sat there, enjoying the comradery. He knew that come tomorrow, he would be on his way back to Lumaria to get the worst scolding of his life from Elzerith and Seymore, so he was intent on making the most of this, while he still had the excuse of being too injured to travel.
Halthgotha spoke up again, “You know what Skal? I think you are right. Anyone who has survived as much as this guy deserves something to be remembered by! Tell us Voltaire! What’s your full name? Let us know so we may let the great wolf know of your deeds!” She was really getting into the spirit of this now. But Voltaire shrank back slightly.
“Voltaire IS my full name… Atleast right now it is”
“Oh?” Halthgotha looked inquisitive. “And why might that be, friend?”
Voltaire took a deep sigh. “When I was young, my father told me about a tradition. Something of a rite of passage as he saw it. I am meant to earn my last name. But I can’t choose it… It must be given to me by those who believe me deserving. And to date, that hasnt happened yet. Beyond the whole ever punctured business.” Voltaire shrugged a bit at that. He did appreciate the title, as much of a joke as it first was, But it did always bother him that it wasn’t a last name. Thats really all he ever wanted.
As silence fell over the band, both Skal and Halthgotha exchanged glances. There seemed to be a silent conversation between them. Skal nodded his head to his left towards Voltaire, Halthgotha shook hers in kind. Skal motioned again, a little more forcefully this time, and Hathgotha stared at Skal, hands clasped under her chin in contemplation before giving a nod. Skal broke the silence once more.
“How about… Ulfkin?”
Voltaire blinked for a moment, thinking he might have misheard. “Excuse me?” He asked, barely containing his sense of disbelief.
“Ulfkin,” Skal repeated, “Voltaire Ulfkin, The Ever Punctured. I think it has a nice ring to it, personally.” Skal was not hiding his smile any longer. Neither was Halthgotha. The two of them looked to Voltaire for something. Recognition? Denial? A blank stare? No, All they got was silence for a good long while… Until he jumped from his seat and nearly fell into Skal’s lap, trying to embrace him. He couldn’t hold back his tears.
This may not mean much in the end, but to Voltaire, in that moment, it meant everything. After nearly 30 years of living, fighting, hurting, and a few times dying… he was recognized. Not by some lofty station or duty. No dukes or lords in sight. Just… People. Everyday folks who saw his worth, and found him deserving of what so many might take for granted. A name. A last name. The last name he will ever have. And it is said that after that faithful night, Skal Birchfodder wrote this song to commemorate the man known in taverns across Mardrun as The Ever Punctured Knight.
Once upon a time, my friends,
And not so far from here.
Once fought a noble knight of Sun and Sword who knew no fear.
Though fearless was this man of faith
Though clad in shining steel,
The metal of it’s make was poor, and wounds he’d have to heal.
His name is known, though some may say
A joke was played on he
For from this day, He will, we say, The Ever Punctured be.
The fable of this punctured man
Is short and course, tis true.
For on the field of battle, a spear ran him clean through.
His armor rent, his belly bare,
He fell upon the floor,
And were this not the Ever Punctured, dead he’d be for sure!
But on that day, some will recall,
While horns and signals cry,
His broken battered body rose, and through the trees did fly!
But not on loft, nor eagle’s wing,
Though some may dare assert,
But broken knee, and bloody hand, and clumps of trodden dirt.
To fly… or limp, more aptly put,
The ever punctured went.
Through the battle lines he slumped, his armor torn and bent.
The warriors of tooth and spear,
Their energy near spent,
They paid this walking corpse no mind, as through the mud it trekked.
And as the ever punctured walked,
His guts held in by hand,
He heard the voice of God ring out, “My boy, your wound is grand”
“Indeed,” Said He “but ill be fine! This wound is but a graze!”
“But with no trail left to find, I might be lost for days…”
“Fear not” replied the voice on high,
“For I am light of day”
“And in the gleam of Sun, to thee, i shall ignite the way”
And lo, before this broken son,
The light did show a path!
And hobbling along, he sped to spare his life from wrath.
It took the Ever Punctured
Nearly two whole days and nights,
To find a camp of sullen men, all weary from their fights.
He fumbled on his feet, and cried,
And to their feet they dove!
An arrow nocked, the bow was loosed, and in an arrow drove.
Clean through his shoulder, sharp and true,
The arrow head did lodge,
Into the bone of poor Voltaire, Why cant he learn to dodge…
When next he woke, on bed he lay
A bandage on his arm.
The giant gash now wrapped in cloth to halt the further harm.
The Ever Punctured sat and said,
“To whom am I to thank?”
But no reply came from the dark, It seems an awful prank.
But as he look, his saw the scar,
And felt his bruising head.
“No wonder” He exclaimed aloud, “They must have thought me dead!”
“BUT YET I LIVE” He roared into the dark and silent night.
“And when I’m off this cot, it’s back to war to fight the fight!”
Now smarter men than he, im sure,
Would call its quits from there.
But not the ever punctured… Not the ever sweet Voltaire.
His armor will not stop a sword,
It will not stop a stick.
But armor is not needed when your skull is just as thick.
So RAISE your glasses, One and all
And join me in this Toast!
Three cheers, The Ever Punctured Lives! Died more than most can Boast!