A new Triangle D&D campaign will begin on September 11, 2010. Set 22 years after The Vivec Saga: Part 2, it will feature previously unexplored parts of the world and some descendants of Vivec Saga characters.
The world is changing. Magic seems to be draining from the world, perhaps returning to its source as the god of magic resumes his position. Undead have begun to plague the people of the world, spreading terror and disease. A global empire extends its grasp, for better or for worse. Will the new heroes be up to the challenge?
Find out in Legacy of Shadows!
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
A New Home for Triangle D&D
It is with great pleasure that I introduce to you, avid Triangle D&D fans, our new home on the web. Over the course of the next few months, we will be transferring all the content contained in this blog as well as in our wiki to our new website. There's not much there yet, but keep checking back. I'm sure you'll be as glad as we are to have everything in one place.
So without further ado, I give to you www.mloclam.com!
So without further ado, I give to you www.mloclam.com!
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Bluwiki Back Online
Bluwiki.com was down for a few days, but now it's back online for all you die-hard Triangle D&D fans out there...
Friday, July 30, 2010
Rebirth: Campaign Chronicle
Campaign summaries from the Rebirth campaign are now being posted on the wiki page! The page will be updated approximately daily (for real this time) until they are all posted. You can read them here or click the new link in the sidebar. Enjoy!
Friday, January 1, 2010
The Black Sword, Chapter 6: A Small Injustice
The sun was sinking in the western sky as Ghaleon, Soirse, and Malcolm strode down the dusty street leading into town, the sounds and smells of The Tumblin' Dice fading behind them. As the daylight faded into the orange hues of dusk, Ghaleon led his companions on a twisting course through alleys and side-streets in order to reach the smiths' row.
"Why do we all have to stay at my house again?" Malcolm asked, annoyed.
"I already told you," Ghaleon replied smoothly, showing only a hint of frustration, "my manor is too far out of our way, and we have to get to the old man as fast as possible tomorrow morning. I don't feel like getting eaten alive by parasites today. It's almost been a week."
"And we don't know what Siobhan's going to need to make the cure," added Soirse.
Malcolm made no reply, and the three continued to wind their way through the back passages of Altair. Suddenly, Soirse reached forward and brushed Ghaleon's arm. He stopped immediately. Malcolm took two more steps and stopped as well. Another moment passed, and the warrior and warlock heard the approaching commotion.
Laughing and jeering drifted down the alleyway, followed by the silhouettes of three large men, the largest of whom seemed to be carrying something that writhed, squirmed and whined. Ghaleon stood in the center of the alley, ready to spring into a fighting stance as the men came into view. Night had fallen, and dim light flickered from the windows high above the alley. The faint glow that illuminated the men's faces revealed them to be as ugly as the words that drifted along before them. The wriggling bundle borne by the largest of them was revealed to be a very displeased young halfling.
"Out of the way, stranger," a gravelly voice called from the man holding the halfling, "You don't want no trouble here."
"Please help me!" cried the halfling, wrenching his body up and biting his captor's hand. The thug yelped and the halfling scrambled back behind Ghaleon. The large men began to pace menacingly and deliberately toward the warrior, grinding their knuckles into their fists and assuming other confrontational postures. Malcolm and Soirse emerged from the shadows on either side of Ghaleon.
"Best step aside," the ruffian on the left sneered, "This little peck was caught stealing bread from Bertram here," he motioned to the man on the right. "He knows what happens to his kind when they steal from normal folks."
Ghaleon bent his knees slightly, shifting his weight to his back leg, "You three should know better than to talk to me like that," he returned, maintaining eye contact with the largest thug.
"Ghaleon, we don't want any trouble," Soirse whispered to the fighter, "attention would not be good right now."
Grudgingly, he nodded, holding his gaze on the leader. "Just walk away. Turn around, leave this fellow alone, and go."
"You defending that little pile of scum?" the gravelly voice mocked, "What are you, some kind of peck lover?"
"Might be I am," Ghaleon replied sternly, "But if you're smart, you won't test me on it."
Emitting an angered growl, the leader took three long, clumsy strides directly toward Ghaleon, swinging a gnarled and calloused fist as he came. In an instant, the fighter ducked the blow, loosed his sword, and barreled into the thug's stomach, leading with his shoulder. The mountain of a man collapsed with an audible thud, breath all fled from his lungs, gasping as he felt steel pressed to his cheek. He looked up, seething but powerless, and Ghaleon nodded. The thug rose slowly, backing away until he was out of reach of the warrior's sword. He and his friends turned and ran.
"Thank you, sir," the quivering halfling squeaked. He could not have been more than ten years old, "I thought I was done and gone."
"Run along," Ghaleon growled, "I'm no friend to your kind."
"But you saved me," he trembled, "And I want to thank you. My name's Nebin. See, my family and I don't --"
"I said run along," the warrior interrupted, angrily, "I don't give a rat's ass about your family."
Nebin's eyes started to water as he backed away. Soirse stepped forward and knelt, eyes level with the halfling's, and touched the place where his shoulder and his neck met, muttering some magic words. The blue-black bruise that covered the skin seemed to evaporate as she finished the brief incantation.
"Run along, Nebin," Soirse whispered, "You're welcome."
"Why do we all have to stay at my house again?" Malcolm asked, annoyed.
"I already told you," Ghaleon replied smoothly, showing only a hint of frustration, "my manor is too far out of our way, and we have to get to the old man as fast as possible tomorrow morning. I don't feel like getting eaten alive by parasites today. It's almost been a week."
"And we don't know what Siobhan's going to need to make the cure," added Soirse.
Malcolm made no reply, and the three continued to wind their way through the back passages of Altair. Suddenly, Soirse reached forward and brushed Ghaleon's arm. He stopped immediately. Malcolm took two more steps and stopped as well. Another moment passed, and the warrior and warlock heard the approaching commotion.
Laughing and jeering drifted down the alleyway, followed by the silhouettes of three large men, the largest of whom seemed to be carrying something that writhed, squirmed and whined. Ghaleon stood in the center of the alley, ready to spring into a fighting stance as the men came into view. Night had fallen, and dim light flickered from the windows high above the alley. The faint glow that illuminated the men's faces revealed them to be as ugly as the words that drifted along before them. The wriggling bundle borne by the largest of them was revealed to be a very displeased young halfling.
"Out of the way, stranger," a gravelly voice called from the man holding the halfling, "You don't want no trouble here."
"Please help me!" cried the halfling, wrenching his body up and biting his captor's hand. The thug yelped and the halfling scrambled back behind Ghaleon. The large men began to pace menacingly and deliberately toward the warrior, grinding their knuckles into their fists and assuming other confrontational postures. Malcolm and Soirse emerged from the shadows on either side of Ghaleon.
"Best step aside," the ruffian on the left sneered, "This little peck was caught stealing bread from Bertram here," he motioned to the man on the right. "He knows what happens to his kind when they steal from normal folks."
Ghaleon bent his knees slightly, shifting his weight to his back leg, "You three should know better than to talk to me like that," he returned, maintaining eye contact with the largest thug.
"Ghaleon, we don't want any trouble," Soirse whispered to the fighter, "attention would not be good right now."
Grudgingly, he nodded, holding his gaze on the leader. "Just walk away. Turn around, leave this fellow alone, and go."
"You defending that little pile of scum?" the gravelly voice mocked, "What are you, some kind of peck lover?"
"Might be I am," Ghaleon replied sternly, "But if you're smart, you won't test me on it."
Emitting an angered growl, the leader took three long, clumsy strides directly toward Ghaleon, swinging a gnarled and calloused fist as he came. In an instant, the fighter ducked the blow, loosed his sword, and barreled into the thug's stomach, leading with his shoulder. The mountain of a man collapsed with an audible thud, breath all fled from his lungs, gasping as he felt steel pressed to his cheek. He looked up, seething but powerless, and Ghaleon nodded. The thug rose slowly, backing away until he was out of reach of the warrior's sword. He and his friends turned and ran.
"Thank you, sir," the quivering halfling squeaked. He could not have been more than ten years old, "I thought I was done and gone."
"Run along," Ghaleon growled, "I'm no friend to your kind."
"But you saved me," he trembled, "And I want to thank you. My name's Nebin. See, my family and I don't --"
"I said run along," the warrior interrupted, angrily, "I don't give a rat's ass about your family."
Nebin's eyes started to water as he backed away. Soirse stepped forward and knelt, eyes level with the halfling's, and touched the place where his shoulder and his neck met, muttering some magic words. The blue-black bruise that covered the skin seemed to evaporate as she finished the brief incantation.
"Run along, Nebin," Soirse whispered, "You're welcome."
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Cyrus's Speech before the Ice Fortress
Brothers and sisters of Altair, the time to march on our enemy has come! Our ancestors have fought and died defending our beloved city. Now that honor is ours. We go to face the greatest enemy our city has yet known.
Many of you remember the lash of the Fire Legion. Many of you remember its tyranny and oppression of our people. But the foe before us seeks not to conquer or enslave, but to destroy. We must succeed, or there will be no tomorrow.
But fear not, the sun will rise again! We are strong, we are brave, and we will not perish from this land. Let us defend what is rightfully ours! Altair!
-Cyrus
Many of you remember the lash of the Fire Legion. Many of you remember its tyranny and oppression of our people. But the foe before us seeks not to conquer or enslave, but to destroy. We must succeed, or there will be no tomorrow.
But fear not, the sun will rise again! We are strong, we are brave, and we will not perish from this land. Let us defend what is rightfully ours! Altair!
-Cyrus
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The Black Sword, Chapter 5: Rivals
Ghaleon staggered back as a burly fist slammed into his stomach, hitting his breastplate and tilting it into his abdomen. Torvald did not even seem to notice that his fist had struck steel as he took up a fighting stance. Amidst his attempts to regain his footing, Ghaleon drew a small hand crossbow strapped to his pack. He recovered with a flourish, loosing a bolt at his adversary. Torvald dodged to the right just in time as the bolt grazed his left bicep, digging a shallow channel in his skin as it passed.
Torvald was upon him before he could even cast away his crossbow. Growling, he launched another huge fist directly at Ghaleon's face. The blow found purchase, and Ghaleon's became a world of red and green starbursts. As the warrior dropped to his knees in the dust, Torvald gloated, "There. Had enough?"
The sound of metal scraping against metal rang out as Ghaleon leaped to his feet with a rabid fury burning in his eyes. His sword drew a wide arc in front of him, and Torvald backpedaled just quickly enough to avoid the strike. With a lunge, he caught Ghaleon's hand as the swipe neared its end, twisting it until it released and the blade clattered to the ground. With one fluid motion, pulling the arm around behind the warrior's back and pressing his foot to the back of the legs, Torvald forced Ghaleon back on his knees.
A thick, muscled arm whipped under Ghaleon's chin and closed around his neck. A knee in his back pushed him prone in the dust with Torvald's crushing weight forcing the breath from his lungs. Ghaleon kicked his legs furiously and tried to pull with his arms, but Torvald had taken a position that allowed him to evade these blows. Each breath required greater strain. Sputtering in the dust, Ghaleon began to drift into a blurry haze. The world seemed to darken and drift away, then nothing.
***
Ghaleon awoke with a start as Soirse completed a minor spell of healing. He sat bolt-upright, eyes darting every way in an attempt to find Torvald, but his childhood rival had moved on. He struggled to his feet, picking up his sword with his dirt-caked hand. Silently, he sheathed the blade and turned away, walking toward the bridge.
No one spoke on the rest of the journey to Ollidar Fallone's manor. Ghaleon huffed and fumed, furious and impotent. Soirse struggled to stifle laughter over Ghaleon's plight while still feeling a pang of empathy. Malcolm just walked. The mansion was a picture of faded opulence. Immense and heavily ornamented, the splendor it still displayed served only to accent that which it had lost. The grounds were slightly overgrown; the gilding around the doorway was mildly tarnished. The three travelers approached the door. Ghaleon knocked.
After a few moments of silence, the door opened. In its place stood an average-sized man, trim but not slight, dressed in older, but still exquisite clothing. His brown hair hung like laurels around his otherwise bald head; his brow furrowed with stress.
"May I help you folks?" the man sighed.
"Ollidar Fallone?" Ghaleon asked politely.
"I am he," the man responded.
"You owe my associate some money," Ghaleon said, growling out the word "money" as his rage from his previous humiliation came surging back.
"I am sure I don't know what you are talking about," Fallone replied coyly.
"I don't have time for this," Ghaleon threatened, gripping his sword hilt as he stepped forward, "Jagg needs his gold." At the mention of Jagg Mitchum, Ollidar Fallone's face showed recognition. The merchant fidgeted nervously.
"I... ah... do recall some dealings with the esteemed Mister Mitchum, long ago, vaguely," Fallone stammered, "though I was quite certain I... ah... fulfilled all my obligations."
"Not according to Mister Mitchum," Ghaleon replied, loosening the sword in its sheath, "seems you owe him some three hundred gold pieces."
Ollidar Fallone's face could not hide his nervousness, and recognition of the sum played across his face. "I suppose my accountant, yes, my accountant could have made some error. I'll have a word with him."
"I'll have a sack of gold in my hand." The blade slid an inch in the sheath.
The merchant coughed and scuffed his feet. A bead of sweat formed on the side of his nose as he sniffed uncomfortably. "My good sir," he said, "I'm afraid I am a bit... ah... deficient in funds at the present time." The sword slid out an inch further. "But," Fallone interjected, "I have an armorsmith in my employ, one William Welles." Ghaleon remained stoic, while Malcolm's expression dimmed at the mention of the armorsmith. "He's working on a rather lucrative contract, you see, yes and once he finishes I should be able to pay in full. I'm afraid that's all I can promise right now," Ollidar stammered hastily.
Ghaleon considered the offer for a moment, then replied, "It'll have to do. I'll be back for the gold." He turned and walked away, sword rattling in its sheath, without even waiting for the door to close. Soirse and Malcolm paused for a moment, then turned to follow.
***
"Where are we going?" Malcolm asked as Ghaleon, walking briskly since the trio departed from Ollidar Fallone's manor, turned down the smith's row, where the dwarf had his armor shop.
"To get Jagg his money," was his equally brisk answer.
"What?" Malcolm inquired, "I thought Fallone didn't have it."
"You're an armorsmith right?" Ghaleon asked, then without waiting for Malcolm's response added, "Getting rid of some competition."
The warrior came to a halt in front of a small brick and stone shop with a well-made but plain sign hanging out front that read "Welles' Armor." He loosed his pack, dropped it at his feet, and extracted a large, worn burlap robe. Slipping it over his armor, he turned to meet Malcolm and Soirse's confused looks.
"It's Brother Ghaleon, for the moment. Wait here."
The others complied, and Ghaleon pulled the hood of the monk's robe over his head as he entered the shop.
Moments later, he emerged carrying a well-made, unadorned breastplate in his hands. "Go get your cart," he said curtly to Malcolm in a tone that brooked no argument. That night, the taverns buzzed with talk of a monk pushing a cart filled with armor down the smith's row.
Torvald was upon him before he could even cast away his crossbow. Growling, he launched another huge fist directly at Ghaleon's face. The blow found purchase, and Ghaleon's became a world of red and green starbursts. As the warrior dropped to his knees in the dust, Torvald gloated, "There. Had enough?"
The sound of metal scraping against metal rang out as Ghaleon leaped to his feet with a rabid fury burning in his eyes. His sword drew a wide arc in front of him, and Torvald backpedaled just quickly enough to avoid the strike. With a lunge, he caught Ghaleon's hand as the swipe neared its end, twisting it until it released and the blade clattered to the ground. With one fluid motion, pulling the arm around behind the warrior's back and pressing his foot to the back of the legs, Torvald forced Ghaleon back on his knees.
A thick, muscled arm whipped under Ghaleon's chin and closed around his neck. A knee in his back pushed him prone in the dust with Torvald's crushing weight forcing the breath from his lungs. Ghaleon kicked his legs furiously and tried to pull with his arms, but Torvald had taken a position that allowed him to evade these blows. Each breath required greater strain. Sputtering in the dust, Ghaleon began to drift into a blurry haze. The world seemed to darken and drift away, then nothing.
***
Ghaleon awoke with a start as Soirse completed a minor spell of healing. He sat bolt-upright, eyes darting every way in an attempt to find Torvald, but his childhood rival had moved on. He struggled to his feet, picking up his sword with his dirt-caked hand. Silently, he sheathed the blade and turned away, walking toward the bridge.
No one spoke on the rest of the journey to Ollidar Fallone's manor. Ghaleon huffed and fumed, furious and impotent. Soirse struggled to stifle laughter over Ghaleon's plight while still feeling a pang of empathy. Malcolm just walked. The mansion was a picture of faded opulence. Immense and heavily ornamented, the splendor it still displayed served only to accent that which it had lost. The grounds were slightly overgrown; the gilding around the doorway was mildly tarnished. The three travelers approached the door. Ghaleon knocked.
After a few moments of silence, the door opened. In its place stood an average-sized man, trim but not slight, dressed in older, but still exquisite clothing. His brown hair hung like laurels around his otherwise bald head; his brow furrowed with stress.
"May I help you folks?" the man sighed.
"Ollidar Fallone?" Ghaleon asked politely.
"I am he," the man responded.
"You owe my associate some money," Ghaleon said, growling out the word "money" as his rage from his previous humiliation came surging back.
"I am sure I don't know what you are talking about," Fallone replied coyly.
"I don't have time for this," Ghaleon threatened, gripping his sword hilt as he stepped forward, "Jagg needs his gold." At the mention of Jagg Mitchum, Ollidar Fallone's face showed recognition. The merchant fidgeted nervously.
"I... ah... do recall some dealings with the esteemed Mister Mitchum, long ago, vaguely," Fallone stammered, "though I was quite certain I... ah... fulfilled all my obligations."
"Not according to Mister Mitchum," Ghaleon replied, loosening the sword in its sheath, "seems you owe him some three hundred gold pieces."
Ollidar Fallone's face could not hide his nervousness, and recognition of the sum played across his face. "I suppose my accountant, yes, my accountant could have made some error. I'll have a word with him."
"I'll have a sack of gold in my hand." The blade slid an inch in the sheath.
The merchant coughed and scuffed his feet. A bead of sweat formed on the side of his nose as he sniffed uncomfortably. "My good sir," he said, "I'm afraid I am a bit... ah... deficient in funds at the present time." The sword slid out an inch further. "But," Fallone interjected, "I have an armorsmith in my employ, one William Welles." Ghaleon remained stoic, while Malcolm's expression dimmed at the mention of the armorsmith. "He's working on a rather lucrative contract, you see, yes and once he finishes I should be able to pay in full. I'm afraid that's all I can promise right now," Ollidar stammered hastily.
Ghaleon considered the offer for a moment, then replied, "It'll have to do. I'll be back for the gold." He turned and walked away, sword rattling in its sheath, without even waiting for the door to close. Soirse and Malcolm paused for a moment, then turned to follow.
***
"Where are we going?" Malcolm asked as Ghaleon, walking briskly since the trio departed from Ollidar Fallone's manor, turned down the smith's row, where the dwarf had his armor shop.
"To get Jagg his money," was his equally brisk answer.
"What?" Malcolm inquired, "I thought Fallone didn't have it."
"You're an armorsmith right?" Ghaleon asked, then without waiting for Malcolm's response added, "Getting rid of some competition."
The warrior came to a halt in front of a small brick and stone shop with a well-made but plain sign hanging out front that read "Welles' Armor." He loosed his pack, dropped it at his feet, and extracted a large, worn burlap robe. Slipping it over his armor, he turned to meet Malcolm and Soirse's confused looks.
"It's Brother Ghaleon, for the moment. Wait here."
The others complied, and Ghaleon pulled the hood of the monk's robe over his head as he entered the shop.
Moments later, he emerged carrying a well-made, unadorned breastplate in his hands. "Go get your cart," he said curtly to Malcolm in a tone that brooked no argument. That night, the taverns buzzed with talk of a monk pushing a cart filled with armor down the smith's row.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
The Black Sword, Chapter 4: The Tumblin' Dice
Soirse and Siobhan worked tirelessly through the night, slaving away over the long table of flasks and jars. Around an hour before sunrise, she finally mastered the formula. When Ghaleon and Malcolm awoke, Soirse greeted them, bleary-eyed but proud, holding three full vials of suppressant antidote in her hands. Ghaleon rubbed his eyes, reached out, and took a vial.
"Guess you and the old man are good for something after all," he mumbled through his morning haze. Malcolm ambled over and took a vial as well.
"Thanks. We should get going soon, though," he said.
Soirse sighed, fatigued but triumphant, and nodded. Siobhan had begun emptying and packing his alchemical equipment.
"I'll be leaving in two days. Ghaleon, make sure you have everything arranged by then. With all your help, I'm certain we can all finally free ourselves from the Shadow Veil's grip. Godspeed," the old man said, waving the adventurers out. The three left the house when it was still early in the morning.
"What do we do now?" Malcolm asked.
"I know somebody who might be able to help," Ghaleon replied, "Let's pay him a visit."
***
The adventurers approached a dingy, two-story wooden building. The sign over the door was engraved with the image of two dice being cast, captioned with the words "Tumblin' Dice." The pub was nearly empty this early in the morning save the man behind the bar. It was suitably grimy for a pub, and it sported several round, pock-marked wooden tables. Pottery mugs lined the shelves behind the bar and the wooden barrels in the corners of the room stank of their payloads from the previous night. Though the bar was empty, years of smoke-reek emanated from every plank therein.
The barkeep grumbled. Without looking up, he said, "Ghaleon Ebonheart. Drinking this early?"
"Ale, dark, but this is a business visit," the warrior replied.
The bartender looked up at Soirse and Malcolm and smiled wryly. He wore stringy brown hair and a scraggly beard born of a few days' neglect. His eyes turned down toward Fenrir. "No dogs."
"If he goes, I go," Soirse replied sternly.
"Fine then. Have a nice day."
"You two can argue later," Ghaleon interposed, "For now, we've got business to take care of. Jagg, these are Malcolm and Soirse," gesturing, "my associates." Gesturing back toward the bar, "Associates, Jagg Mitchum." The barkeep bowed mockingly.
"What did you have in mind," his features lost their jovial air.
"Need to get a guy out of town unnoticed."
"A kidnapping, eh? You know I don't do murder though, right?"
"No, he wants to go. Just make sure no one knows he's going."
"Hm. Nothing I can't handle, for the right price."
"See, that's the thing, Jagg," Ghaleon mumbled, "I'm a little short on the coin right now."
"The honorable noble is broke," Jagg teased, "What a shame."
"Maybe we could work off the cost," Malcolm spoke up.
Jagg ran his hands through his hair, catching his fingers on a tangle and scratching his scalp where his fingers stopped. "I do have one job you could do. Suppose I could take care of your friend if you do it for me."
"What's the task?" Ghaleon inquired.
"Oh nothing hard, just need you to collect a little money from a man who owes me a debt. His name's Ollidar Fallone, a merchant who lives in the Figaro District. You bring me the three hundred gold he owes me, and I'll make sure your friend gets out of town safe."
Ghaleon pondered for a moment, feigned disappointment at the offer, and, attempting to sound put-out, said, "Hm. Alright, it's a deal." The bartender shook his hand, cunning smile still traced across his face.
***
The sun shone high in the sky as Soirse, Ghaleon, and Malcolm emerged into the town square of Altair. The air was dry and the packed-dirt ground swirled with dust. Years of heavy foot traffic had worn away the grass, but oak trees still lined the wide square. On the far side of this gathering ground ran the Nareth-Lene River, crossed by stone and mortar bridge. A group of townsfolk crested the bridge's slight arch and strode towards the square.
The man leading this group was squat but muscular; short cropped blond hair framed his square face as his jaw tensed with anger. He was young, healthy, and flanked by a group of five or six friends. "Ghaleon!" he called out.
Ghaleon's expression sunk, eyes rolling in disgust. "Torvald," he called back calmly.
"Day off from digging in the dirt on the farm, peasant?"
"Got business to conduct. I don't have time to deal with you right now, Torvald."
"Friend of yours?" Soirse asked.
"Hardly. Torvald Oberian has been a pain in my ass since I was young. He's always been big, and he's a member of one of the Five Families on top of that."
"What's the matter? Can't stand up like a man? I owe you a severe beating for what you did to my sister," the brawny adversary taunted.
"What did you do to his sister," Malcolm asked under his breath.
"'With his sister' would be a more accurate description," the fighter replied.
"Fight me, coward," came another call, "Let me teach you some honor." Torvald's friends barked insults and catcalls to back him up, forming an arc encircling the three. "Or you could walk away, and everyone will know you're a pathetic coward."
Ghaleon turned to keep his back to Torvald and began walking toward the bridge.
"Just like your father."
No sooner had he heard those words than Ghaleon was inches from the young noble. At the end of his stride, he raised a tightly clenched fist into the air and brought it down at Torvald's face. The noble ducked to the side at the last moment and the blow hit him in the shoulder.
"That was a bad mistake."
"Guess you and the old man are good for something after all," he mumbled through his morning haze. Malcolm ambled over and took a vial as well.
"Thanks. We should get going soon, though," he said.
Soirse sighed, fatigued but triumphant, and nodded. Siobhan had begun emptying and packing his alchemical equipment.
"I'll be leaving in two days. Ghaleon, make sure you have everything arranged by then. With all your help, I'm certain we can all finally free ourselves from the Shadow Veil's grip. Godspeed," the old man said, waving the adventurers out. The three left the house when it was still early in the morning.
"What do we do now?" Malcolm asked.
"I know somebody who might be able to help," Ghaleon replied, "Let's pay him a visit."
***
The adventurers approached a dingy, two-story wooden building. The sign over the door was engraved with the image of two dice being cast, captioned with the words "Tumblin' Dice." The pub was nearly empty this early in the morning save the man behind the bar. It was suitably grimy for a pub, and it sported several round, pock-marked wooden tables. Pottery mugs lined the shelves behind the bar and the wooden barrels in the corners of the room stank of their payloads from the previous night. Though the bar was empty, years of smoke-reek emanated from every plank therein.
The barkeep grumbled. Without looking up, he said, "Ghaleon Ebonheart. Drinking this early?"
"Ale, dark, but this is a business visit," the warrior replied.
The bartender looked up at Soirse and Malcolm and smiled wryly. He wore stringy brown hair and a scraggly beard born of a few days' neglect. His eyes turned down toward Fenrir. "No dogs."
"If he goes, I go," Soirse replied sternly.
"Fine then. Have a nice day."
"You two can argue later," Ghaleon interposed, "For now, we've got business to take care of. Jagg, these are Malcolm and Soirse," gesturing, "my associates." Gesturing back toward the bar, "Associates, Jagg Mitchum." The barkeep bowed mockingly.
"What did you have in mind," his features lost their jovial air.
"Need to get a guy out of town unnoticed."
"A kidnapping, eh? You know I don't do murder though, right?"
"No, he wants to go. Just make sure no one knows he's going."
"Hm. Nothing I can't handle, for the right price."
"See, that's the thing, Jagg," Ghaleon mumbled, "I'm a little short on the coin right now."
"The honorable noble is broke," Jagg teased, "What a shame."
"Maybe we could work off the cost," Malcolm spoke up.
Jagg ran his hands through his hair, catching his fingers on a tangle and scratching his scalp where his fingers stopped. "I do have one job you could do. Suppose I could take care of your friend if you do it for me."
"What's the task?" Ghaleon inquired.
"Oh nothing hard, just need you to collect a little money from a man who owes me a debt. His name's Ollidar Fallone, a merchant who lives in the Figaro District. You bring me the three hundred gold he owes me, and I'll make sure your friend gets out of town safe."
Ghaleon pondered for a moment, feigned disappointment at the offer, and, attempting to sound put-out, said, "Hm. Alright, it's a deal." The bartender shook his hand, cunning smile still traced across his face.
***
The sun shone high in the sky as Soirse, Ghaleon, and Malcolm emerged into the town square of Altair. The air was dry and the packed-dirt ground swirled with dust. Years of heavy foot traffic had worn away the grass, but oak trees still lined the wide square. On the far side of this gathering ground ran the Nareth-Lene River, crossed by stone and mortar bridge. A group of townsfolk crested the bridge's slight arch and strode towards the square.
The man leading this group was squat but muscular; short cropped blond hair framed his square face as his jaw tensed with anger. He was young, healthy, and flanked by a group of five or six friends. "Ghaleon!" he called out.
Ghaleon's expression sunk, eyes rolling in disgust. "Torvald," he called back calmly.
"Day off from digging in the dirt on the farm, peasant?"
"Got business to conduct. I don't have time to deal with you right now, Torvald."
"Friend of yours?" Soirse asked.
"Hardly. Torvald Oberian has been a pain in my ass since I was young. He's always been big, and he's a member of one of the Five Families on top of that."
"What's the matter? Can't stand up like a man? I owe you a severe beating for what you did to my sister," the brawny adversary taunted.
"What did you do to his sister," Malcolm asked under his breath.
"'With his sister' would be a more accurate description," the fighter replied.
"Fight me, coward," came another call, "Let me teach you some honor." Torvald's friends barked insults and catcalls to back him up, forming an arc encircling the three. "Or you could walk away, and everyone will know you're a pathetic coward."
Ghaleon turned to keep his back to Torvald and began walking toward the bridge.
"Just like your father."
No sooner had he heard those words than Ghaleon was inches from the young noble. At the end of his stride, he raised a tightly clenched fist into the air and brought it down at Torvald's face. The noble ducked to the side at the last moment and the blow hit him in the shoulder.
"That was a bad mistake."
Sunday, May 31, 2009
The Black Sword, Chapter 3: Lifting the Veil
"If you value your life, you'll drop the sword," the old man screeched, thrusting the staff closer to Ghaleon's face. His arthritic hands held the other end, gripping it tightly. Everything about the man looked weak. The corners of his eyes were latticed with wrinkles, circumscribed with shadows of insomnia. His white hair and beard were long but thinning, and it seemed he was held up by spindly legs under his faded red robe. Still, the wild fear in his clear blue eyes made Ghaleon's grip gradually loosen until his longsword clattered against the floor.
Malcolm had slid into his spread-legged fighting stance. Soirse stood stock-still, afraid to reach for her scimitar for the risk of spooking the old magician. Ghaleon, for once, was speechless. The three remained in a stalemate with the old man for what seemed like an hour.
Malcolm muttered under his breath, "He's an initiate?"
The man thrust his staff toward Ghaleon again and it sizzled, infused with power. "So you are here to kill me," he said.
"Well we --," Malcolm was interrupted.
"We only wanted to rob you," Ghaleon lied, "We didn't want a fight. I just had my sword out in case, well, this happened." Soirse nodded vigorously. The staff held its place, quivering in the old man's grip. "We're sorry," Ghaleon added hastily.
"Don't underestimate me. The Veil's poisons make the body look older than it is," came the man's reply. His blue eyes, far more alert than the rest of his body, darted from each adventurer to another, then widened in surprise. "They..." he stammered, "They got you too didn't they."
Ghaleon's head dropped, breaking from the man's gaze. "Yes, yes they did."
The crackling around the end of the staff ceased, heat-like waves shimmering away into nothing. The old man lowered it from its threatening position. His expression shifted from anger to sympathy. "I can help you," he offered.
The three moved into his bedroom, sitting on the bed as he motioned toward it. "I couldn't deprive an old man of his seat," Soirse said, gesuturing.
"Nonsense. You were intruders a moment ago, but now you're guests. Sit," he replied. Soirse sat, Fenrir taking his place at the end of the straw-packed mattress. "As you probably already know, my name is Siobhan. The first thing I can tell you is that you aren't poisioned." Soirse, Ghaleon and Malcolm's brows furrowed in puzzlement, then relaxed in relief. "What's happened to you, and me, is much, much worse." The hope drained out of their expressions. "You've fallen in with a group that calls themselves the 'Shadow Veil,'" Siobhan explained. "I was only with them for two months, but in that time they taught me much and hurt me more. They are a cult that worships creatures from beyond the stars, horrible beings from the Far Realms."
"They told us they could help with our problems," Malcolm said.
"Theirs is no help that you want," Siobhan answered, "You'll pay for it with your sanity, or maybe even your life. I'm not sure which is worse." The faint wet glistening around his eyes betrayed the pain of his memories. "The poisons they claimed to give you are actually the tiny eggs of an aberrant creature."
Shock washed over each of the companions' faces at about the same time. "So they're eating us alive?" Soirse cried, "But what about the antidote they've been giving us?" She produced one of the glass vials from her satchel. Siobhan leaned over, examining it intently in Soirse's hand.
"That's a suppressor. It keeps the eggs from hatching, but it won't kill them. They'll keep giving it to you until you're no longer useful, then the creatures will hatch and devour your mind, turning you into drooling thralls to their blasphemous overlords," Siobhan said.
The shock in their faces turned to despair and horror. Disgusted by the horrible creatures inside him, Ghaleon started to wobble on his seat, fighting off nausea.
"But there's hope!" Siobhan exclaimed in a sudden burst of enthusiasm; the adventurers jumped at the startling remark.
"What do you mean?" asked Ghaleon, wavering.
"I know how to make the suppressor," Siobhan replied, "and what's more, I think I can make an antidote."
"So you're not infected?" Malcolm asked.
"No, I am. I know how to make the cure, but I can't get its ingredients," the old man said, "and that's where you three come in. You do want to get cured, don't you?"
A chorus of nods answered the wizard. "Until you can get me what I need, you'll have to settle for more suppressor. I doubt the Veil will be so willing to give it to you once they find out I'm not dead."
"Old man, you may be wise, but you're not thinking," Ghaleon replied, "We'll take you up on the offer, but they won't know you're not dead. We'll bring them your staff as proof." Soirse felt a brief twinge of indignation at the warrior's audacity, speaking for her and Malcolm, but she suppressed it, realizing the wisdom in his plan.
"Hm," Siobhan pondered, "That is devious. It may buy us some time, but sooner or later they'll know I'm around."
"Then hide," Malcolm answered.
"Yes, I suppose I'm no longer safe here. But without my equipment I cannot prepare the cure, and I'm unlikely to escape the eyes of the Veil pulling a cartful of alchemical implements out of town."
"Leave that to me," Ghaleon replied smugly, "I've got some connections around here. Imagine I could pull a few strings and get you out nice and quiet."
"And I have some alchemical training," Soirse added, "so if you'll teach me, I could make the suppressor for us until you can brew up a cure."
Smiling at the sudden enthusiasm of his new allies, Siobhan replied, "Then we have a plan. I will teach you, the druid..."
"Soirse."
"Yes, Soirse. I will teach Soirse to make the suppressor while you..."
"Ghaleon."
"While Ghaleon arranges my passage out of town. I know a place just north of Hanrahan, an old abandoned barrow where I can hide. It's not comfortable, but it's safe."
"And while you go out there, we'll tell the Shadow Veil we killed you," Malcolm blurted eagerly.
"Exactly," Siobhan and Ghaleon replied, in unison but with very different inflections. Ghaleon cut his eyes at the ruddy dwarf; he did not approve of others taking credit for his ideas. Siobhan handed his staff to Malcolm. "Meet me at the barrow in one week's time. I will leave the city in two days. That should give Ghaleon plenty of time to arrange everything. The way is confusing, so listen carefully." He described in great detail the various twists and turns leading to the barrow, taking care to point out all the naturally-occurring landmarks along the trail. "Now, get some rest. We have a long week ahead."
Malcolm had slid into his spread-legged fighting stance. Soirse stood stock-still, afraid to reach for her scimitar for the risk of spooking the old magician. Ghaleon, for once, was speechless. The three remained in a stalemate with the old man for what seemed like an hour.
Malcolm muttered under his breath, "He's an initiate?"
The man thrust his staff toward Ghaleon again and it sizzled, infused with power. "So you are here to kill me," he said.
"Well we --," Malcolm was interrupted.
"We only wanted to rob you," Ghaleon lied, "We didn't want a fight. I just had my sword out in case, well, this happened." Soirse nodded vigorously. The staff held its place, quivering in the old man's grip. "We're sorry," Ghaleon added hastily.
"Don't underestimate me. The Veil's poisons make the body look older than it is," came the man's reply. His blue eyes, far more alert than the rest of his body, darted from each adventurer to another, then widened in surprise. "They..." he stammered, "They got you too didn't they."
Ghaleon's head dropped, breaking from the man's gaze. "Yes, yes they did."
The crackling around the end of the staff ceased, heat-like waves shimmering away into nothing. The old man lowered it from its threatening position. His expression shifted from anger to sympathy. "I can help you," he offered.
The three moved into his bedroom, sitting on the bed as he motioned toward it. "I couldn't deprive an old man of his seat," Soirse said, gesuturing.
"Nonsense. You were intruders a moment ago, but now you're guests. Sit," he replied. Soirse sat, Fenrir taking his place at the end of the straw-packed mattress. "As you probably already know, my name is Siobhan. The first thing I can tell you is that you aren't poisioned." Soirse, Ghaleon and Malcolm's brows furrowed in puzzlement, then relaxed in relief. "What's happened to you, and me, is much, much worse." The hope drained out of their expressions. "You've fallen in with a group that calls themselves the 'Shadow Veil,'" Siobhan explained. "I was only with them for two months, but in that time they taught me much and hurt me more. They are a cult that worships creatures from beyond the stars, horrible beings from the Far Realms."
"They told us they could help with our problems," Malcolm said.
"Theirs is no help that you want," Siobhan answered, "You'll pay for it with your sanity, or maybe even your life. I'm not sure which is worse." The faint wet glistening around his eyes betrayed the pain of his memories. "The poisons they claimed to give you are actually the tiny eggs of an aberrant creature."
Shock washed over each of the companions' faces at about the same time. "So they're eating us alive?" Soirse cried, "But what about the antidote they've been giving us?" She produced one of the glass vials from her satchel. Siobhan leaned over, examining it intently in Soirse's hand.
"That's a suppressor. It keeps the eggs from hatching, but it won't kill them. They'll keep giving it to you until you're no longer useful, then the creatures will hatch and devour your mind, turning you into drooling thralls to their blasphemous overlords," Siobhan said.
The shock in their faces turned to despair and horror. Disgusted by the horrible creatures inside him, Ghaleon started to wobble on his seat, fighting off nausea.
"But there's hope!" Siobhan exclaimed in a sudden burst of enthusiasm; the adventurers jumped at the startling remark.
"What do you mean?" asked Ghaleon, wavering.
"I know how to make the suppressor," Siobhan replied, "and what's more, I think I can make an antidote."
"So you're not infected?" Malcolm asked.
"No, I am. I know how to make the cure, but I can't get its ingredients," the old man said, "and that's where you three come in. You do want to get cured, don't you?"
A chorus of nods answered the wizard. "Until you can get me what I need, you'll have to settle for more suppressor. I doubt the Veil will be so willing to give it to you once they find out I'm not dead."
"Old man, you may be wise, but you're not thinking," Ghaleon replied, "We'll take you up on the offer, but they won't know you're not dead. We'll bring them your staff as proof." Soirse felt a brief twinge of indignation at the warrior's audacity, speaking for her and Malcolm, but she suppressed it, realizing the wisdom in his plan.
"Hm," Siobhan pondered, "That is devious. It may buy us some time, but sooner or later they'll know I'm around."
"Then hide," Malcolm answered.
"Yes, I suppose I'm no longer safe here. But without my equipment I cannot prepare the cure, and I'm unlikely to escape the eyes of the Veil pulling a cartful of alchemical implements out of town."
"Leave that to me," Ghaleon replied smugly, "I've got some connections around here. Imagine I could pull a few strings and get you out nice and quiet."
"And I have some alchemical training," Soirse added, "so if you'll teach me, I could make the suppressor for us until you can brew up a cure."
Smiling at the sudden enthusiasm of his new allies, Siobhan replied, "Then we have a plan. I will teach you, the druid..."
"Soirse."
"Yes, Soirse. I will teach Soirse to make the suppressor while you..."
"Ghaleon."
"While Ghaleon arranges my passage out of town. I know a place just north of Hanrahan, an old abandoned barrow where I can hide. It's not comfortable, but it's safe."
"And while you go out there, we'll tell the Shadow Veil we killed you," Malcolm blurted eagerly.
"Exactly," Siobhan and Ghaleon replied, in unison but with very different inflections. Ghaleon cut his eyes at the ruddy dwarf; he did not approve of others taking credit for his ideas. Siobhan handed his staff to Malcolm. "Meet me at the barrow in one week's time. I will leave the city in two days. That should give Ghaleon plenty of time to arrange everything. The way is confusing, so listen carefully." He described in great detail the various twists and turns leading to the barrow, taking care to point out all the naturally-occurring landmarks along the trail. "Now, get some rest. We have a long week ahead."
Thursday, May 28, 2009
The Black Sword, Chapter 2: The Deserter
The abomination never seemed to tire. The bars on its cage were thick iron, dinged and scratched by its constant attempts to break free. As the cart rattled down the packed dirt road, pulled by a nervous-looking mule, the creature would periodically lift two of its bone-tipped legs and strike at the bars over and over. When it tired of that tactic, it would spring up against the roof of the cage, causing it to bounce slightly, and spin with its blades extended, producing a cacophony of clangs and scrapes. The adventurers got little sleep on the two-day journey back to the rendezvous.
It was twilight when the three began their unsubtle approach to the designated point between the hills. The orange of the setting sun seemed to emerge in fractured shards from the Lene as it flowed south. It had been only six days, but Malcolm's skin had paled from its usual ruddy brown to a peaked gray and his eyes were sunken in his skull.
"I thought your kind could handle this kind of thing," Ghaleon jeered as they approached the first hill. "I'd hate to see you with a couple of ales in you."
Malcolm murmured an incoherent response, staggering alongside the cart as the cloaked man came into view. When the adventurers were close enough, he stirred from his statue-trance.
"I knew I was right to tap you," he said in his low, resonant voice. "I see you delivered the creature as we agreed."
"And the antidote?" Soirse demanded. Tacitly, the man tossed three more vials of viscous fluid to the travelers. Soirse held hers up to her face, examining its contents. Malcolm's vial hit him in the forehead, sending him stumbling weakly backward. When he regained his composure, the dwarf shuffled over to his vial and drank its contents greedily. The color immediately began to return to his face.
"This is the same thing you gave us last time," Soirse said accusingly, "We did what you asked, so give us the antidote."
"I'm afraid my associates and I require a bit more from you," the cloaked man intoned. "You see, we --"
"The deal was creature for antidote," Ghaleon interrupted. Gesturing back to the cage, whose inhabitant had become oddly placid, he said, "Creature." Stepping forward and holding out his left hand while clutching his sword hilt with his right, "Antidote."
The cloaked man seemed to smile, not that it was evident on his hidden face. "Mister Ebonheart, I thought we established that your current course of action was unwise. Kill me, and you'll die in days." Ghaleon retracted his hand and loosed his grip on the hilt. "Now," the man continued, "as I was saying. My associates and I have located one of our own who abandoned us. He was but an initiate, but he knew too much of our ways. We need you to silence him."
"I am no assassin," Soirse stated in protest.
"You will be," replied the man. A breeze off the river caused his cloak to flutter. "Now, the deserter's name is Siobhan, an old man who lives in the city. He has a house on the border between the Gro-Bannor and Kaldorn districts. You'll want to be careful. He was only an initiate, but he has still gleaned some of the skills of my order. You'll need to surprse him."
Soirse fumed silently. Fenrir growled. Ghaleon's eyes showed a slight glimmer of excitement, while Malcolm listened intently, willing to go to any lengths to prevent a return to his afflicted condition. The cloaked man approached the travelers, staying in the shadows to conceal his face. He extended a hand holding a small pouch and a golden pendant. Ghaleon approached cautiously and accepted the items.
"This should help," the man said, "It is a magical amulet that will guide one single blow unerringly to its target. Use it wisely."
"And the money?" Ghaleon asked, jangling the pouch of coins.
"You are not slaves. We will pay you for your work." As the cloaked man said that, three slender men emerged from the bushes surrounding the hill behind the adventurers. They wore black studded leather armor and inscrutable black face-masks. As they approached the cart, the creature remained docile. Each man wrapped his hands around two bars, and together they carried the cage past the cloaked man and into the thicket behind him. "The antidote lasts for seven days. You should begin your task immediately." He disappeared into the thicket.
***
Soirse and Malcolm stood off the side of the road, watching Ghaleon talk to the passersby. He transitioned seamlessly from one to the next, putting each at ease. Old human women, brash young dwarves, everyone Ghaleon talked to seemed genuinely pleased to have had the experience. After about fifteen minutes of talking, he strode proudly over to his companions.
"Alright, I found the house."
"That fast?" asked Malcolm, incredulous.
"Of course that fast. I'm a nobleman after all. People respect me."
Almost imperceptibly, Soirse rolled her eyes. "Well?"
"Apparently he almost never goes out, so we can be fairly certain he'll be home. We should go at night though. Get him while he's asleep."
"Tonight then?" Malcolm inquired.
"Tonight."
***
The new moon meant the night was exceptionally dark. Siobhan's house was at the end of an alley in the Kaldorn district. It was strikingly ordinary. Two floors, built of wood and plaster, the house was almost a perfect square. A larger front door was visible as the three approached, but as they spread out to examine the building, Malcolm discovered a back entrance as well.
"We need to do this fast," said Ghaleon, golden pendant dangling from his neck. "I've got the amulet, so I'll make the killing blow."
"Fine with me," Soirse answered, Fenrir seated at her side.
"We need to find out where he is. I don't want to spend any more time searching than we must," Ghaleon began, "Malcolm, what's that weird-ass climbing thing you do?" The dwarf smiled at the acknowledgment. He traced a few simple arcane gestures and uttered a few simple arcane words. A purple glow flickered around him for a moment.
"Right," Ghaleon said dully, "Anyway climb up and look in the windows." Malcolm obeyed. Limbs bending unnaturally, he scurried up the plastered wall and peeked in each window around the perimeter of the house. Scuttling back around a corner, he motioned for the others to join him. The window was shuttered; Malcolm jabbed a stubby finger at the wide openings between the slats, mouthing "in there."
"We can't risk the noise of getting the shutters open," Ghaleon said as Malcolm dropped to the ground. "Let's take the back door."
Malcolm tried the handle, but the door stood fast. "Locked," he said, frustrated.
Soirse stood, looking on contemplatively, but Ghaleon stepped forward, rummaging through his bag. "I dabble a little in this stuff," he said, extracting a small leather wallet filled with oddly twisted metal tools. Bending over, he fiddled with tool after tool until the lock slid open with a click. He pushed past the door and stepped inside.
The interior of the home seemed more spacious than its exterior indicated. The furnishings were utilitarian but plentiful. Wooden bins housed various foodstuffs, while a simple wood-stove occupied the far corner of the room. An open doorway led into a second room, outfitted with a squat table and four chairs. A wooden stairway along the right wall led upstairs, while the left wall was shrouded in darkness.
"There's something over there," Malcolm whispered. Fenrir was alert, staring intently at the dark corner. As Soirse and Ghaleon turned to look, it leaped from its hiding-place. A canine form constructed of scores of iron tubes landed in front of the three, producing a thousand grinding sounds as it moved. Fenrir growled, and the artificial dog prepared to strike.
As it lunged forward, Malcolm said something. The word was nigh-unpronounceable, and it seemed somehow wrong when Soirse heard it. Her attention was diverted from the dog for only a moment as she turned to see Malcolm standing with his feet wide apart, hands pointed toward their assailant.
A chorus of twangs and pops emanated from the creation's whirring metal heart. It followed through with its lunge, falling apart as it struck out toward Fenrir. Its muzzle thudded on the floor inches in front of the startled wolf as the entire automaton collapsed into a collection of gears and wires.
"What did you do?" Soirse asked, surprised.
"Just another of my tricks," Malcolm smirked.
"Good work, but we're wasting time here," Ghaleon commanded in a harsh whisper, "We have an old man to kill."
They tried to ascend the stairs as quietly as they could, but the old wooden steps creaked under the adventurers' collective weight. The home's upstairs consisted of a narrow corridor with three doors, one on each wall and one at the end. Skulking down the hallway, Ghaleon quietly nudged the left door open, revealing a darkened laboratory. Strangely shaped bottles and flasks were strewn across a long wooden table, some filled with pungent and colorful liquids. A desk in the corner held several dog-eared codices open on top of one another.
"Not here," Ghaleon whispered, motioning for the door at the far end of the hall.
Soirse drew her scimitar and Ghaleon unsheathed his sword. Focusing for a moment on the pendant, he felt it vibrating against his chest. Ghaleon flipped the blade, held it aloft, and kicked the door. It swung open freely.
A staff, crackling with arcane energy, was pointed directly at Ghaleon's face.
It was twilight when the three began their unsubtle approach to the designated point between the hills. The orange of the setting sun seemed to emerge in fractured shards from the Lene as it flowed south. It had been only six days, but Malcolm's skin had paled from its usual ruddy brown to a peaked gray and his eyes were sunken in his skull.
"I thought your kind could handle this kind of thing," Ghaleon jeered as they approached the first hill. "I'd hate to see you with a couple of ales in you."
Malcolm murmured an incoherent response, staggering alongside the cart as the cloaked man came into view. When the adventurers were close enough, he stirred from his statue-trance.
"I knew I was right to tap you," he said in his low, resonant voice. "I see you delivered the creature as we agreed."
"And the antidote?" Soirse demanded. Tacitly, the man tossed three more vials of viscous fluid to the travelers. Soirse held hers up to her face, examining its contents. Malcolm's vial hit him in the forehead, sending him stumbling weakly backward. When he regained his composure, the dwarf shuffled over to his vial and drank its contents greedily. The color immediately began to return to his face.
"This is the same thing you gave us last time," Soirse said accusingly, "We did what you asked, so give us the antidote."
"I'm afraid my associates and I require a bit more from you," the cloaked man intoned. "You see, we --"
"The deal was creature for antidote," Ghaleon interrupted. Gesturing back to the cage, whose inhabitant had become oddly placid, he said, "Creature." Stepping forward and holding out his left hand while clutching his sword hilt with his right, "Antidote."
The cloaked man seemed to smile, not that it was evident on his hidden face. "Mister Ebonheart, I thought we established that your current course of action was unwise. Kill me, and you'll die in days." Ghaleon retracted his hand and loosed his grip on the hilt. "Now," the man continued, "as I was saying. My associates and I have located one of our own who abandoned us. He was but an initiate, but he knew too much of our ways. We need you to silence him."
"I am no assassin," Soirse stated in protest.
"You will be," replied the man. A breeze off the river caused his cloak to flutter. "Now, the deserter's name is Siobhan, an old man who lives in the city. He has a house on the border between the Gro-Bannor and Kaldorn districts. You'll want to be careful. He was only an initiate, but he has still gleaned some of the skills of my order. You'll need to surprse him."
Soirse fumed silently. Fenrir growled. Ghaleon's eyes showed a slight glimmer of excitement, while Malcolm listened intently, willing to go to any lengths to prevent a return to his afflicted condition. The cloaked man approached the travelers, staying in the shadows to conceal his face. He extended a hand holding a small pouch and a golden pendant. Ghaleon approached cautiously and accepted the items.
"This should help," the man said, "It is a magical amulet that will guide one single blow unerringly to its target. Use it wisely."
"And the money?" Ghaleon asked, jangling the pouch of coins.
"You are not slaves. We will pay you for your work." As the cloaked man said that, three slender men emerged from the bushes surrounding the hill behind the adventurers. They wore black studded leather armor and inscrutable black face-masks. As they approached the cart, the creature remained docile. Each man wrapped his hands around two bars, and together they carried the cage past the cloaked man and into the thicket behind him. "The antidote lasts for seven days. You should begin your task immediately." He disappeared into the thicket.
***
Soirse and Malcolm stood off the side of the road, watching Ghaleon talk to the passersby. He transitioned seamlessly from one to the next, putting each at ease. Old human women, brash young dwarves, everyone Ghaleon talked to seemed genuinely pleased to have had the experience. After about fifteen minutes of talking, he strode proudly over to his companions.
"Alright, I found the house."
"That fast?" asked Malcolm, incredulous.
"Of course that fast. I'm a nobleman after all. People respect me."
Almost imperceptibly, Soirse rolled her eyes. "Well?"
"Apparently he almost never goes out, so we can be fairly certain he'll be home. We should go at night though. Get him while he's asleep."
"Tonight then?" Malcolm inquired.
"Tonight."
***
The new moon meant the night was exceptionally dark. Siobhan's house was at the end of an alley in the Kaldorn district. It was strikingly ordinary. Two floors, built of wood and plaster, the house was almost a perfect square. A larger front door was visible as the three approached, but as they spread out to examine the building, Malcolm discovered a back entrance as well.
"We need to do this fast," said Ghaleon, golden pendant dangling from his neck. "I've got the amulet, so I'll make the killing blow."
"Fine with me," Soirse answered, Fenrir seated at her side.
"We need to find out where he is. I don't want to spend any more time searching than we must," Ghaleon began, "Malcolm, what's that weird-ass climbing thing you do?" The dwarf smiled at the acknowledgment. He traced a few simple arcane gestures and uttered a few simple arcane words. A purple glow flickered around him for a moment.
"Right," Ghaleon said dully, "Anyway climb up and look in the windows." Malcolm obeyed. Limbs bending unnaturally, he scurried up the plastered wall and peeked in each window around the perimeter of the house. Scuttling back around a corner, he motioned for the others to join him. The window was shuttered; Malcolm jabbed a stubby finger at the wide openings between the slats, mouthing "in there."
"We can't risk the noise of getting the shutters open," Ghaleon said as Malcolm dropped to the ground. "Let's take the back door."
Malcolm tried the handle, but the door stood fast. "Locked," he said, frustrated.
Soirse stood, looking on contemplatively, but Ghaleon stepped forward, rummaging through his bag. "I dabble a little in this stuff," he said, extracting a small leather wallet filled with oddly twisted metal tools. Bending over, he fiddled with tool after tool until the lock slid open with a click. He pushed past the door and stepped inside.
The interior of the home seemed more spacious than its exterior indicated. The furnishings were utilitarian but plentiful. Wooden bins housed various foodstuffs, while a simple wood-stove occupied the far corner of the room. An open doorway led into a second room, outfitted with a squat table and four chairs. A wooden stairway along the right wall led upstairs, while the left wall was shrouded in darkness.
"There's something over there," Malcolm whispered. Fenrir was alert, staring intently at the dark corner. As Soirse and Ghaleon turned to look, it leaped from its hiding-place. A canine form constructed of scores of iron tubes landed in front of the three, producing a thousand grinding sounds as it moved. Fenrir growled, and the artificial dog prepared to strike.
As it lunged forward, Malcolm said something. The word was nigh-unpronounceable, and it seemed somehow wrong when Soirse heard it. Her attention was diverted from the dog for only a moment as she turned to see Malcolm standing with his feet wide apart, hands pointed toward their assailant.
A chorus of twangs and pops emanated from the creation's whirring metal heart. It followed through with its lunge, falling apart as it struck out toward Fenrir. Its muzzle thudded on the floor inches in front of the startled wolf as the entire automaton collapsed into a collection of gears and wires.
"What did you do?" Soirse asked, surprised.
"Just another of my tricks," Malcolm smirked.
"Good work, but we're wasting time here," Ghaleon commanded in a harsh whisper, "We have an old man to kill."
They tried to ascend the stairs as quietly as they could, but the old wooden steps creaked under the adventurers' collective weight. The home's upstairs consisted of a narrow corridor with three doors, one on each wall and one at the end. Skulking down the hallway, Ghaleon quietly nudged the left door open, revealing a darkened laboratory. Strangely shaped bottles and flasks were strewn across a long wooden table, some filled with pungent and colorful liquids. A desk in the corner held several dog-eared codices open on top of one another.
"Not here," Ghaleon whispered, motioning for the door at the far end of the hall.
Soirse drew her scimitar and Ghaleon unsheathed his sword. Focusing for a moment on the pendant, he felt it vibrating against his chest. Ghaleon flipped the blade, held it aloft, and kicked the door. It swung open freely.
A staff, crackling with arcane energy, was pointed directly at Ghaleon's face.
Monday, May 25, 2009
The Black Sword, Chapter 1: The Eldritch Cave
Soirse was the last to arrive at the rendezvous point. A few yawning deciduous trees dotted the area between the two hills where the meeting was to take place. The river flowed calmly down from the north, making its way about twenty yards west of the lone cloaked figure who stood stark-still, waiting for everyone to arrive. The waxing moon showed little white ripples in Fenrir's fur as he jogged along at Soirse's side. They descended the hill.
As she passed, Soirse caught something in the corner of her eye. A young elf in dark leather armor hid still and silent behind one of the oaks. She grimaced, her anxiety toward the coming meeting exacerbated by his presence. Two others stood a cautious distance away from the cloaked man, a brown-skinned dwarf in gray robes and a tall, broad-shouldered man with long black hair and a thick tunic that clearly concealed some armor underneath.
Soirse took her place at Ghaleon's side and Fenrir at hers. The deathly still cloaked man raised his head, his face still shrouded by the shadow cast from his hood.
"You've all arrived," he began, "good. Malcolm, Ghaleon, Soirse -- you look surprised. I suppose you were unaware that yours were not the only letters." The three nodded in agreement. "I have need of all your services," he continued in a calm, flowing voice.
"Where can I find the sword? You said you could help, so help," Ghaleon growled, stepping forward and reaching for his weapon. The figure raised a hand.
"Stay your blade, Ghaleon. That is not a wise decision," he said, unrattled. "As I was saying, I have need of your services and you have need of my antidote."
"What would you have us do?" Malcolm inquired.
"My associates have lost track of some creatures, but they believe they've tracked them to a cave near the source of the Nerath, north of Rivermeet. You will be retrieving one for them, alive." The man sidestepped gracefully, a small metal cage behind him, "They rather resemble giant spiders, but with one twitching eye and bladed legs. You would do well to be careful of those." Malcolm shifted nervously. Soirse stared intently, trying to catch a glimpse of the man's hidden visage. Fenrir rumbled with a low growl. "Bring one back in this cage, alive, in one week."
"And where's..." Ghaleon began.
"Your antidote?" The man finished. He made a throwing motion, his cloak-sleeve trailing behind his hand. The parcel split into three in mid-flight, each part caught by one of the listeners. Soirse looked at the slender glass vial filled with viscous, clear fluid. "This should last you for about one week. If you bring the creature back, I'll give you the rest."
Ghaleon seethed, taking a step forward. He blinked, and when his eyes reopened, the man was gone. "I guess we're working together. Come on out, Tobias." The elf Soirse spotted earlier emerged from his hiding-place. "I'm Ghaleon, of Ebonheart manor, and this is my man Tobias Regai. Owes me a favor."
"Name's Malcolm. I'm looking to find my father -- never met him before, so it's just Malcolm for now."
"Soirse," Soirse answered, softly, "and this is Fenrir. He'll warm up to you once he gets to know you." Fenrir growled at the two men. "Anyway, seems we all have problems, so let's get this done so we can get back to solving them."
"Fine by me," Ghaleon answered with a smirk. "I've got everything we'll need in town. Let's go - Rivermeet's at least a day's journey."
***
Ghaleon hadn't much nobility left, but he still had land. His estate held sufficient provisions to supply the new company with a mule-cart and food for their excursion. Tobias, however, elected to remain behind, promising to accompany Ghaleon to their next meeting with the mysterious figure. By evening of the next day they had ridden past Rivermeet, declining to stop in the interest of time. Mid afternoon of the day after found them following a rustic trail through a patch of hills along the Nerath, now scarcely more than a stream.
"I think that's it," Soirse whispered, peering past a small thicket to a shallow indention on the near side of a tree-capped hill. Ghaleon nodded, steering the cart into the thicket.
"Dammit," he spat, a little too loudly, "kobolds." The three travelers huddled behind the cart near the far edge of the thicket. Ghaleon had the foresight to tie the mule to a tree several yards further back. "I knew this was going to be harder than it sounded."
A troop of diminutive, greenish creatures milled about the narrow cave entrance at the base of the indentation. They wore leather tunics, but little else covered their gnarly, scaled skin. They had elongated snouts with beady eyes set deep in their heads. Most wielded small spears or crossbows, but few had them readied. An older-looking kobold dressed in a mass of red robes gestured wildly, arranging his followers facing the cave entrance. He gibbered in some language unknown to the new adventurers.
"We need to hit them fast, before they realize we're here. What can you two do?" Ghaleon took charge.
"Druid initiate," Soirse said, "Fenrir's my muscle."
"Good, you can cover us and keep us healthy. Make sure your mutt doesn't bite me in the ass." Soirse glared at Ghaleon for the remark.
"I don't know how to explain it," Malcolm said, "so I'll do my own thing."
"Fine. Soirse, send in the dog. We'll take the archers first. Malcolm, do whatever the hell you want. Let's go." On that word, Ghaleon drew his longsword and whipped around the side of the cart. Soirse rose and directed Fenrir forward. A few quick gestures with his stubby fingers, and Malcolm shimmered with a faint purple glow for a moment. Then, with an uncanny agility, his short limbs flailed out, clinging to a tree and pulling him up like a spider.
The kobolds quickly diverted their attention to their sudden assailants. Crossbow bolts launched in haste missed the charging warrior, and he closed on the left-flank bowmen rapidly. He swung his blade, but his short target ducked as the steel passed overhead. His compatriot was not so lucky, and a gash through the shoulder left him incapacitated. The spearmen charged the oncoming wolf, brandishing their weapons in an attempt to scare the fearless animal. Though his teeth found flesh as he dragged one of the kobolds to the ground, Fenrir was quickly surrounded.
Ghaleon weaved and parried as the crossbowmen dropped their bows and began to stab wildly with daggers. His longer, stronger sword easily deflected their blows, and though his foes were quick he was able to land the occasional cut. The older kobold shifted from shouting his incomprehensible language to chanting it. Extending a claw toward Ghaleon, he struck the final syllable as a thin black ray streaked from his finger toward the warrior. The beam hit when Ghaleon was in mid-swing, and at the moment it did, he felt all strength leave him. The sword nearly flew from his hand, and he struggled to lift it while dodging the kobold daggers thrust in his direction.
Fenrir had managed to bring down another kobold, but his right side was red from two telling spear wounds. Soirse began to encant a spell of her own from behind the cart. The grass under the spearmen's feet began to thicken and writhe, twisting into strong vines that rose and bound the attackers. Darting backward, the wolf was able to avoid a similar fate.
Three blasts of purplish-gray energy streaked from the treetops to the chests of the dagger-wielding bowmen plaguing Ghaleon, sending them tumbling to the ground. Malcolm clung to the branch by one hand, producing arcane gestures with the other. Ghaleon grasped his sword, grunted, and with what strength remained in him he charged the robed kobold, running him through with his steel. Fenrir easily subdued the vine-bound spearmen, and those that escaped the spell fell back into the cave at a run. The adventurers had won the day.
When the sorcerer fell, Ghaleon felt his strength return, "I hate magic," he growled as he wiped his blade.
"It saved your life," Malcolm jabbed, approaching from the grove.
Soirse ignored the others, running to tend to Fenrir's wounds. She knelt at the beast's side, whispering a few magical words and covering the punctures with her glowing hand. When she removed it, the wounds were gone. Her hand moved up to scratch her faithful companion behind his ears.
"I could use a little of that too, you know," Ghaleon called out. Soirse just shook her head, smiling, and joined the group. "What we're looking for is inside," he added. The three paused at the narrow entry for only a moment, then walked into the cave.
Inside, the light quickly faded and the air grew stale. Ghaleon retrieved a torch from his pack and lit it, only to see Malcolm clambering along the low ceiling. "Out of harm's way," the dwarf whispered. The adventurers each did his best to stay quiet, eyes darting, searching for motion as far as the torch would illuminate. Malcolm gazed further, eyes unhindered by the dark. A loud clang resounded throughout the cave as Ghaleon stumbled back, foot narrowly missed by a rusted steel bear trap.
"So much for quiet," he said, "but this could come in handy." He picked up the expended trap and stuffed it into his pack. The reverberations should have stopped after a moment, but sound continued to stir deep in the hole. Soirse's eyes widened. Something was coming.
The creatures seemed to come from everywhere at once, bone-blades cutting gashes across the adventurers' arms, legs, anything they could hit. Ghaleon and Soirse were forced back to back as the spider-beasts danced eerily around them. "We have to force through," Ghaleon groaned, surging forward and swinging his blade, chopping down one of the creatures. Soirse and Fenrir followed his momentum, running deeper into the cave.
Malcolm's bolts splashed against the cave wall, each illuminating for a moment as a slasher dodged out of its way. Their blades clicked against the floor as they came within the torchlight, wet, sideways eyes blinking arhythmicly. They skittered forward, popping up into the air and spinning with blades extended, slashing through the adventurers as they flew. A pair of them popped up toward Malcolm, cutting him across the back. With the second wave of attacks, Ghaleon was ready. As the first slasher flew toward him, he swung his blade, and it fell in two halves on the other side of him. Fenrir caught one by the leg as it began to leap, dragging it down and ripping it open. Malcolm's bolts finally hit home, felling another beast.
"Don't forget, we need one alive," Soirse cried.
"No trouble," Ghaleon responded, shifting his sword in preparation for the next onslaught. As another bug spun toward him, he brought down the flat of his blade with great force, sending the creature tumbling into a limp heap of blades on the cave floor. The chittering stopped. The clicking stopped. The attack was over.
"Great, we got what we came for," Malcolm sighed, dropping from the roof. "I -- ugh!" he cried, spying the bodies of two eviscerated kobolds just outside of the torchlight. "Let's just take the beast and go, before things get worse here." As the words left his mouth, a gurgling snarl left the deeper parts of the cave. A faint reddish light danced in that direction, becoming brighter by the second. Malcolm shuddered as rapid padding sounds became audible.
Ghaleon was more canny. Sidling forward, he pulled the bear trap from his pack and set it out with a huff. His smirk betrayed a hint of fear, "This should work."
The light arrived moments later. An imposing figure, half again as tall as Ghaleon snarled and drooled. Its body was covered in a lumpy, gray-green skin and its arms each terminated in two large, black claws. Its most disturbing feature, however, was its one red glowing eye. The black slit pupil was ringed by an undulating iris, ever changing into nauseating patterns.
Readying her scimitar, Soirse met its gaze. For a moment, she fixated on the iris. Her stomach turned, her grip loosened, and she vomited violently, dazed. The beast galloped forward on all four of its limbs, swatting Fenrir aside as it slashed at the druid with its jagged claws. Rolling with the blow, Soirse suffered only superifcial scratches. Growling at the monster, Fenrir charged forward but slunk away scared when the abomination turned to face him.
Malcolm loosed his blasts, grazing the creature's massive arms, but he too fell victim to its nauseating eye when he accidentally met its gaze. Meanwhile, Ghaleon charged forward but was buffeted back by an offhand claw slash. Battered and exhausted, the adventurers tried to regroup. Slowly backing away from the beast and averting their eyes, they hoped not to provoke it. It padded slowly toward them, keeping pace. Then it sunk back, tensed its muscles, and bounded forward after the group. As it began to leap, claws extended, the creature stopped in mid-air as a clank resounded throughout the cave. It fell flat on the ground and Ghaleon rushed up to plunge his sword through its head. It lay dead, its foot snared by his bear trap.
Prying it off the disgusting aberration's foot, Ghaleon returned the bear trap to his pack. Ever curious, Malcolm cut out its strange eye for further study.
Groaning as she clutched her many wounds, Soirse walked over and clubbed the subdued spider-beast, just to be safe. "Let's lock this thing up and move on." In no condition to argue, Malcolm and Ghaleon followed her out of the cave.
As she passed, Soirse caught something in the corner of her eye. A young elf in dark leather armor hid still and silent behind one of the oaks. She grimaced, her anxiety toward the coming meeting exacerbated by his presence. Two others stood a cautious distance away from the cloaked man, a brown-skinned dwarf in gray robes and a tall, broad-shouldered man with long black hair and a thick tunic that clearly concealed some armor underneath.
Soirse took her place at Ghaleon's side and Fenrir at hers. The deathly still cloaked man raised his head, his face still shrouded by the shadow cast from his hood.
"You've all arrived," he began, "good. Malcolm, Ghaleon, Soirse -- you look surprised. I suppose you were unaware that yours were not the only letters." The three nodded in agreement. "I have need of all your services," he continued in a calm, flowing voice.
"Where can I find the sword? You said you could help, so help," Ghaleon growled, stepping forward and reaching for his weapon. The figure raised a hand.
"Stay your blade, Ghaleon. That is not a wise decision," he said, unrattled. "As I was saying, I have need of your services and you have need of my antidote."
"What would you have us do?" Malcolm inquired.
"My associates have lost track of some creatures, but they believe they've tracked them to a cave near the source of the Nerath, north of Rivermeet. You will be retrieving one for them, alive." The man sidestepped gracefully, a small metal cage behind him, "They rather resemble giant spiders, but with one twitching eye and bladed legs. You would do well to be careful of those." Malcolm shifted nervously. Soirse stared intently, trying to catch a glimpse of the man's hidden visage. Fenrir rumbled with a low growl. "Bring one back in this cage, alive, in one week."
"And where's..." Ghaleon began.
"Your antidote?" The man finished. He made a throwing motion, his cloak-sleeve trailing behind his hand. The parcel split into three in mid-flight, each part caught by one of the listeners. Soirse looked at the slender glass vial filled with viscous, clear fluid. "This should last you for about one week. If you bring the creature back, I'll give you the rest."
Ghaleon seethed, taking a step forward. He blinked, and when his eyes reopened, the man was gone. "I guess we're working together. Come on out, Tobias." The elf Soirse spotted earlier emerged from his hiding-place. "I'm Ghaleon, of Ebonheart manor, and this is my man Tobias Regai. Owes me a favor."
"Name's Malcolm. I'm looking to find my father -- never met him before, so it's just Malcolm for now."
"Soirse," Soirse answered, softly, "and this is Fenrir. He'll warm up to you once he gets to know you." Fenrir growled at the two men. "Anyway, seems we all have problems, so let's get this done so we can get back to solving them."
"Fine by me," Ghaleon answered with a smirk. "I've got everything we'll need in town. Let's go - Rivermeet's at least a day's journey."
***
Ghaleon hadn't much nobility left, but he still had land. His estate held sufficient provisions to supply the new company with a mule-cart and food for their excursion. Tobias, however, elected to remain behind, promising to accompany Ghaleon to their next meeting with the mysterious figure. By evening of the next day they had ridden past Rivermeet, declining to stop in the interest of time. Mid afternoon of the day after found them following a rustic trail through a patch of hills along the Nerath, now scarcely more than a stream.
"I think that's it," Soirse whispered, peering past a small thicket to a shallow indention on the near side of a tree-capped hill. Ghaleon nodded, steering the cart into the thicket.
"Dammit," he spat, a little too loudly, "kobolds." The three travelers huddled behind the cart near the far edge of the thicket. Ghaleon had the foresight to tie the mule to a tree several yards further back. "I knew this was going to be harder than it sounded."
A troop of diminutive, greenish creatures milled about the narrow cave entrance at the base of the indentation. They wore leather tunics, but little else covered their gnarly, scaled skin. They had elongated snouts with beady eyes set deep in their heads. Most wielded small spears or crossbows, but few had them readied. An older-looking kobold dressed in a mass of red robes gestured wildly, arranging his followers facing the cave entrance. He gibbered in some language unknown to the new adventurers.
"We need to hit them fast, before they realize we're here. What can you two do?" Ghaleon took charge.
"Druid initiate," Soirse said, "Fenrir's my muscle."
"Good, you can cover us and keep us healthy. Make sure your mutt doesn't bite me in the ass." Soirse glared at Ghaleon for the remark.
"I don't know how to explain it," Malcolm said, "so I'll do my own thing."
"Fine. Soirse, send in the dog. We'll take the archers first. Malcolm, do whatever the hell you want. Let's go." On that word, Ghaleon drew his longsword and whipped around the side of the cart. Soirse rose and directed Fenrir forward. A few quick gestures with his stubby fingers, and Malcolm shimmered with a faint purple glow for a moment. Then, with an uncanny agility, his short limbs flailed out, clinging to a tree and pulling him up like a spider.
The kobolds quickly diverted their attention to their sudden assailants. Crossbow bolts launched in haste missed the charging warrior, and he closed on the left-flank bowmen rapidly. He swung his blade, but his short target ducked as the steel passed overhead. His compatriot was not so lucky, and a gash through the shoulder left him incapacitated. The spearmen charged the oncoming wolf, brandishing their weapons in an attempt to scare the fearless animal. Though his teeth found flesh as he dragged one of the kobolds to the ground, Fenrir was quickly surrounded.
Ghaleon weaved and parried as the crossbowmen dropped their bows and began to stab wildly with daggers. His longer, stronger sword easily deflected their blows, and though his foes were quick he was able to land the occasional cut. The older kobold shifted from shouting his incomprehensible language to chanting it. Extending a claw toward Ghaleon, he struck the final syllable as a thin black ray streaked from his finger toward the warrior. The beam hit when Ghaleon was in mid-swing, and at the moment it did, he felt all strength leave him. The sword nearly flew from his hand, and he struggled to lift it while dodging the kobold daggers thrust in his direction.
Fenrir had managed to bring down another kobold, but his right side was red from two telling spear wounds. Soirse began to encant a spell of her own from behind the cart. The grass under the spearmen's feet began to thicken and writhe, twisting into strong vines that rose and bound the attackers. Darting backward, the wolf was able to avoid a similar fate.
Three blasts of purplish-gray energy streaked from the treetops to the chests of the dagger-wielding bowmen plaguing Ghaleon, sending them tumbling to the ground. Malcolm clung to the branch by one hand, producing arcane gestures with the other. Ghaleon grasped his sword, grunted, and with what strength remained in him he charged the robed kobold, running him through with his steel. Fenrir easily subdued the vine-bound spearmen, and those that escaped the spell fell back into the cave at a run. The adventurers had won the day.
When the sorcerer fell, Ghaleon felt his strength return, "I hate magic," he growled as he wiped his blade.
"It saved your life," Malcolm jabbed, approaching from the grove.
Soirse ignored the others, running to tend to Fenrir's wounds. She knelt at the beast's side, whispering a few magical words and covering the punctures with her glowing hand. When she removed it, the wounds were gone. Her hand moved up to scratch her faithful companion behind his ears.
"I could use a little of that too, you know," Ghaleon called out. Soirse just shook her head, smiling, and joined the group. "What we're looking for is inside," he added. The three paused at the narrow entry for only a moment, then walked into the cave.
Inside, the light quickly faded and the air grew stale. Ghaleon retrieved a torch from his pack and lit it, only to see Malcolm clambering along the low ceiling. "Out of harm's way," the dwarf whispered. The adventurers each did his best to stay quiet, eyes darting, searching for motion as far as the torch would illuminate. Malcolm gazed further, eyes unhindered by the dark. A loud clang resounded throughout the cave as Ghaleon stumbled back, foot narrowly missed by a rusted steel bear trap.
"So much for quiet," he said, "but this could come in handy." He picked up the expended trap and stuffed it into his pack. The reverberations should have stopped after a moment, but sound continued to stir deep in the hole. Soirse's eyes widened. Something was coming.
The creatures seemed to come from everywhere at once, bone-blades cutting gashes across the adventurers' arms, legs, anything they could hit. Ghaleon and Soirse were forced back to back as the spider-beasts danced eerily around them. "We have to force through," Ghaleon groaned, surging forward and swinging his blade, chopping down one of the creatures. Soirse and Fenrir followed his momentum, running deeper into the cave.
Malcolm's bolts splashed against the cave wall, each illuminating for a moment as a slasher dodged out of its way. Their blades clicked against the floor as they came within the torchlight, wet, sideways eyes blinking arhythmicly. They skittered forward, popping up into the air and spinning with blades extended, slashing through the adventurers as they flew. A pair of them popped up toward Malcolm, cutting him across the back. With the second wave of attacks, Ghaleon was ready. As the first slasher flew toward him, he swung his blade, and it fell in two halves on the other side of him. Fenrir caught one by the leg as it began to leap, dragging it down and ripping it open. Malcolm's bolts finally hit home, felling another beast.
"Don't forget, we need one alive," Soirse cried.
"No trouble," Ghaleon responded, shifting his sword in preparation for the next onslaught. As another bug spun toward him, he brought down the flat of his blade with great force, sending the creature tumbling into a limp heap of blades on the cave floor. The chittering stopped. The clicking stopped. The attack was over.
"Great, we got what we came for," Malcolm sighed, dropping from the roof. "I -- ugh!" he cried, spying the bodies of two eviscerated kobolds just outside of the torchlight. "Let's just take the beast and go, before things get worse here." As the words left his mouth, a gurgling snarl left the deeper parts of the cave. A faint reddish light danced in that direction, becoming brighter by the second. Malcolm shuddered as rapid padding sounds became audible.
Ghaleon was more canny. Sidling forward, he pulled the bear trap from his pack and set it out with a huff. His smirk betrayed a hint of fear, "This should work."
The light arrived moments later. An imposing figure, half again as tall as Ghaleon snarled and drooled. Its body was covered in a lumpy, gray-green skin and its arms each terminated in two large, black claws. Its most disturbing feature, however, was its one red glowing eye. The black slit pupil was ringed by an undulating iris, ever changing into nauseating patterns.
Readying her scimitar, Soirse met its gaze. For a moment, she fixated on the iris. Her stomach turned, her grip loosened, and she vomited violently, dazed. The beast galloped forward on all four of its limbs, swatting Fenrir aside as it slashed at the druid with its jagged claws. Rolling with the blow, Soirse suffered only superifcial scratches. Growling at the monster, Fenrir charged forward but slunk away scared when the abomination turned to face him.
Malcolm loosed his blasts, grazing the creature's massive arms, but he too fell victim to its nauseating eye when he accidentally met its gaze. Meanwhile, Ghaleon charged forward but was buffeted back by an offhand claw slash. Battered and exhausted, the adventurers tried to regroup. Slowly backing away from the beast and averting their eyes, they hoped not to provoke it. It padded slowly toward them, keeping pace. Then it sunk back, tensed its muscles, and bounded forward after the group. As it began to leap, claws extended, the creature stopped in mid-air as a clank resounded throughout the cave. It fell flat on the ground and Ghaleon rushed up to plunge his sword through its head. It lay dead, its foot snared by his bear trap.
Prying it off the disgusting aberration's foot, Ghaleon returned the bear trap to his pack. Ever curious, Malcolm cut out its strange eye for further study.
Groaning as she clutched her many wounds, Soirse walked over and clubbed the subdued spider-beast, just to be safe. "Let's lock this thing up and move on." In no condition to argue, Malcolm and Ghaleon followed her out of the cave.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Vivec Saga Part I: The Black Sword, Prologue
Soirse's day began much as each previous one had since she arrived in Altair. Her attunement to nature felt dull and gray. She could scarcely appreciate the new sun streaming through the canopies of the surrounding forests because she knew her search was unlikely to be any more fruitful than any other since she came to the city. No one seemed to know or care about the life being sapped from the land near her home near Westerwale. Nonetheless, she readied herself for the day. Strapping on her scimitar, she called to Fenrir, her gray wolf companion, who came trotting to her side with far more enthusiasm than she felt. Soirse managed a smile, same as she had every day since her arrival.
Some motion showed on the horizon. The indistinct disturbance became a shadowy figure and then a young boy, dressed in a messenger's vest. Soirse raised an eyebrow, never having received a message before. "Are you Soirse, ma'am?," the boy asked. She nodded. He extended the thin wooden tube toward her and she reached out to take it. The boy bowed and ran back toward the city.
Soirse popped the cap off the wooden tube, dropping it to the ground, and slid the small rolled paper from it. "I may be able to solve your problem..."
***
Sparks flew away as the hammer struck the flat, white hot metal, bending it into a more subtle curve. The hammer fell again and again. Malcolm hadn't noticed the passage from night into morning. His craggy hand reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow when he saw the sun glinting in through the one window in his workshop. Finishing the last few strokes, he doused the unformed breastplate he was making and covered the furnace. He would require more metal to finish the day's work.
Passing into the morning air of Altair briefly and then into his modest home, he splashed his face to wash the soot away, though his clean skin looked little different than when it was dirty. He counted a few gold pieces into a sack, hooked it to his belt, and stepped outside. The stout, brown dwarf grabbed the handle to his wagon and began to pull it to market. The Kaldorn traders had their ingots for sale today.
Struggling despite his sturdy build, Malcolm stopped with the steel-laden cart in front of his shop. A wooden messenger tube was tied to the door-handle. He puffed his chest as he strutted to retrieve it. From the looks of the tube, this could be a big order. Popping open the cap, removing the paper, his small, coal-black eyes narrowed.
"I may be able to solve your problem... "
***
Ghaleon awoke with a start, as he had every day for the last twenty-six years. His eyes fixed themselves on the nervous, sunken-faced servant in his room, placing a wooden tray laden with food on the bed table. "I told you not to disturb me!" he barked, causing no reaction in the servant.
In a tremulous voice, the servant replied "My apologies, Master Ghaleon." The man was capable only of resigned nervousness after years of berating.
"Forget it, Schnibbins," Ghaleon grumbled, "Fetch my tunic." He bit into a lean fig from the tray. In moments, Schnibbins returned, and Ghaleon left his breakfast unfinished as he dressed and stepped out into the morning air. He surveyed his fields, most of which lay fallow, though the one in front of the decrepit serfs' huts showed small buds emerging from its soil. He failed to notice the clack, clack of wood against his farmhouse door.
"Why isn't that lazy dog out working?" he seethed to no one in particular, eyeing the sole intact hut. Schnibbins approached from behind.
"Archie is tending to Nat; she's not feeling well, Milord."
"He's feeling fine. Let him work."
"Yes, Lord," Schnibbins sighed, shuffling off toward the cabin.
Turning to enter his house, Ghaleon spied the tube he had missed before. Curiously, he opened it.
The small slip of paper read,
"I may be able to solve your problem. Meet me on the east bank of the River Lene at one hour to midnight. Come alone.
In case you were considering ignoring this invitation, you should know that this letter is covered in contact poison. I have the antidote.
-V"
Some motion showed on the horizon. The indistinct disturbance became a shadowy figure and then a young boy, dressed in a messenger's vest. Soirse raised an eyebrow, never having received a message before. "Are you Soirse, ma'am?," the boy asked. She nodded. He extended the thin wooden tube toward her and she reached out to take it. The boy bowed and ran back toward the city.
Soirse popped the cap off the wooden tube, dropping it to the ground, and slid the small rolled paper from it. "I may be able to solve your problem..."
***
Sparks flew away as the hammer struck the flat, white hot metal, bending it into a more subtle curve. The hammer fell again and again. Malcolm hadn't noticed the passage from night into morning. His craggy hand reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow when he saw the sun glinting in through the one window in his workshop. Finishing the last few strokes, he doused the unformed breastplate he was making and covered the furnace. He would require more metal to finish the day's work.
Passing into the morning air of Altair briefly and then into his modest home, he splashed his face to wash the soot away, though his clean skin looked little different than when it was dirty. He counted a few gold pieces into a sack, hooked it to his belt, and stepped outside. The stout, brown dwarf grabbed the handle to his wagon and began to pull it to market. The Kaldorn traders had their ingots for sale today.
Struggling despite his sturdy build, Malcolm stopped with the steel-laden cart in front of his shop. A wooden messenger tube was tied to the door-handle. He puffed his chest as he strutted to retrieve it. From the looks of the tube, this could be a big order. Popping open the cap, removing the paper, his small, coal-black eyes narrowed.
"I may be able to solve your problem... "
***
Ghaleon awoke with a start, as he had every day for the last twenty-six years. His eyes fixed themselves on the nervous, sunken-faced servant in his room, placing a wooden tray laden with food on the bed table. "I told you not to disturb me!" he barked, causing no reaction in the servant.
In a tremulous voice, the servant replied "My apologies, Master Ghaleon." The man was capable only of resigned nervousness after years of berating.
"Forget it, Schnibbins," Ghaleon grumbled, "Fetch my tunic." He bit into a lean fig from the tray. In moments, Schnibbins returned, and Ghaleon left his breakfast unfinished as he dressed and stepped out into the morning air. He surveyed his fields, most of which lay fallow, though the one in front of the decrepit serfs' huts showed small buds emerging from its soil. He failed to notice the clack, clack of wood against his farmhouse door.
"Why isn't that lazy dog out working?" he seethed to no one in particular, eyeing the sole intact hut. Schnibbins approached from behind.
"Archie is tending to Nat; she's not feeling well, Milord."
"He's feeling fine. Let him work."
"Yes, Lord," Schnibbins sighed, shuffling off toward the cabin.
Turning to enter his house, Ghaleon spied the tube he had missed before. Curiously, he opened it.
The small slip of paper read,
"I may be able to solve your problem. Meet me on the east bank of the River Lene at one hour to midnight. Come alone.
In case you were considering ignoring this invitation, you should know that this letter is covered in contact poison. I have the antidote.
-V"
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Altair and Surrounding Territories, 137 FS
The lands of Altair and its neighboring kingdoms after the fall of the Fire Legion and the Treaty of Altair in late 136 FS.
Friday, October 24, 2008
First One Shot
Below is the character/group compendium. I have written the story for the realm, but won't put it up until after the one shot. Things will change after we get done with it.
Get ready for greatest trip that never actually happens.
Traumen Character/Group Compendium
Tim Horton (Human): Owner and operator of Horton's Hootenanny. By most critics, this is best pub in Aldea. One will always lively people and some form of entertainment.
Nilarec (Elf): Head paladin in the Temple of Layla. She is devoted to the preservation of nature and the ultimate balance of the world. Also, she is the current Aard representative on Aldeus (see below).
Schneeb (Halfling): Nebin's liason to Alboroto. He professes to care for the defence of Aldea, but lately something has seemed a bit off with him.
Lana (Human): companion of Tim Horton and frequent dancer at his joint
Ofelia (Eladrin): Chief priestess of the Temple of Layla
Rufus (Dragonborn): Head of the group of Dragonborn in the city of Aldea. He has a distinctive scar across his face from where his brother, Malthus, sliced him in a fight as Rufus was trying to lead the now outcast group to Aldea. Rufus has no idea what happened to his brother after he knocked him unconscious after receiving his scar
Leneth (Elf): current citizen council-man
Wobin (Teifling): current Alboroto representative on Aldeus.
Alboroto: First organization formed in Traumen; has the protection of the realm as its core objective
Aard: Second major group formed in Traumen; comprised mainly of followers of Layla; interested in preserving balance
Aldeus: Ruling council of Aldea and all of Traumen save the desert kingdom of the Dragonborn; comprised of a representative from Alboroto, Aard, and one more elected citizen not associated with either group
Blantola: Home/capitol of the Dragonborn
The Fey Pack: organization outside of Aldean rule; they are supposed to be much more fanatical than Aard.
Brotherhood of the Scale: a group not officially associated with the Blantolan government. They are comprised mainly of Dragonborn, but other races are in the group. No one really knows their motives.
Get ready for greatest trip that never actually happens.
Traumen Character/Group Compendium
Tim Horton (Human): Owner and operator of Horton's Hootenanny. By most critics, this is best pub in Aldea. One will always lively people and some form of entertainment.
Nilarec (Elf): Head paladin in the Temple of Layla. She is devoted to the preservation of nature and the ultimate balance of the world. Also, she is the current Aard representative on Aldeus (see below).
Schneeb (Halfling): Nebin's liason to Alboroto. He professes to care for the defence of Aldea, but lately something has seemed a bit off with him.
Lana (Human): companion of Tim Horton and frequent dancer at his joint
Ofelia (Eladrin): Chief priestess of the Temple of Layla
Rufus (Dragonborn): Head of the group of Dragonborn in the city of Aldea. He has a distinctive scar across his face from where his brother, Malthus, sliced him in a fight as Rufus was trying to lead the now outcast group to Aldea. Rufus has no idea what happened to his brother after he knocked him unconscious after receiving his scar
Leneth (Elf): current citizen council-man
Wobin (Teifling): current Alboroto representative on Aldeus.
Alboroto: First organization formed in Traumen; has the protection of the realm as its core objective
Aard: Second major group formed in Traumen; comprised mainly of followers of Layla; interested in preserving balance
Aldeus: Ruling council of Aldea and all of Traumen save the desert kingdom of the Dragonborn; comprised of a representative from Alboroto, Aard, and one more elected citizen not associated with either group
Blantola: Home/capitol of the Dragonborn
The Fey Pack: organization outside of Aldean rule; they are supposed to be much more fanatical than Aard.
Brotherhood of the Scale: a group not officially associated with the Blantolan government. They are comprised mainly of Dragonborn, but other races are in the group. No one really knows their motives.
Monday, October 6, 2008
The Invisible War: Part 2
The Sea of Stars formed a scintillating walkway under the feet of the throngs of mourners who attended Vivec's funeral. The dead god's angels performed their final duties for their master as they bore him into that infinite abyss. Though the golden tones of his skin had lost their luster and the azure tattoos that adorned him had faded, Vivec's lifeless body still glowed with the splendor due a god.
The gods followed in the procession, Arigon's face contorted with pain and Layla weeping tears as rivers. Legends claim that it was the only time Icthareon ever shed a tear. And even Vrojk was present, his face emotionless as he silently took up the rear of the divine contingent. The angels bore the body to the designated spot, a swirling mass of celestial energy that would mark the departure point of Vivec's corpse. At this nexus, Arigon led the gods in a ritual that sealed the two swords, Draconis and Cardiclast, within the heart of Vivec, seeking to prevent a repetition of the tragedy that took one of their own from them.
The mortals on Primus saw a beautiful aurora like none before or since as Vivec's body drifted away into the endless night of the Sea of Stars. For ages his body drifted, colossal in its scope, and it developed into a world of its own. His golden skin became its flowling dunes, his tattoos its winding lakes. Every creature that lived there was touched and changed by his latent magic, and all the while Draconis and Cardiclast slept in the caverns of his heart.
In time the land-corpse of Vivec was forgotten to all but the most shrewd loremasters. Only a few supernatural creatures remembered this land of wonder and the deadly artifacts it contained. One of these was Thraxis, the ice devil. He held onto this secret, keeping it like a treasure until he would find use for it, and that opportunity arose with a young warrior named Ghaleon Ebonheart. Ghaleon's ambition drove him, and he struck a deal with Thraxis. In exchange for the location of Draconis, he pledged to retrieve a silver ring from the corpse of Vivec.
Convincing his fellow adventurers Malcolm and Soirse to accompany him, Ghaleon made his way through a portal from Primus to Vivec. They braved the tribes of vile yugoloths that inhabited the surface, making their way into the cavernous entrails of the dead god. They fought off magically twisted creatures and eventually reached the heart. However, when Ghaleon went to claim Draconis, he saw an empty spot where another sword had been. Another warrior was already wielding Cardiclast.
He laid claim to the black dragon sword, and its draconic spirit emerged to challenge him. Though the fight was arduous, Ghaleon emerged the victor and bearer of Draconis. The swords had awoken, but they remained separate. Destiny foretold the meeting of the bearers of the swords; now only time waited for it to happen.
The mortals on Primus saw a beautiful aurora like none before or since as Vivec's body drifted away into the endless night of the Sea of Stars. For ages his body drifted, colossal in its scope, and it developed into a world of its own. His golden skin became its flowling dunes, his tattoos its winding lakes. Every creature that lived there was touched and changed by his latent magic, and all the while Draconis and Cardiclast slept in the caverns of his heart.
In time the land-corpse of Vivec was forgotten to all but the most shrewd loremasters. Only a few supernatural creatures remembered this land of wonder and the deadly artifacts it contained. One of these was Thraxis, the ice devil. He held onto this secret, keeping it like a treasure until he would find use for it, and that opportunity arose with a young warrior named Ghaleon Ebonheart. Ghaleon's ambition drove him, and he struck a deal with Thraxis. In exchange for the location of Draconis, he pledged to retrieve a silver ring from the corpse of Vivec.
Convincing his fellow adventurers Malcolm and Soirse to accompany him, Ghaleon made his way through a portal from Primus to Vivec. They braved the tribes of vile yugoloths that inhabited the surface, making their way into the cavernous entrails of the dead god. They fought off magically twisted creatures and eventually reached the heart. However, when Ghaleon went to claim Draconis, he saw an empty spot where another sword had been. Another warrior was already wielding Cardiclast.
He laid claim to the black dragon sword, and its draconic spirit emerged to challenge him. Though the fight was arduous, Ghaleon emerged the victor and bearer of Draconis. The swords had awoken, but they remained separate. Destiny foretold the meeting of the bearers of the swords; now only time waited for it to happen.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
The Invisible War: Part 1
The High Councils of the gods were once beautiful symposia where those beings met to discuss the workings of the universe and the actions of their lesser creatures. The first conflicts to mar the High Councils were solved when Draconis was cast down to Primus, but time was all that staved off their return. As the ages passed, the Second generation began to take part in these councils, and with them they brought conflicts of their own.
Vrojk and Vivec, twin sons of Layla and Arigon shared an increasingly bitter rivalry. Though they sprang from the same stock, they were as diametrically opposed as the domains they ruled: war and wizardry, the martial and the magical. Vrojk was an impetuous youth who grew into a temperamental god. He embraced hedonism, and his greatest pleasure was the thrill of battle. Vivec was a being of thought and reason. He used his prolific creativity to shape reality into his ideal conception of it, usually to benefit the gods or their creations. The brothers' respective philosophies were irreconcilable, and each frequently thwarted the other's machinations.
The ages wore on, and the children of Man spread their works across the face of Primus. Beloved of Lena and blessed of Arigon, they prospered, forming great nations and building sprawling cities. Vrojk was a being of conflict, and though he hated and resented Man, he favored the strongest from among the peoples of Primus, and he taught them the ways of battle. These "Dogs of War" soon used their newfound prowess to oppress their neighbors. The nations became empires, and the peoples of Primus suffered under these warriors.
But Vivec saw this and intervened. He used his knowledge to work great miracles, unleashing forces of arcane power upon Vrojk's malevloent chosen and toppling their empires one by one. For the war god, this was too much. His anger grew, and he began to devise a way to kill his brother. However, the Old Law forbade a god to kill another of his kind, so Vrojk sought another way to bring about Vivec's demise.
The Old Law restricted the gods, but no such restriction lay on men or elves or dwarves. However, none of the created could hope to harm a god, even if gifted with the ways of battle. So Vrojk set about creating a weapon that would allow even a mortal to slay a god. The risk was great, if the weapon were to be turned on him, but his hatred drove him onward. For years he delved into the secrets of the age before, and in time he discovered the story of the downcast god Draconis, whose fall to Primus had spawned the first Dragons.
In the ages since the fall, two of these first Dragons had met their end. Vrojk forged a blade from their remains. These divine draconic relics, black and silver, held the power of divine death, and Vrojk called the blade forged from their union Draconis, after its progenitor.
The war-god called together the scattered remnant of his Dogs of War, offering the blade as a prize to the strongest among them. To decide this, they staged a deadly tournament. When all his opponents' blood was spilled, a warrior called Kaine emerged as the victor. Vrojk endowed him with Draconis and charged him with his greatest battle: a confrontation with Vivec.
Kaine walked the lands of Primus, slaughtering all in his wake, and his soul bonded with the spirit of the sword. In time, Vivec came to stop him, as he had stopped the Dogs of War in days past. He descended from the Sea of Stars, an arcane cascade rippling ahead of him, but it parted in around the acrid presence of Draconis. Undaunted, he called reality itself to his aid, his magical fusillade twisting even the lands of Primus, but Draconis refused to change. Kaine's body was ripped and bloodied by his divine foe, but his soul was tied to the sword, which seemed to wield his body instead. He sidestepped a burst of distortion and lunged with the curved blade, penetrating the tattooed flesh of the god of magic. Vivec's power gushed from the wound unmixed, rending the sword in twain and washing over the face of Primus. The god of magic was dead.
His body drifted, lifeless, through the Sea of Stars, and Draconis, now divided, was lost to the ages. But in Vrojk's victory came his defeat. Vivec's power infused Primus, and the denizens of that world slowly learned magic of their own. Vrojk seethed at the proliferation of his brother's legacy, the power of the scroll mitigating that of the sword.
Legend has it that Vivec's spirit chose a mortal to imbue with its power and dwelt therein, a silent visitor until it needed to find a new vessel. Tales are spun of the magic god's eventual return, but other tales of the divided blades of Draconis finding unity once more are whispered as well.
One day, the Invisible War will begin anew.
Vrojk and Vivec, twin sons of Layla and Arigon shared an increasingly bitter rivalry. Though they sprang from the same stock, they were as diametrically opposed as the domains they ruled: war and wizardry, the martial and the magical. Vrojk was an impetuous youth who grew into a temperamental god. He embraced hedonism, and his greatest pleasure was the thrill of battle. Vivec was a being of thought and reason. He used his prolific creativity to shape reality into his ideal conception of it, usually to benefit the gods or their creations. The brothers' respective philosophies were irreconcilable, and each frequently thwarted the other's machinations.
The ages wore on, and the children of Man spread their works across the face of Primus. Beloved of Lena and blessed of Arigon, they prospered, forming great nations and building sprawling cities. Vrojk was a being of conflict, and though he hated and resented Man, he favored the strongest from among the peoples of Primus, and he taught them the ways of battle. These "Dogs of War" soon used their newfound prowess to oppress their neighbors. The nations became empires, and the peoples of Primus suffered under these warriors.
But Vivec saw this and intervened. He used his knowledge to work great miracles, unleashing forces of arcane power upon Vrojk's malevloent chosen and toppling their empires one by one. For the war god, this was too much. His anger grew, and he began to devise a way to kill his brother. However, the Old Law forbade a god to kill another of his kind, so Vrojk sought another way to bring about Vivec's demise.
The Old Law restricted the gods, but no such restriction lay on men or elves or dwarves. However, none of the created could hope to harm a god, even if gifted with the ways of battle. So Vrojk set about creating a weapon that would allow even a mortal to slay a god. The risk was great, if the weapon were to be turned on him, but his hatred drove him onward. For years he delved into the secrets of the age before, and in time he discovered the story of the downcast god Draconis, whose fall to Primus had spawned the first Dragons.
In the ages since the fall, two of these first Dragons had met their end. Vrojk forged a blade from their remains. These divine draconic relics, black and silver, held the power of divine death, and Vrojk called the blade forged from their union Draconis, after its progenitor.
The war-god called together the scattered remnant of his Dogs of War, offering the blade as a prize to the strongest among them. To decide this, they staged a deadly tournament. When all his opponents' blood was spilled, a warrior called Kaine emerged as the victor. Vrojk endowed him with Draconis and charged him with his greatest battle: a confrontation with Vivec.
Kaine walked the lands of Primus, slaughtering all in his wake, and his soul bonded with the spirit of the sword. In time, Vivec came to stop him, as he had stopped the Dogs of War in days past. He descended from the Sea of Stars, an arcane cascade rippling ahead of him, but it parted in around the acrid presence of Draconis. Undaunted, he called reality itself to his aid, his magical fusillade twisting even the lands of Primus, but Draconis refused to change. Kaine's body was ripped and bloodied by his divine foe, but his soul was tied to the sword, which seemed to wield his body instead. He sidestepped a burst of distortion and lunged with the curved blade, penetrating the tattooed flesh of the god of magic. Vivec's power gushed from the wound unmixed, rending the sword in twain and washing over the face of Primus. The god of magic was dead.
His body drifted, lifeless, through the Sea of Stars, and Draconis, now divided, was lost to the ages. But in Vrojk's victory came his defeat. Vivec's power infused Primus, and the denizens of that world slowly learned magic of their own. Vrojk seethed at the proliferation of his brother's legacy, the power of the scroll mitigating that of the sword.
Legend has it that Vivec's spirit chose a mortal to imbue with its power and dwelt therein, a silent visitor until it needed to find a new vessel. Tales are spun of the magic god's eventual return, but other tales of the divided blades of Draconis finding unity once more are whispered as well.
One day, the Invisible War will begin anew.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Back Story for Oleron Lethos
My story starts well before the rise of the Fire Legion and the fall of Altair, but for the sake of time, I will only focus on my part thus far in the affairs of Altair and the bigger picture of the grand struggle between the gods of war and magic. I will assume that the reader does, at least, know that there was a battle waged between Vrojk and Vivec. The first question the reader might have is how I even would have time to write such an account—this, of course, is assuming the reader knows anything about me from my people, the Eladrin. The short answer to that query is that I have had some time alone in a place not quite in the realm of Altair.
For the sake of understanding, I must give some attention to the rise of the Eladrin—which involves me pretty much from the beginning of their ascension. Even before the hard split between the groups now known as the Elves and the Eladrin, there was a splinter faction within the rule of the Regai family. My father and uncle uncovered only a small part of our ancient history. They always suspected that our family and very close friends were somehow set apart from the rest of the Elves. We didn't look much different from the rest, which would have given away the secret a lot sooner, but even in simple things like work and education “we” (sorry, I have to use that anachronistic term for ease) seemed to accomplish more with ease than the others. We, over the generations, began to suspect that we were somehow different, and when the fraction of the five ruling families occurred, that was all we needed cut ties with the Ragai family. In our minds, we had cut ties with the others years before, but we didn't want to make them suspicious.
So, what was it that my father and uncle uncovered that confirmed our suspicion? They found records, through much clandestine searching in the “royal” records of the elves that we had come to this plane a lot later than they. Our ancestors thought it best, at the time, to just blend in with the elves. Over time they just wanted subsequent generations to forget that we had close ties to another plane. The history may not have passed down like it should have, but the blood did not deceive us like our ancestors wanted. As I said before, we didn't want to let on that we knew the truth of being new to the material plane, but that did not prevent us from wanting to find more of the truth behind our ancestry.
My father and uncle, if the reader hasn't figured out by now, were the undeclared leaders of the yet to be named Eladrin; we wouldn't get the name until the splitting of the Five Families. My uncle handled the diplomatic side of things while my father had more of a knack for tactics. One of the first things my dad wanted done was for a trip to be conducted to the closer planes to see if there were any remnants of our ancestors. All we could figure out from the few remaining records was that we were not originally from this plane, but we didn't know where we were from specifically. The ancient records just didn't go back far enough. I demanded that I go on the adventure. I am not one to brag, but I was the strongest among my peers. OK, so maybe I do brag. Anyways, my heart is in the right place since I have a great devotion to my people.
I set off almost immediately on my journey to I didn't really know where; I took only enough time to grab basic supplies. When I left, the city of Altair was still standing; I only mention this because I had a strong feeling that when or if I return, the city won't be the same. Being that I didn't really know my heritage, I didn't what I'd be drawn or attracted to, but I did pick up on two strong, but different, magical auras leaving the city. One felt at peace, while the other was in great turmoil. I followed them out of Altair, never letting on that I was tailing them. Luckily for me they were planning on going to another plane.
When I arrived on the new plane, I noticed that they were already far ahead of me and heading towards some distant tower. I somehow knew that I was not meant to travel any more in their footsteps. As I sat down to contemplate my new surroundings, something began to awaken in me. I discovered that I could produce a cold ray and a sonic shock at will. I spent many days mastering these new found abilities; of course, days is only the way I can express time since the Cusp—as I later found out the name of the place—plays odd tricks on time. I can only assume that since I have a heritage that is not of the material plane, then that must be why I did not go completely insane in the time I spent on the Cusp.
Some time after this, some really odd things began to happen. The Cusp began to show some odd signs of fluctuation—like things were shifting and moving out of place. The magic essence was completely out of control. I began to see portals appear and disappear quite rapidly. I began to get both excited and nervous. I was excited that I might stumble upon the right plane where my ancestors came from, but at the same time, I knew that I might get dumped in a plane where I wouldn't survive for more than a second. I tried my best to sense the best portal around me, but I didn't really have much of a choice since a portal picked me by appearing right below me.
When I came to, I noticed that many other Eladrin were standing around me. I must have stumbled upon the realm of the Fey, I thought, and I then passed out again. I awoke again, this time in a rather well-done room. The bed had a canopy that seemed to float above the mattress. The windows appeared as there were no panes in them, but when I put my hand up to where I expected not to find glass, my hand was repulsed. This realm must not have been so aversely affected by the magic-god's death. I barely had enough time to take in this wonderful room before I was whisked away to some sort of training facility. Here, the first and only Eladrin greeted me. She introduced herself as Zephyria, and she somehow already knew my name. She told me that she had a gift for me when our time was finished, but before that time came, she was to train me, at least rudimentary so, in the skills of a wizard worthy of the Eladrin race. I did nothing but eat, sleep, study and practice for days—again I use the term “day” loosely. When our time came to a conclusion, she gave me my spellbook that she told me would only work for me and that I could never use another wizard's book either. As she conjured a portal and sent me back to the prime material, she told me that I would play an important role in the success of Eladrin, but that was all I heard before arriving near the village of Haven.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
The Arigonean Creation Myth
From the Luminatus, Chapter 2:
There were four in the beginning, and there was balance. Those four were Arigon, father of light, Draconis, lord of darkness, Layla, mother of life, and Charvix, bringer of death. The Sea of Stars ran its eternal course above, and the Chaos whirled below. And Arigon made his domain among the Stars, and called it the Sun, and it was a world of light. Layla made her realm of the elements from the Chaos, and it was a realm of life. Charvix crafted his world from the shadows between the stars, and his kingdom harbored the spirits of death.
But Draconis had no domain to call his own, so he made a secret world between the Chaos and the Sea, between the land of life and the kingdom of death, and he called it Primus. And he shaped this secret world and hid it in his darkness, and the rest of the four knew not about it. He brooded in his realm and grew distant from the other gods, resenting their decisions and hating their servants, and his world became tainted and dark.
In time, the gods grew tired of Draconis and his open resentment of them and the Old Law which bound them. They cast him out of their council chambers, and he plummeted into his realm. When he fell, he broke into pieces, and these pieces became the first of the Dragons.
Over an age, the darkness around Primus cleared, and the gods forgot that world. In this age, the Second generation of gods was born. Golond, and Lena, and Vrojk, and Vivec, and Fargoth, and Icthareon were they. And Golond took interest in Primus and dwelt inside its stones. He made from them his children, the Dwarves. And they worked the stone of Primus.
And Fargoth saw the dry stone and filled its valleys with water, and called it the Sea, after the Sea of Stars into which he had been born. And he ruled the sea as Golond ruled the stone, and
his children were the peoples of the sea.
The realm of life and the kingdom of death were close upon Primus, and from the land of life came the beasts of the world, and the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea. And the peoples of the land of life also came to Primus, and they were called the Elves. And death spirits came from the realm of death, and the dwarves and the elves knew mortality.
The gods in their realms took little notice of Golond and his kingdom, and the dwarves and the elves and the Dragons lived and flourished. But from his citadel, Vrojk looked upon Lena, and he was filled with desire for her, and his need consumed him. But she would not requite him, so his desire bred in him anger and hate. He waited for her to be alone, and he came upon her and knew her, and she grew with child.
But the hate of Vrojk corrupted the child, and he was born with conflict in his heart, and Lena called him Man. She was afraid, for she loved the child, but Vrojk hated him, so Lena hid Man in Primus, where she thought Vrojk would not deign to look.
And Man flourished and multiplied throughout the land, living among the Elves and the Dwarves...
Monday, August 11, 2008
Character Profile: Ceralin de Roisin
For Walter de Roisin, life was good. A proud member of the Altair United Guard in the flush of his youth, the young soldier achieved a small degree of renown amongst his fellows. Although always a soldier at heart, de Roisin eventually left the Guard for the less stimulating but more reliable field of mercantilism. The de Roisin family, while never attaining the same level of fame and notoriety as Altair's more illustrious names, had a proud history in its own right, and Walter had inherited a modest tract of land from an obscure relative. Upon his honorable retirement from the Guard, at a still young age, he married his sweetheart, Rosalind Venstrom. After a few years working at his newfound trade, de Roisin had managed to turn his land into a reasonably prosperous wheat farm. Although de Roisin never regretted his decision to become a wheat merchant, he could never forget his glory days in the Guard, and when Rosalind became pregnant, he harbored a hope that the child would be a son (whom he intended to name Ceralac, after his father) to carry on the family name in the defense of Altair.
Rosalind went into labor in the dead of winter. It was an excruciatingly difficult birth, and despite the best efforts of the midwives in attendance, there was nothing that could be done to save her. Though heartbroken at the tragic news, de Roisin nevertheless asked that he be allowed to see his newborn child. Already stricken at the loss of his beloved wife, his first sight of the infant was too much for de Roisin. For the baby was female. With an unreadable expression upon his face, de Roisin announced that the child was to be called Ceralin. He then retired to his quarters and would not speak with anybody for some three days.
Walter's relationship with his daughter was always a confusing one. On the one hand, he could not help but blame Ceralin for the death of his adored Rosalind, and in his daughter, he saw the shadow of the son that never was. Accordingly, there were stretches of time during which de Roisin would all but ignore the little girl. On the other hand, Ceralin represented all that was left of Rosalind (she did resemble her mother a great deal), and she was his only child. During these times, Walter became a truly devoted father, and, as he had no son to whom he could teach such skills, began training young Ceralin in the art of weaponry.
To everyone's surprise, the mere slip of a girl took to battle like a fish to water. She was highly adept in most all types of weaponry, but most especially the blade. Walter could not help developing a deep respect for his daughter's skills, and he eventually ceased ruing that she was not a boy. In fact, when she reached the appropriate age, de Roisin presented Ceralin as a candidate for admission into the United Guard. With her talents and spunk, she was a sure-fire choice, and it was not long before a seasoned Knight of the United Guard, Sir Ulrich, offered to take the girl on as his squire, recognizing in her great potential. It was a proud day for Ceralin, and from then on, she strove to faithfully uphold her vow to defend Altair in her hour of need.
Then came the siege of Altair.
Perhaps if they had been forewarned, the Guard would have been able to hold off the advancing swarms of Fire Legion soldiers, at least for a little while. As it was, they were taken almost entirely by surprise, and in a flaming maelstrom of confusion and blood, the Guard's units were neatly dispatched. Ceralin became separated from Ulrich at some point during the fray; the last she ever saw of him was her master swinging a sword about his head as two orc footsoldiers pulled at his stirrups, attempting to drag the knight from his horse. As the battle raged about her, Ceralin began to feel a cold, numbing sensation which was unfamiliar to her: fear. Fighting back shaking hands and a bad taste in her mouth, Ceralin ineffectively tried to steer her mount back towards the fray, hoping to find Ulrich, but it was a losing fight against both her horse and her fear.
It was at this point that the wall behind which a portion of the Guard had been regrouping exploded in a shower of flame and shards of rock as wave upon wave of Fire Legion troops began to spill into the tortured city. Leading the horde of soldiers, which began tearing her comrades to pieces was an especially tall, barbarous looking orc. He slowly swiveled his head, surveying his victory, and it seemed to Ceralin that his eyes locked with hers, and for that brief instant, she foresaw her own death. And in the moment that she was to regret every day thereafter, Ceralin dug her heels into the side of her mount and bolted in the opposite direction. She was able to reach the edge of the city unscathed, the Fire Legion was too busy to concern themselves with one fleeing girl. And so she escaped Altair, tortured in mind and spirit, having left her comrades to almost certain destruction. . . . . but she was at least alive.
From there, Ceralin traveled south with no particular destination in mind, just so long as it wasn't Altair. She survived by hiring herself out as a bodyguard or soldier from time to time. Those who initially laughed at the idea of an 18-year-old girl as a hired sword soon lost their skepticism after witnessing her in action. After two long years of uncertain living, Ceralin found her way to the village of Haven, a refugee camp of sorts for the escaped citizens of Altair. There, she decided to stop and wait for her next adventure to come her way.
Rosalind went into labor in the dead of winter. It was an excruciatingly difficult birth, and despite the best efforts of the midwives in attendance, there was nothing that could be done to save her. Though heartbroken at the tragic news, de Roisin nevertheless asked that he be allowed to see his newborn child. Already stricken at the loss of his beloved wife, his first sight of the infant was too much for de Roisin. For the baby was female. With an unreadable expression upon his face, de Roisin announced that the child was to be called Ceralin. He then retired to his quarters and would not speak with anybody for some three days.
Walter's relationship with his daughter was always a confusing one. On the one hand, he could not help but blame Ceralin for the death of his adored Rosalind, and in his daughter, he saw the shadow of the son that never was. Accordingly, there were stretches of time during which de Roisin would all but ignore the little girl. On the other hand, Ceralin represented all that was left of Rosalind (she did resemble her mother a great deal), and she was his only child. During these times, Walter became a truly devoted father, and, as he had no son to whom he could teach such skills, began training young Ceralin in the art of weaponry.
To everyone's surprise, the mere slip of a girl took to battle like a fish to water. She was highly adept in most all types of weaponry, but most especially the blade. Walter could not help developing a deep respect for his daughter's skills, and he eventually ceased ruing that she was not a boy. In fact, when she reached the appropriate age, de Roisin presented Ceralin as a candidate for admission into the United Guard. With her talents and spunk, she was a sure-fire choice, and it was not long before a seasoned Knight of the United Guard, Sir Ulrich, offered to take the girl on as his squire, recognizing in her great potential. It was a proud day for Ceralin, and from then on, she strove to faithfully uphold her vow to defend Altair in her hour of need.
Then came the siege of Altair.
Perhaps if they had been forewarned, the Guard would have been able to hold off the advancing swarms of Fire Legion soldiers, at least for a little while. As it was, they were taken almost entirely by surprise, and in a flaming maelstrom of confusion and blood, the Guard's units were neatly dispatched. Ceralin became separated from Ulrich at some point during the fray; the last she ever saw of him was her master swinging a sword about his head as two orc footsoldiers pulled at his stirrups, attempting to drag the knight from his horse. As the battle raged about her, Ceralin began to feel a cold, numbing sensation which was unfamiliar to her: fear. Fighting back shaking hands and a bad taste in her mouth, Ceralin ineffectively tried to steer her mount back towards the fray, hoping to find Ulrich, but it was a losing fight against both her horse and her fear.
It was at this point that the wall behind which a portion of the Guard had been regrouping exploded in a shower of flame and shards of rock as wave upon wave of Fire Legion troops began to spill into the tortured city. Leading the horde of soldiers, which began tearing her comrades to pieces was an especially tall, barbarous looking orc. He slowly swiveled his head, surveying his victory, and it seemed to Ceralin that his eyes locked with hers, and for that brief instant, she foresaw her own death. And in the moment that she was to regret every day thereafter, Ceralin dug her heels into the side of her mount and bolted in the opposite direction. She was able to reach the edge of the city unscathed, the Fire Legion was too busy to concern themselves with one fleeing girl. And so she escaped Altair, tortured in mind and spirit, having left her comrades to almost certain destruction. . . . . but she was at least alive.
From there, Ceralin traveled south with no particular destination in mind, just so long as it wasn't Altair. She survived by hiring herself out as a bodyguard or soldier from time to time. Those who initially laughed at the idea of an 18-year-old girl as a hired sword soon lost their skepticism after witnessing her in action. After two long years of uncertain living, Ceralin found her way to the village of Haven, a refugee camp of sorts for the escaped citizens of Altair. There, she decided to stop and wait for her next adventure to come her way.
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