Campaign Prelude
(BW means Before War, AW means After War):
310 BW
A dry, crisp breeze blew past the wizard as he stood motionless under the moonlight night. Above him, Mazariim's dual moons Io’el and Randir’el shone softly, with the latter appearing small and distant as it neared its furthest point in its seven month cycle. The soft twinkling of the stars was almost mesmerizing, and Zanthar had to remind himself he was in a dangerous area. The Broken Steppes was a land filled with orcs, goblins, almost no food or vegetation, and more orcs. It was the perfect place to hide from the Zebulbans that had been on his trail for months, a place far from their towns and ziggurats and sacrifices to a fell god of death and destruction.
The priests had killed his wife, his friend, his heart, his fascination since childhood. Tatyana had been his and he hers for more than fifteen years, and they had been truly happy, Zanthar a wizard practicing magic and Tatyana a loving and faithful Sabonaar wife. He thoughtfully recalled their happy moments often; even now five years after the clerics had taken and tortured his wife. He often, sadly, recalled that horrible night as well.
They had come, dressed in black and masked and silent, and taken her, leaving Zanthar paralyzed by a magical spell to watch as they drug her away, warning him not to cross the law again. Worship of another was forbidden by the Zebulbans, and while Zanthar did not have to hide his lack of faith in any deity, the eyes and ears of the cultists eventually discovered Tatyana’s faith to Tiovin. She would be taken and sacrificed publically, and he recalled his ineffectualness and inaction the following morning, his magical might not nearly enough to rescue his love in time.
Zanthar jerked his head and was back at attention as the howl of an orc could be heard in the distance. He whispered a word, and his surroundings shimmered and changed in an instant. Deep in his underground tower, some thirty feet below the area he was just standing, he could study and live and contemplate in relative peace. Until he had constructed this place with magic, however, Zanthar’s life had been different. He had killed a number of priests in revenge, and it soon became apparent that the fear of Zebulban reciprocity was enough to dissuade any from helping or hiding him after the clerics really began looking. It had been a challenging task, but his home beneath the stones of the Broken Steppes had been worth it.
Finally, after years of work, it was time. Tonight he would test his theories, his studies, his work for the last five years, and see if his predictions held true. Zanthar took a small pipe from his pocket and flipped his fingers back and forth, a small cantrip creating a flickering tiny flame to light his pipe with. He inhaled deeply, and walked down the hall to the large room that contained the machine he had built. The monstrosity took up an entire room, with three large rings that rotated in three different directions at rest along the borders of the room, all three covered in Draconic runes and a wide array of metals and gemstone powders. In the center of the room was a small round base in which rested a smallish globe of glass about a foot wide. Zanthar took a deep breath as he steadied himself. After all, he had never tested the machine before, and did not know what to expect.
Zanthar reached out his worn hands towards the globe and spoke some words, gestures flickering between his fingers. Lightning erupted in a savage blot towards and into the globe, and it began to glow. Zanthar smiled, and continued over and over, sending spells and fire and ice into the globe, each time the magic absorbed but also beginning to awaken the machine all around him. The rings unlocked, the huge metal sound clicking with a great twang, and then the runes began to glow as well. Slowly, they rings began to spin, one vertically, one horizontally, and one diagonally, with Zanthar inside at the center of the room. Faster and faster, soon they were nothing but a blur, and Zanthar was ready. As he reached out for the magical globe, its light burning like a small sun, he braced himself for the surge of magical energy. His fingers clasped around them, and the energy ripped through him, his hair on end and teeth clenched tight as he fought for mental control of the machine. For a brief moment, Zanthar thought he had heard his heart stop, and then all was still. All around him, it looked as if he was encased in silent, peaceful earth. He focused his mind, and his view changed, moving upwards. Soon he was above the ground, and he could see the familiar Broken Steppes stretching in all directions. His view floated upward more and more, until he could see the coast to the west, and the lights of the city of Ganoshar. He focused and his view rushed forward all around him, until he was high above the city. Looking down, Zanthar’s heart skipped a beat. No Zebulban ziggurat. In fact, a completely different city. As tears of joy began to stream down his face, he looked up to see three, not two moons, and he knew his theories on alternate prime material planes must be true.
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287 BW
It had been over twenty winters since Zanthar had started using his machine to peer into the infinite parallel worlds that lie all around us, unseen and unfelt but there nevertheless. Over the years, Zanthar had never come across another world with a second version of his love.
Perhaps it was because he had nothing of hers to use as a focus, no lock of hair nor fingernail, not even something she had once possessed. Truth be told, after the first few years the now-frail wizard had given up on finding his lost Tatyana, with the use of the machine over a long period of time containing its own risks and dangers. Zanthar soon learned that with an infinite number of worlds, so too came an enormous number of worlds that contained a version of himself. The machine seemed to always select one with some link to him, but the reason for this was never discovered by the wizard. Now gray-haired and half-mad, Zanthar had become obsessed with the different versions of his own persona he would find as he peered through the planar barriers.
About a decade prior Zanthar had devised a way to pull many of the images from the machine into mirrors, using their reflective surface as a way to view them over and over. Slowly, he visited each of the worlds he had found and took from them a permanent record of his life and personality, no one ever sensing the presence of the magical sensor that could alter its vibrations to match those of other parallel worlds. In one mirror he plowed a field and had a large family plantation. In another, he was a famous orator in a place of learning, and in yet another he was a soldier at war with the elven nations far to the west across the ocean. Zanthar often thought to himself about infinity and the strange way in which there seemed to be so many worlds with a version of himself, and in time he began to feel a sense of presence and greatness that has often been the downfall of many men.
Now, decades since he had invented the machine, he stood in another room in his underground lair, surrounded by dozens of mirrors, in each a small animation of his life in another world. And yet, he despaired quietly to himself, no Tatyana. It had been some time since he had thought of her, he himself always so obsessed with what he was doing in so many other lives, so many other professions, with so many other wives and children and fields of expertise. As his old withered form stood learning on a cane, looking on at his many other lives, for a fleeting moment of clarity he realized his own life had not been lived, not spent in the way he had wanted. As he wept quietly, he did not even consider for a moment that the creation of his machine would be considered a notable if not amazing achievement.
Later that night, Zanthar began casting spells into the machine, the familiar clicks and whirs beginning all around him. His mind wandered to his lost love and the time it had been since he had looked for her. The machine grew more and more turbulent as he slung spell after spell into his creation. Reaching out for the globe, he took a breath as he thought of Tatyana, her image finally coming into his mind after all these years. For that moment, he was there with her, in her arms, years ago. And a moment later, he was gone, vaporized into a pile of dust as his control over the plane-piercing scrying machine faltered.
Deep in his lair, the images flickered and danced in the mirrors Zanthar had created. Centuries would pass, and their magics lived on, shadows dancing all around the room. And then, be if from the planar energies cast about by the machine or the illusionary magics imbued in the mirrors that memorialized Zanthar’s alternate lives, one day the shadows slowly began to move . . . on their own.
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close to the end of 1 BW
. . . meanwhile, in the parallel reality of Ta'Puh, which up until this date was the same as our own . . .
The darkened skies flashed with streaks of white hot lightning as ash fell like snowflakes across the battlefield. Tens of thousands of orcs and humans and dwarves littered the slowly-sloping hills around Fort Hope, the fields red with the blood of war and the screams of the dying. Demious Stoneshaper waved his dwarven mailed fist in the air, his blood-stained gauntlet gouged and worn from the long battle. The remainder of his unit moved up hurriedly to him, getting into formation behind him in their well-practiced pattern. The terror in their eyes was palpable as they looked some hundred yards ahead to the titanic battle between deific avatars, the magics and weapons they wielded breaking the earth and filling the air with destruction. The dark, plate-mailed Zuel, covered in the blood of thousands of enemies now long dead, swung his gigantic greataxe with one hand in circles as he blocked the devastating blows of Mordrion and Quarzel with a great magical shield strapped to his left arm. His left hand forever lost in the battle eons ago that brought he and Mordrion to this world when he and his enemy were known by different names, he showed no sign of weakness because of it.
Zuel seemed to be at the strongest he ever had been. Or perhaps it was his enemies were weakened, fatigued not only from the ongoing war but from the slow attrition of their followers and faithful. His fire-red eyes stared deeply at the six-armed form of Quarzel that stood before him, each hand of the god of war swinging a different weapon in a different style. "YOU ARE BEATEN, FOOL!" Zuel's avatar screamed with incredible volume. "Submit and serve me, and you shall yet live! Turn on your dwarven master, KILL HIM NOW!" he bellowed, staring intently as flames flashed all over his weapon and hands.
"Think me the fool, Bringer of Doom?" the god of war replied, his bastard sword cleaving two approaching orcs as he kept his gaze on Zuel, " . . . soon YOU will be the one who kneels, soon YOU wil-"
His sentenced was stopped midway through as the ogre-magi general known as Rangithyr slipped from between the real world and the ethereal, his giant scimitar slicing though the shoulder and back of Quarzel with amazing speed. Burning blue energy poured from Quarzel's avatar, illuminating the battlefield like a second sun, and every face within sight turning to stare as the god of battle fell. And then, as if time had itself taken a moment to pause, an earthshaking explosion of force sent a shockwave across the battlefield, driving most to their knees if not the ground.
The dust began to clear, and the hulking form of Zuel stood motionless, staring at Mordrion's weakened avatar, his eye patch a reminder of their battle so long ago. "Your allies fall, both mortal and god. All is lost." Zuel's voice was deep and powerful, echoing all around. "Yesss . . can you feel it, dog? Your faithful falter!" the orc-god continued, taking in a deep breath. "Mmmmm, I can smell their despair, soon you . . "
Mordrion's charge caught Zuel in mid-sentence, his powerful dwarven form streaking forward with his dwarven waraxe in hand, only to be met by Zuel's greataxe in response. Sparks flew all around as the two gods, locked in combat, struggled for supremacy. As Mordrion faltered against the incredible power of the orc-god, he could hear Zuel's voice as he leaned in a little. "Farwell, fool. I shall enjoy your power!" Zuel said in his ear as he brought his spiked knee up, driving it though Mordrion's chest. The dwarven god coughed and staggered, and Zuel drove his knee into him again and again, so many times that everyone around the two had stopped to watch in horror as Mordrion's form became white-hot and unbelievably bright, his magical energies streaking towards the heavens as his remaining divine husk fell to the ground.
All was eerily quiet for a few seconds as all around dwarves felt the disconnection from their god. Zuel raised his hands in victory, letting out a guttural roar that could be heard for miles. It was in this moment of hubris that Zuel was caught unaware as the form of Demious Stoneshaper, one of the greatest dwarven warriors that had ever lived, flew up into the air above Zuel, his two battleaxes coming down towards Zuel with enough precision and force to defeat the orc-god and end the war. Yet, in an amazing instance of luck and fortune, the same orge-magi general that had defeated Quarzel, one of the last of his thirteen orgi-magi generals that had helped lead his war, swung his scimitar and blocked the death blow that in another world killed and defeated Zuel. The orc-god swung around, his greataxe moving with incredible fluidity as it decapitated Demious Stoneshaper. The dwarven hero that would win the war for his people in another world lie dead before him, motionless and limp.
Zuel grinned, his evil visage sliced and bloodied yet still standing. He knew that all was lost for the inhabitants of this world.
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392 AW
. . . in the parallel reality of Ta'Puh . . .
As the sun slowly began to dip below the horizon, the soothing sound of the water and blood-red sunset had caused Rangithyr to stop and contemplate the last few centuries he had served his master. As he stood there looking out into the oceans on what was once the shoreline of the island of hin, he remembered his part in the titanic battle in which he gained his unofficial title of “godslayer”. True, he had helped defeat Quarzel, Alagolothor, and Mordrion. But they were all weakened by weeks of battle, wounded with their fight against Zuel and his minion godlings Yocholon and Krassnae, both now gone and dissipated during that fateful battle almost four hundred years ago. It had been timing and precision, his cunning and cleverness that had helped him and his master Zuel win the day. He quietly mused about a battle with one of them at full strength, something he would never get to indulge himself in.
“Ahhhh, so long since a good battle, a good war . . . far too long,” Rangithyr thought to himself as he ignored the many calls of his harem. A giant creature at more than eight feet tall, Rangithyr’s appearance would be frightening to most, his blue skin and small horns indicating his more-than-orcerish heritage. Still, there were much more frightening things in this world now, this world of orceri that read and learn and explore and conquer. Descendents of dwarven slaves, now imbued with much more limited intellect and with steel and diamond bonded to their skin, powerful warriors used to keep order when needed. The remnants of the elven race, now twisted and deformed and used as scrying agents, all linked in a hivemind of total submission to the orceri race. Humans, the most obedient, reduced to simple-minded dogs and slaves to be used for all sorts of things.
“Those weakling intellectuals, simple-minded cattle our race has become,” he muttered as he began to walk along the beach, his huge feet leaving giant footprints to be washed away by the waves as he passed. The war had been the beginning, but most had never seen the battles he and the elite armies now long dead had seen after the war, the battles against Mordrion on his own extra-dimensional plane, the hunt for other entities that still had not been defeated across the cosmos. Five decades of battle, with visions of things most could not imagine, seemed to fly by in Rangithyr’s memory as he continued along. His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a voice quietly speaking in his ear, the sound coming from a magical earring he wore.
“Master,” the voice called, quietly speaking and then going silent.
Twisting his neck left and right, Rangithyr answered in a gruff tone. “I do hope this is important, I am not in a mood to be bothered, wizard.”
“Indeed, master. We are at the Sanctum, in my experimentation laboratory. Please, do some soon.”
Rangithyr let out a sigh as he turned to look back at his magnificent villa on the ocean. “Wizards and their experiments,” he thought to himself as he motioned slightly and appeared in the lab with a small puff of brimstone.
Quietly standing and ready to greet him, Ozmakir was an unremarkable looking orceri, hair neatly trimmed and combed back, his face and hands and feet clean shaven and smelling of a strange mix of raspberry-flavored incense and sulfur. Yet under the unremarkable dark robes was a brilliant orceri whose understanding of magic, gleaned from the trove of accumulated human wizardry of the past era, was unmatched in most of Ta’Puh.
“What is it, what is so impor-“ Rangithyr began, but was uncharacteristically interrupted by Ozmakir.
“Battle.”
The wizard nodded slowly and humbly, and motioned for Rangithyr to follow. It had been over two hundred years since he had been in a great battle, all the opponents of the orceri, both mortal and divine, defeated or dissipated. The skeptical look on his face was enough to get the wizard started on his explanation. Ozmakir motioned to a large mirror that two apprentices were finishing polishing.
“A mirror? What manner of battle could this possibly involve?” he said as he rubbed his chin.
“Permit me to explain. About ten years ago I began to look into vibrations, well actually, the vibrations of the universe . . . you see, the universe vibrates at a certain rhythm, a certain pace . . .” the wizard started.
Rangithyr yawned.
“Yes yes, well . . . you see, our universe really is made of many other . . . well . . . planets.”
“Mmmhmm, yes, we have explored the other planets in our star system, what of them. Ancient ruins from a proto-dragon race, I recall?” Rangithyr answered.
A surprised look came to the wizard’s face, but then he smiled. “No sir. Other versions of our planet.” He motioned to the mirror and began to run his hand along some metal levers and switches, magic beginning to glow on all its sides. Slowly, the image of a tavern formed, with humans and elves enjoying drinks and engaging in revelry. As Rangithyr watched, the wizard began moving the mirror, and along with it the view, as if they were looking at a porthole in a ship rather than at a 2-dimensional mirror.
“Sir, you are looking at another version of our world, of Mazariim. They are layered all around us, vibrating at different paces, wildly different paces. There, yet unseen, unfelt, unknown. Until now.”
Rangithyr almost perceptibly began salivating. “How many . . . other worlds . . are there, my good wizard?”
The wizard’s evil smile grew slowly as he quietly said, “Infinite, sir. An infinite number.”
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Tiovary (November) 741 AW
Snow slowly fell quietly to the forest floor for the first time that year as autumn was coming to an end close to the end of Delnintesam. As Aleron quietly walked along through the woods, he took in the serene beauty and near-silence with a deep breath, his cold breath rising from his lips in a frosty cloud. It would soon be his fifty-fifth winter, his hair now down past his knees and his thoughts more those of a adult than those of a boy. He enjoyed the quiet, his mind lately troubled by nightmares during his reverie.
He pondered the terrible visions as he silently walked along, the high canopy occasionally fluttering far above him. The visions had begun months earlier, at first just happening now and then. They were always the same, or close variations of a theme - orcs overrunning and destroying his village and the elven homeland. The thought of Vand'ardhon ever coming under a major orc attack, let alone being wiped away, was almost too much to bare. His tribe's elder had consulted the spirits and tried to commune with Minerva to no avail. He had endured half a dozen sweat sessions in his cone-shaped tent, trying to find the answers within from smoke-induced visions, with nothing but swirling mists to greet him. And recently, the dreams had begun to keep him awake and disrupt his life. Not true dreams, as the other races had, but nevertheless without his time in reverie, fatigue and restlessness had set in.
Perhaps it was his fatigue, or perhaps his daydreaming, that allowed the bizarre half-bear, half-owl monstrosity to get so close to him. He heard the roar behind him as it raised its claws and howled in anticipation of its next meal. Aleron's hand moved to his falchion, but as he did, his vision was blurred for a brief moment, a moment that seemed in fact to last forever. He dropped to his knees in pain as a wrenching feeling went through his body, and as his eyes refocused and he stood, he was paralyzed with fear and bewilderment.
Aleron no longer stood in the snowy forest, but rather in a lush field of grains stretching as far as the eye could see. The sky was a softer blue, and the two moons that had been in the sky that morning near his village were nowhere to be found. Gasping for breath, he tried to steady himself and take in his surroundings. He had never seen such expansive fields of wheat in his life, and did not even know of a place with such vast agricultural riches. He let his hands trail along the tops of the wheat, closing his eyes and taking in another deep breath.
As he stood quietly, trying to calm his mind in meditation, he felt a small breeze, subtle at first but growing in strength. Turning to look behind him, he was shocked to see a beautiful yet brawny female elf swirling inside a small whirlwind slowly descending from the sky. "A visitor from the world of the living? Ahh, a good test of my skills!" she said as she drew a sword.
Panic struck Aleron as he heard those worlds. From the world of the living?!? And then, as suddenly as before, he felt the wrenching pain. This time falling to the ground completely, things went dark.
Waking with a thin layer of snow on his face, he looked about and found he was back near his home, next to a small creek he oftentimes came to for peace and quiet. He felt a small snowflake land on his lip, and as he wiped it away he realized it was not snow, but a drop of blood from his nose. Looking into the creek as he stumbled to his knees, he saw that his long black hair was now adorned with a large white streak from his head to his knees.
"What in the name of Minerva just happened?" he murmured to himself as he slowly made his way back to his hamlet.
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Hinter 752 AW
It had been hard to keep his secret. He had traveled for the last decade across the elven lands, never staying in one place too long, always fearful of the consequences of his curse. Where it came from, who had placed it on him, he did not know. A curse from Minerva? Some crazy mage with a grude?
He had sought answers for a long while now. Hair streaked with white, Aleron felt weaker than he had just a few years ago. He felt the support of his quarterstaff and was glad he had it, his body unable to walk a full day unaided. From tribe to tribe he went, asking to speak to the cleric or druid of the group, searching for answers.
On many occasions, Aleron had caused chaos wherever he roamed. During a stressful divination along the Southern Coast, Aleron had vanished for a few moments, trails of ethereal smoke puffing around him as he vanished and reappeared. The incorporeal entity that noticed him appeared a few moments after that, possessing a number of elves in that tribe until the elder druid of the nearby tribe could come to assist in the exorcism. Another time, while staying with a tribe along the Fertile Coast, dark visions had plagued Aleron's reverie for many nights. As he came out of the trance, he realized he had unknowingly opened a portal nearby to a world or plane made of water. Unfortunately, this plane had begun pouring into our world for a minute or two, letting come forth a tremendous deluge of liquid that washed away most of the crops of the elves he was staying with. Wherever he went, chaos followed.
This time, he hoped, the mysteries would be solved. He had sought out a priest of Mau, a rarity in the elven lands. Would this follower of He Who Knows be able to pierce the veil hiding the nature of his curse? The ritual had started with precision and passion as this priest, an aged elf named Vocinder, had traced mystical lines about himself and Aleron in the forest clearing. Other elves watched closely as Vocinder danced and chanted in circles around Aleron. Around and around he went, raising his hands higher and higher and chanting louder and louder, the strange herbs burning in the nearby fire bringing the faithful of The Watcher closer and closer to his trance. After what seemed like hours, the priest of Mau suddenly collapsed and began to convulse. A few elves quickly stood to help him, but others held them back, telling them quietly in elven that this was meant to happen.
And then, as quickly as they had come, the convulsions stopped and the priest rose to one knee next to Aleron, wild-eyed and out of breath. "The swirling mists . . they do not block your visions . . they are your visions . . . you, Aleron Windstrider, are touched by . . . Thalaman."
Aleron and other elves around the priest gasped audibly. Thalaman, the mad god? What would he want with me, Aleron though to himself. Confusion and anxiety poured over him, and as light flashed around him he felt a drop of blood fall to his outstretched hand. As it would have it, fate would not spare Aleron the sight of the horrors that unfolded in the next few moments with the usual unconsciousness.
Aleron and the whole of the group around him, and even the ground and plants around them, suddenly were somewhere else. A blood-red sky streaked with yellowish lighting reigned overhead, the oven-like heat of the Abyss pouring over the elves, their screams of pain as they began to burn overshadowed by wailing of the horrific and twisted pale-white humanoids that approached, their naked skin crawling with maggots as they slowly moved towards their new meals. A few of the manes began to feast on the elves as it ended suddenly, with all the elves returning to the prime material plane as suddenly as they had left, Aleron unharmed by the heat or creatures.
Aleron stood slowly, looking around at the dozen dead elves lying burned and eaten all around him, and he began to weep. It would seem no one would ever be safe around him, and as he began to run and put distance between him and the wails of other elves coming to see what the commotion had been, he knew he was destined for a life of loneliness.
Madness, it would seem, would always be his travelling companion.
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Xan 774 AW
Dune and dune, for miles in every direction. This was all Aleron had seen for the last week as he wandered through the human lands of Nigal. He felt a calling, weaker at first, but stronger as he had travelled in the right direction. He was hesitent to trek into such a inhospitable region as the Zanzaboor Desert, but something was calling him, almost like a human lighthouse, fading but then strong every now and then at regular intervals. Whatever his destiny was, he would find out what it was, even if it was somehow entangled with the strange and mad human deity, Thalaman.
Most would perish after a few days in such a harsh desert, but Aleron's magics could create food, water, and even shelter. Face wrapped and leaning heavily on his walking stick, he trudged along. Occasionally waves of heat would look like land, but he knew these could only be a mirage. Yet what could this journey into such a wasteland provide? Answers. What he needed desperately, answers.
Many days later, after not seeing a single creature or even small shrub for some time, Aleron spied something in the distance. It looked similar to the tepees that he lived in as a child, yet perfectly symmetrical, at least from this distance. Aleron felt excited and nervous at the same time, and immediately closed his eyes and tried to calm his mind. Deep breath in, deep breath out . . . over and over. After a few minutes, he calmly looked off into the distance ahead of himself, and slowly made his way towards the angular structure jutting out of the sands.
Soon, as he got closer, he realized that the object was stone and actually quite large, its perfect symmetry making it look closer at first that it really was. Pulling his hood back and staring ahead and up, he could see it now was actually a stone pyramid. He had heard of these structures, ancient relics used to house the remains of the leaders of the Varkonans, one of the oldest human civilizations in Mazariim. He quietly wondered what could be inside and how it was possible for such an ancient people to make such as precise structure, and then suddenly he was sinking and falling as the sands beneath him gave way. Focusing on remaining calm, Aleron tried to steady himself as he came to a thud on a solid floor and the sands rushing in above him slowed to a trickle.
The room he had fallen into was exceedingly dark. Waving his hand and uttering magical phrases, a soft light began to glow on Aleron's hand, and soon a small magical mote of light had formed on the ends of each finger. He then waved his hands, and the modes spread out about the room, illuminating it and showing its true size, a vast chamber with pillars and carvings along every vaulted wall and ceiling. And then he saw the soft light moving towards him, not one of his motes, but another. The figure came closer, with small strides and soft footsteps, its hood covering its face and its robes barely flowing along the sandy floor.
Aleron thought to himself about his fear, and began to realize at this particular moment he felt none. The robed figure stopped a few feet from him, and pulled its hood back. Staring back was the face of a fox, long ears popping up from a somewhat folded position from being under the hood, and a few whiskers on each side twitching. He had read about these creatures, the kitsune. There were a number of fascinating races that came from the human island civilizations of Tansudo, but he had never seen one before. It motioned Aleron to follow, slowly turning towards one of the far walls and approaching a huge set of stone-inlaid murals. He followed, and began to look up at the wall that they arrived at.
There, carved and inlaid in the stone in what must have been painstaking detail among hundreds of other murals, was a representation of an elf with dark hair and large gray streaks wandering through mists. He almost audibly gasped in amazement, following it along as it showed him with energy pouring from his hands and face and some strange symbols, and then to a section that was destroyed, either by time or some long-forgotten grave robber.
"I have been waiting for you" the kitsune said to Aleron with a toothy smile and some twitching from its nose. "A long, long time . . . "
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Pyran 777 AW
Focus. Everything he knew, everything he would be, it would depend on his focus, his concentration, his ability to control his strange and dangerous abilities. And teaching focus was Sugnim's specialty.
Aleron stood motionless, eyes closed with a mantra in his mind. All around him, the sands flew about in the whirlwind that Sugnim was creating, stinging Aleron's face and hands as he tried to ignore the pain and be one with the universe.
Sugnim watched with a small grin as Aleron seemed to finally be able to withstand the distraction and pain. The kitsune had given Aleron an amulet when they had first met, an amulet he had made years earlier, one made with silver and gold and rubies. The amulet contained an enchantment of dimensional lock, keeping Aleron and others around him planted firmly in this plane of existence. Still, it would glow green when its effect was activated, and this was a telling guide during the last few years of Aleron's training.
Much had been learned from Sugnim in the last few years in the Zanzaboor. Not just in the ways of focus and meditation, but in the theology of Thalaman as well. Aleron had progressed nicely in gaining some divine magical abilities from the mysterious deity Thalaman, and knew more about the cosmos as well. Still, there was much to learn about the Many-Faced Traveler. Why had he given Aleron such a curse? Or was it a gift?
Watching Aleron within the whirlwind, Sugnim moved his finger a little from its pattern and tossed a large stone into the air. The stone promptly flew right at Aleron's chest, hitting his squarely with a solid thud. As the amulet he wore glowed brightly though his robes, Sugnim would shake his head a little and call out "Again!" . . .
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. . back in our world . . .
Quarz 811 AW
The sun shone down on Remular's face as he looked upwards, taking in the warm smell of fresh apple pies wafting up the hillside on the cool winter day. As he turned his head and looked down on Blowing Rock, he said, "Ahh, my home, my life . . " His tone quiet yet satisfied, he continued his climb up towards the monastery that he had lived in for nearly a decade now.
The worn yet study stone walls of the Valiant Halls of the Dragon had been home to the faithful of Paladine for over a century now, settled after the once-powerful Empire of Simir fell, giving all of the nearby cities and towns their independence, Amara and Instar included. Ever since, the top of the large hill that looks over the town of Blowing Rock had been dedicated to the Skyblade, and acts of chivalry and honor. Remular had been from Amara, there as a child on the streets of the city until slavers from Moamon tried to take him. He had been crafty, though, and was able to escape into the night, wandering for days until he came upon the town he settled in. Remular thought of those days as he entered the halls and walked towards the shrine at its center.
The shrine was a magnificent sight to behold, an interior courtyard inspired by Ejiin gardens and bridges, with a peaceful serenity and calmness. At its center was a marble statue of Paladine, depicted as a powerful and stoic man with draconic features wearing elaborate plate mail and wielding a longsword, with a pair of dragon heads facing each other behind him, two crossed lances behind the heads.
The monk-paladin slowly approached the statue and the figure kneeling before it, a Madronian man with blonde locks pulled back behind his head and blue eyes that told of deep loss and equally deep devotion. The armored man turned and nodded as Remular placed one fist in his other palm and bowed.
"Time already? It seems like just yesterday you arrived here, Remular." Lord of Justice Lionaus Harker had been at the monastery for a decade when Reumlar arrived, but you would never have known it from his appearance, his youngish looks leaving no indication of the forty-five winters he had seen.
Remular nodded, his darkish Sabonaar hair pulled back in a similar way, his well-kept yet simple robes giving no indication of rank or status. "How will you get along without me? Half of our brothers and sisters are hundreds of miles away on crusades in the east, and me going out to serve Paladine . . . you might be lonely."
The two gave each other a hard look for a few seconds, and then both smirked at the same time, enjoying a chuckle and then some warm dinner before Remular set out on his own to serve his patron and bring justice and honor to the nearby lands.
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Xan 811 AW
Remular sat shivering in the darkened hallway, the sounds of orcs grunting and arguing faintly echoing around in the stone hallways he was secreted away in. From the looks of the dust on the ground, no one had walked around the hidden passages inside the keep in years, maybe centuries. He focused his mind in contemplation as he tried to decide his next move, hoping a good idea would come to mind.
It had seemed entirely reasonable earlier that month to set out in search of the orcs that had been harassing Amaran caravans. It even seemed reasonable to let a single one escape and follow it to its home once he had finally engaged an orc patrol in battle along the road between Amara and Instar. Entering the old ruined keep the orcs laired in far in the interior of the Steppes of Broken Stone, however, might not have been the best idea. While he was excellent at moving silently and unnoticed in the shadows as well as taking out single guards in silence, he had not planned on hearing such a large group moving in the room next to him. Luckily for him, Polyvin favored him that day as he silently escaped through a hidden door he had found, the seams of the ancient secret passage nearly invisible to most but discernible to Remular's keen eyes.
And now, a few hours later and a few guards fewer, the orcs were wildly searching for him, screaming in their guttural savage language about revenge and torture and other horrors as they searched for Remular. He had to move, and to escape this place, this old keep that looks like it was made in the years of the Bandit King's rule of the area hundreds of years prior. Slowly he crept through the secret passages that lined the entire keep, quietly checking the many tiny spyholes that allowed him to see what the orcs were doing. As he came to one of the last, he saw there was another secret passage that opened into a room that had the floor excavated. As he peered through the hole, he heard the echoes of the other secret door being found and then the minions of Kru'ka'ta pouring into the secret passage far behind him. "May the Skylord lead me to more paths of valor this day and many more," he murmured to himself, closing his eyes a moment in prayer before exiting the secret passage and closing the door behind him.
The room was not overly large or decorated, just a storage room in the keep, now empty with its stone tiles removed and dragged aside revealing a deep pit that ended with an ancient stone staircase made of a different stone. And it was as long passage, one that might allow Remular to stay hidden and out of sight of the orcs and their natural night vision. Slowly, he crept forward and descended the stairs.
He soon found a long hallway leading to a room with dozens and dozens of mirrors. Half-frosted with age and decay, the mirrors were all of different sizes and designs, and as he looked at them, dancing images could be seen in each of them, shadows dancing all about the room from their light. On the floor were two dead orcs, frozen in a horrifying scream with emaciated muscles and faces. As he looked at them, he could see no footprints leading further in, and he surmised this must be the farthest they have gone. "Perhaps they will stay back, yes . . . perhaps there is another way out," he thought to himself as he moved through the room of mirrors, not noticing that the face in all the various mirror scenes was the same, nor noticing the moving shadow that was slowly creeping along behind him.
His continued explorations took Remular through a number of hallways, all with a different stonemasonry than the upper keep. Was this ruin of an older place, something the keep was built on, he wondered? At least the orcs had not followed. He soon came to a room with writing scrawled all over it, Draconic runes and letters and phrases of protection, but to protect from what? He motioned and whispered and the small warm light that had been helping him to see grew brighter as he slowly tried to read the words and discover their purpose. Another hallway continued into the darkness ahead of him, and Remular murmured again to himself, "Wizards. I will never understand their strange ways."
The final room at the end of the hallway was the strangest yet. An elaborate set of rings seemed to surround the edges of the room with a globe resting in a strange base in the center of the floor. He held his hand high and increased the light, with the flickering of gemstone facets scattering the light all around, the rings covered in runes and gemstones. Suddenly, as Remular increased the light on his hand, it drained away and shot towards the globe on the floor, making it glow ever so slightly. "Hello, what's this?" he mouthed as he examined the globe. He paused a moment, and then cast another spell, this time one that would detect the presence of evil. Again, the magical effect seemed to be absorbed by the globe, and he heard a loud sound of metal moving that had not budged in centuries. Curiosity seemed to take over as Remular began casting a number of spells as he watched the rings begin to move, one moving right and another left and a third around the other two, each spell making them go faster and faster, until the globe finally began to hover an inch off the ground. Instinctively he reached out, grasping onto the globe, and energy surged through his body, making his brain white-hot and his very soul ache. His vision flashed and he suddenly seemed to be inside of rock and earth himself, his arms and body moving through it like water, not feeling it yet seeing it. Its destination fused into the machine long ago by Zanthar's mishap, the machine's view was the same as it was centuries earlier when it had killed the mad wizard so long ago. The world it viewed, however, was now much different.
As he stood with the magical globe in his hand, his hair dancing with the energy running through him, he never saw the spectral shadowy hand reach out and grasp his heart through his back, the incorporeal undead reaching inside of the monk-paladin of Paladine, the chill of undead making Remular's concentration falter. The energy of the machine instantaneously surged, and if not for the unconscious reflexes of the disciple of Paladine, he would have surely been vaporized as the creator of the machine was so many centuries ago. Gasping for breath as the machine decelerated and powered down, Remular tried to fight off the shadow as it passed its claws through his body over and over, each time draining strength from him, until he finally took his last breath, a withered husk all that remained of the young paladin-monk.
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. . . . at that same moment . . .
Aleron stood with the wind in his face, looking down at the city of Fort Hope. The magnificent architecture of the dwarves made the place look like giants could live in it. From this high vantage point overlooking the fortress city, he took a deep breath. He had been here 10 long years, and it was a place he could call home.
And then he felt it, a disturbance in the fabric of the world, like a shockwave hitting him from the southwest. Almost like a strange ripple, one very few people would feel. Falling to his feet, he slowly struggled to one knee.
Aleron knew deep in his soul that whatever that was, it had something to do with his gift. He could feel exactly where it was . . . the distance, the location . . . it was time for him to go and discover his destiny.
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. . . at that same moment, in the parallel reality of Ta'Puh . . .
High above the Yangar cities in his giant dirigible, commander Li'Zhan stood looking down to the dancing lights below, ships and homes and other balloons and flying machines powered by magic. The hum of the mana engines was almost meditative as his profound view made him see the world all that smaller.
A shrill voice interrupted the tranquility of the Zone Kluth Tak Airborne Monitoring Station.
"Unscheduled contact, south by southeast 14 miles, miles, miles!" the polyphonic voice called out, spoken by all of the hivemind mutants that stood all around, their twisted elven forms covered in strange mechanical and magical devices.
"Report. What is its origin." the elegant orceri said, lighting a small pipe that had a magical flame built into it, his puff filling the magically air conditioned cabin.
The hivemind voice answered in a strangely curious tone. "Alternate prime . . unknown. Contact lost."
Li'Zhan almost choked as he heard the hivemind answer. How could there be others that know of the things his people knew? His kind had conquered eleven worlds now, and their civilization had thrived with the new knowledge they had found on worlds ruled by elves, dwarves, even dragons. This, though, was altogether new.
Pride welled up inside Li'Zhan as he touched his wrist communicator. A deep voice answered, magically travelling between two far off lands. "By your command."
"Report to Yangar Prime. I have need of your services, and the need for secrecy."
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Synopsis of the 1st 26 sessions coming next!
