The Lady of the Mists' Request

The grey mist was jarringly out of place amid the birdsong and fragrant blooms. It gave Anbaixiu a sense of falsehood and malevolence—a very familiar sensation, much like Anbaixiu himself. Yet what condensed from this mist was a friend he had not seen in a very long time. Chestnut hair tied in a long ponytail, sun-kissed skin, athletic, slender legs, and a pair of bright, large eyes... The once-faded memories sharpened instantly upon seeing that face. "Alina?" Anbaixiu uttered the name in bewilderment. Alina offered Anbaixiu a captivating smile and asked, "Long time no see. What should I call you? Which name are you using now?" Anbaixiu gave a self-deprecating smile. "Didn't you always call me a shameless bastard? Alina, how can you be here? What... what kind of thing have you turned into?" Hearing Anbaixiu's question, Alina answered with complete nonchalance, "Do you really care about that? I seem to recall you claiming that when it comes to women, you'd never turn down any race." Anbaixiu fell silent for a moment, then chuckled. "Quite right. That's just the kind of person I am." He had indeed bragged like that in the past, and on the very next day, their adventuring party had run into a hag. However, Alina would never speak of it in such a teasing tone. Because in that battle, one of her friends had perished under the hag's curse, her corpse melting away into bloody water. This lighthearted, amused sentiment could only have come from Anbaixiu's own feelings. For Alina's friend was someone Anbaixiu had deliberately set up to die. Several days prior, Anbaixiu had already learned that this traitor would lead them straight into the hag's trap. But Anbaixiu hadn't shared that revelation with the others; instead, he simply engineered a situation at the critical moment where the woman reaped what she had sown. The rest mourned the loss of a comrade-in-arms, none of them ever knowing just how vicious she truly had been. Alina had been kept entirely in the dark, weeping for days over that so-called "friend." It wasn't that Anbaixiu had been unwilling to tell everyone the truth, but rather that beyond the results of his divination, he had possessed no evidence whatsoever. Warning everyone in advance would not have changed their fate of falling into the hag's trap; it would only have put the traitor on guard. As a diviner, he had to know which prophecies could be spoken and which could only be kept to himself. Anbaixiu had chosen to keep everyone in the dark and resolve the trouble on his own. The outcome had been flawless: the traitor died, the hag died, everyone else was unharmed, and they had even turned a tidy profit from it. Given all of that, Alina would never speak of that past in such a carefree, teasing manner. Anbaixiu began to suspect that this Alina was an imposter. The Alina he knew had been dead for centuries. With her devotion to the Oak Father, she ought to have ascended to the divine realm long ago. Even if some mishap had occurred later, a druid's soul could not have endured for hundreds of years. This grey silhouette was not an undead wraith or ghost; it felt far more like a fiend or similar evil creature. It had likely used some special method to read Anbaixiu's memories and emotions, generating the likeness of an "old friend" from them. Verifying this would be simple enough. Anbaixiu said to Alina, "So you suddenly appeared in my dream just to catch up with an old friend?" Alina walked toward Anbaixiu, reaching out with both hands to wrap around his neck, looking as though she meant to give him a passionate reunion kiss. But in the next instant, her eyes went wide, and her body collapsed back into mist. The mist receded and coalesced again in the distance, but it did not resume Alina's form. Instead, it merely fixed a pair of glowing eyes upon Anbaixiu. Anbaixiu's palm was radiating a brilliant glow—a mass of utterly pure Holy Light, identical to what Arthur Ryan would conjure. This was a dreamscape. If even a dragon Anbaixiu imagined could manifest, Holy Light was certainly no issue. Regardless of how this entity had entered his dream, once it was inside and intertwined with these illusions, it had to abide by the rules of the dream realm. The Holy Light's damage against this dark power was extraordinarily severe, instantly shattering its physical manifestation. A low voice issued from the grey mist. "You're quite ruthless. What if that really had been your old flame?" Anbaixiu replied, "Alina wouldn't be harmed by Holy Light. She was innocent and kind—a bit reckless, perhaps, but never evil. Nor would she speak of a friend's death in such a mocking tone. Your imitation was far too clumsy. You'd have been better off pretending to be my teacher; nothing coming out of his mouth would be surprising." The mist's eyes narrowed into slits, appearing furious, but soon a chuckle of satisfaction sounded. "Hahaha! Excellent, I didn't misjudge you. You're not only a formidable deceiver, but a wise one capable of seeing through lies. Azuth was right: as long as I waited patiently, I would return, and you are the one I've been looking for." Anbaixiu waved a hand dismissively. "Don't go spouting nonsense on your own. I don't even know who you are or what you want. Don't talk as if I've already agreed to work for you." Though Anbaixiu retorted sharply, he felt deeply unsettled inside. Because the mist had mentioned Azuth—the Lord of Spells, a subordinate deity to Mystra, the Goddess of Magic. The Goddess of Magic generally only answered exceptionally gifted spellcasters; mages of mediocre talent like Anbaixiu had never heard Mystra's whispers even upon reaching the realm of legends. Azuth, however, was far more generous. Many mages, wizards, and other spellcasters who realized they were unworthy of the Goddess of Magic's favor turned to worship this Lord of Spells instead. Weak though Azuth's divine power might be, behind him stood Mystra and her ally, Oghma, the Lord of Knowledge. Together, those two effectively held dominion over all knowledge and wisdom in the world. With such profound backing, ordinary deities were not even qualified to utter Azuth's name directly, let alone mortals. What was the origin of this mist? To dare speak Azuth's name directly, and sound as if she were on good terms with him... could she be a deity as well? Anbaixiu racked his brain for the lore of gods he had studied, searching for deities associated with mist, but after pondering for a long while, none matched. Could this plume of smoke be invoking Azuth's name purely to deceive him? A piercing shriek burst from the mist, its voice trembling with agitation. "Doubt no longer! If I can take the shape of someone you know, it means I can perceive your thoughts. If you wish to know who I am, I can tell you directly. But you must promise me to become my chosen and avenge me!" "Revenge?" That word seemed to act as a key, prompting a name to flash in Anbaixiu's mind. He asked tentatively, "You are... the Lady of the Mists?" The grey mist shuddered, its voice softening somewhat as it spoke to Anbaixiu. "You guessed it. To think there is still someone who remembers my name." Leira, Lady of the Mists, also known as the Mistress of Illusion and the Lady of Deception, was once the deity of deceivers and illusionists, patroness to all tricksters in the world. Many people, even if they did not revere the Lady of the Mists, would pray to her when making momentous decisions or facing turning points in their lives, hoping she wouldn't stir up trouble. Due to the peculiar nature of the Deception portfolio, the Lady of the Mists had very few followers and lacked even a respectable church. After all, what liar would dare let others know they were a liar? Gathering together to worship the Lady of the Mists would be tantamount to advertising oneself as a fraud. Though her worshippers were scarce and her divine power exceedingly weak, she had never minded. Leira was not one to fight for supremacy; she merely indulged in harmless pranks on mortals from time to time, a goddess of the chaotic neutral alignment. Perhaps precisely because she was not extreme enough, Leira was ultimately deceived by her friend, perishing at the hands of Cyric, the Prince of Lies, who even stripped away her divine portfolios. "According to the records, you should have fallen long ago. Even if you hadn't... the Lady of the Mists never tells the truth. Besides, where did this utterly vile, malevolent stench of yours come from?" Bound by her portfolio, the Lady of the Mists could never speak a word of truth. Even when she had no desire to lie, she could only convey her meaning through absurdly preposterous falsehoods that sounded like sarcasm. If she truly was the Lady of the Mists, didn't that mean everything she had just said was a lie? And if she wasn't... then there was nothing left to discuss; she was merely an outright fraud. The grey mist trembled, then let out a shrill voice. "Indeed! I originally never spoke the truth—until Cyric's blade pierced my body and tore away my portfolio. I am no longer a god. I am merely a shattered soul; truth and lies no longer hold any sway over me. It was Azuth who helped me, allowing me to slumber beneath this earth and await the chance to reawaken. As for the evil you speak of, that is a curse left upon me by Cyric. There is no deity in this world more malicious than him." The reasoning sounded somewhat plausible, but Anbaixiu was not about to believe it entirely. He pressed, "A chance to reawaken? You want to reclaim your portfolio?" "Yes! I will make Cyric and Mask pay the price!" Her voice dripped with hatred, but Anbaixiu remained unmoved. What could a fallen deity accomplish with nothing left but a shred of consciousness and memory? Vengeance against gods was pure delusion. What was more, Cyric, the Prince of Lies, was a deity of greater divine power—on the very same tier as the Lord of the Dawn. "Lady of the Mists, I deeply sympathize with your plight, but as for revenge, I'm afraid I am powerless. A mere lich like me has no business declaring war on the Prince of Lies. Isn't the Lord of Spells a subordinate deity to the Goddess of Magic? Wouldn't it be far simpler to seek his aid and have the Goddess of Magic avenge you?" Forget Anbaixiu; even if his teacher, the God of Alchemy, went after Cyric, it would be suicide. Leira countered, "The Goddess of Magic would never involve herself in such grudges; you should know her dogma well. Furthermore, you underestimate yourself. You've met quite a few gods lately, haven't you? Haven't they all extended an olive branch to you?" Anbaixiu wanted to retort that the ones extending olive branches to him were a motley crew of crooked, half-baked goddesses, not a single reliable one among them. Yet this was undeniably an omen. It looked very much as if something monumental was brewing: even these obscure deities from the far corners of the pantheon were frantically seeking their chosen, so the truly powerful gods had surely begun to make their moves as well. Across the Nine Kingdoms, who knew how many prodigies would soon emerge, writing their own legendary tales under divine blessings? "Your destiny is most extraordinary. I can sense it. As long as you are willing, you can certainly help me," Leira said with absolute sincerity. Anbaixiu smiled wryly. "Lady of the Mists, your former portfolio had nothing to do with destiny. That lie is far too perfunctory; it doesn't carry a shred of credibility." Leira continued, "Heh, destiny is nothing more than an unfalsifiable lie. Aren't you also trying to deceive destiny? Why else would you have come to this forest, seeking the aid of dreams? The essence of dreams is, after all, lies and deception." Anbaixiu wagged a finger impatiently and said to Leira, "Lady Goddess, it seems you truly are so weak that you can't even discern what I really mean. What I am asking is: what do you need me to do? And what do I stand to gain from it? "If you want to talk cooperation, show some sincerity. If the benefits are good enough, it's not entirely out of the question for me to risk everything and clash with a greater deity."