Adventures in Eberron> Chapter 32 posted 08-08-05>

[skullsmurfer]

Complications, Chapter 14

Sweet Lips went for his war-cleaver as soon as he saw the skeletons. The Sergeant signaled a stop and had the men wait around the corner. The idea was to let them pass. Their orders are to get to the enemy as quickly as possible, everything else is a distraction. Sister Niabelis had a different opinion. She charged.

“Be thou cleansed!” She exclaimed as her mace crushed the lead skeleton.

The Inquisitors spread out. They destroyed the other two skeletons and then ran down the tunnel in case something else needed cleansing. Their glowing, divinely empowered maces filled the tunnel with light, giving away any shred of surprise. They found a wagon being pulled by half a dozen zombies. A pair of unnatural four armed goblins are holding the reigns. It is a horror to behold. The faithful of the Silver Flame lifted their weapons and rushed at the abominations before them. The dolgrim teamsters tried to run them over. Behind the wagon a dolgrim war party sounded a charge.

Sgt. Ironson sent a silent prayer to the Host. He sent some men to help the Inquisitors and had the others set up a defensive position. As they rushed to meet his expectations, he tapped young Sweet Lips and sprinted to save his mission. In a perfect world, idiots should have the decency not to plague decent folk like the Dog Soldiers. Sister Niabelis is an epidemic.

“You there, back off! Let them come to us!” He ordered them once he realized the amount of trouble facing them.
“Sweet Lips, cover their withdrawal! I will get the cow!”

Sister Niabelis had managed to halt the charging zombies. Two of her Inquisitors are beating into them as she holds them at bay only by the grace of the Flame. The wagon is blocking the tunnel, but the dolgrim will not be barred for long. She can feel the sweat beading on her forehead. Somewhere down the tunnel she heard chanting.

“What are you doing? This many dolgrim do not travel alone!” The sergeant hollered at the Sister. “Call your men away!” He commanded as he grabbed hold of the back of her collar and dragged her away. She is heavy.

A blast of heat, light, and choking smoke knocked them flat on the ground. The wagon was reduced to ash and splinters. The zombies are burning, but it isn't a problem for them. The two Inquisitors did not fare so well. One is dead, the other is out cold. He is in the path of the now charging dolgrim. Sweet Lips sprinted over to Sgt. Ironson. He rolled the Sister off of him and then ran over to the Inquisitor that doesn't look like a dragon spit him out. They had to out run a flight of crossbow bolts to get to safety.

“Healer!” The sergeant hollered. “Get ready men! There's a heap of them and they've got a spell slinger!” He propped the Sister against the wall and drew his battle axe. Sweet Lips held the unconscious Inquisitor up with one hand and poured a potion down his throat. Sgt. Ironson barely had time to bark out another series of orders before all hell broke loose. The dolgrim came en mass.

The Dog Soldiers are the only Sharn City regiment that was allowed to remain fully intact after the treaty. Despite the loss of nearly 75% of it's original members, their exploits earned them a permanent place with the City Watch. They were originally a prison detail, veteran city watchmen leading convicted felons. The chance to clear their names inspired the soldiers to fight like heroes. Despite common prejudices, it became a privilege to serve as a Dog Soldier. Sgt. Ironson would rather fall on his sword than to dishonor his fallen brothers. His men feel the same way. Dog Soldiers do not retreat, they do not falter, and they do not fail.

The dolgrim rushed the soldiers. It is a four way intersection, the Dog Soldiers control three sides. Shields and spears protect the crossbow men, the Inquisitors and healers are backing them up. The dolgrim are fighting on three different fronts, they can hold. The magic user hasn't made an appearance, but the Sergeant is on top of it.

“Wake her up!” the Sergeant ordered the chaplain.

The Sister blinked. She saw Sgt. Ironson glaring at her. Not far, she can hear the sounds battle.

“Keep yer mouth shut, woman.” The Sergeant ordered. There is something dangerous in his eyes.

“Chaplain Odus, Inquisitor Pallas, you are my witnesses.” The grizzled veteran nearly growled. “You have put my mission in jeopardy. By the powers invested in me by the Sharn City Council I intend to execute you here and now. Unfortunately, this isn't war time, so you have some options. The Chaplain will speak to you now, we have very little time, listen to him.” The Sister tried to speak, Inquisitor Pallas shut her up.

“Sister Inquisitor Niabelis, I can record your final words and ease your conscience, or I can offer you a commission. With a commission, your Field Execution will be suspended in exchange for five years of service with the Dog Soldiers. I was a criminal once, now I am a man. You have the same choice.”

“I hold a council seat!”

“You are a commoner by blood, you have no noble privileges. The seat belongs to the Silver Flame and not you. Choose now.” The chaplain tossed a scroll at her.

“Why aren't you helping!?” She begged Inquisitor Pallas.

“These are matters of City Law, the Church must follow it's Charter to uphold the law of the land. The Sergeant is within his rights. You promised the Bishop a victory, do you turn away?” His eyes are sad, but he holds no pity for her. He has already passed judgment. “You can still keep your word.”

The scroll made her hands itch. She opened it, the script is alive with magic. A Binding Contract, her ears burned with outrage. She touched her thumb to the wax seal at the bottom and spoke her full name. It hurt, but she didn't flinch. She still has her pride. The Sergeant is looking at her again.

“Private Niabelis, you start with the same amount of respect everyone else gets. I assume you understand discipline, and I assume you have an idea of what it means to serve something greater than your lowly self. The Dog Soldiers fight and win. That is the first thing you should know. The second is that our honor is your honor. Do you understand?”

“Yes....sir.” She managed to say without choking. She could feel the other inquisitors staring at her. It is almost unbearable.

“Good. There is an enemy caster pushing these wretches at our throats. Our blood has been spilled. You will take some men, find the hell-spawn, and administer just retribution. Do your duty and earn your name back. Your brothers and I will keep this filth busy. Here's your map.”

“Sweet Lips, Pallas...and you two there, go with the Sister.” the Sergeant snapped over the din of battle. “Sweet Lips, take this. You are in charge of the new recruit, keep her alive.”

Sweet Lips threw the Sergeant's necklace over his head. He lifted the heavy war-cleaver and followed the Sister. His head is spinning. His paw told him all about war, it doesn't make sense, just follow orders and don't get killed. He can do that. The young man shouldered through the others to keep pace with his charge. He is a Dog Soldier, he will make his family proud.

Now back to Theodyl and Friends....

Pook shifted to his natural form in mid stride. Paragon and his men wasted no time. The map traveled from hand to hand as the changeling recited all the important details. Paragon, Theodyl, Pook, and a war-forged named Javelin will each lead a squad.
Paragon and Javelin will take on the renegades, Pook will rescue the hostage, Theodyl will support them with missiles and magic.

“Brothers, today we fight our own kind. We were built for war and there is no greater challenge. Strap up and make your peace. We leave in 3 minutes.” Paragon 152 to 3 finished his little speech by striking his chest three times with his fist. Theodyl shook his head. He will have to teach Paragon how to give a speech.

The gathered war-forged did not share Theodyl's opinion. Every single one of them saluted. They split into four squads and silently made their way to the enemy.

Paragon and Javelin led their men through the main tunnel. They ignored the goblins. They are too small to be a challenge and too stupefied to be a good fight. Three or four of the goblins remembered about the bell. They stood there staring at the empty space where the rope should be. Once inside the great pumping chamber, Paragon 152 to 3 hollered a challenge. The lich-staff called it's master.

Pook made his way in through tunnel partially blocked with refuse. He found it during his first scouting mission. It wasn't guarded. The enemy are either idiots or they just don't care if they are found. Pook is more worried about his gang. Ivor, Patter, and Siff risked a lot by staying behind.

Theodyl and his squad waited for the fight to start. They exchanged names and details about their individual talents. They all agree that Paragon 152 to 3 is an inspired maniac. It will be fun to watch the fight.

Skullstaff looked up from his spell book and cursed. There is more trouble in the pump rooms. His compatriots all sighed at once. The damned goblin meat bags are useless. It is time to exterminate them. The archer, Slammer, hefted his Artillery Bow. Chet the juggernaut grunted as he lifted the giant mace he calls Kruncher. Sarok, their commander started for the pump room. Skullstaff followed. The three other war-forged in the hallway drew their swords and paced behind them. The hostage gnome isn't going anywhere. The goblin prisoners are too starved to escape. They will die soon enough.

“Skullstaff, I trust you can make something of their corpses?” Sarok asked as he flexed his battlefist.

“You kille'm I bring them back, yes sir.” The mage replied.

“Not if I hit'em with my Kruncher.” Chet piped in.

“Who cares?” Slammer hissed as he limbered up his arm. “They are meat bags, they are just as useless when they are dead!” The three war-forged behind started to laugh. The others joined in.

Paragon repeated his challenge as the enemy made their appearance. Sarok made a spitting sound as he noted the House Cannith tabards they wore.

“You are slaves! Join us and you shall be free! Defy us and you shall die like dogs!” Sarok answered.

Slammer didn't bother with talk. He pulled the string back and set an arrow as long as a spear speeding towards the Cannith fools. Skullstaff commanded the lich-staff to attack the intruders and dove into the workings of a spell. Chet broke into a run, he has to get up close to use his Kruncher. Sarok called the the three others to his side.

“204, I want you to keep watch on Skullstaff while he casts. 167 and 308, I want you to spill the crates into the sludge. Don't let anything stop you.” Sarok commanded. The war-forged grunted and moved out. Sarok lifted his blade and cursed his enemies as he ran after the juggernaut. He'll be damned if Chet has all the fun.

Paragon dodged sideways as a cackling skull thing spat a thunderbolt. One of Javelin's men just went down with an artillery arrow piercing his middle. Javelin pointed at the juggernaut and tapped his chest. Paragon sighed and concentrated instead on the leader coming straight for him. He's got a fancy sword. Paragon started to sing.

Theodyl marked the floating skull. It seems to be hovering around a staff, so it's range may be limited. The war-forged with the artillery bow is a problem, he can range the entire pump room without much of a problem. The spellcaster needs to be stopped now. He cast a sending to Patter. He signaled his men forward. The fight just started and he is already smiling.

“Pyrus,” Theodyl said to the fire mage, “you know your business, go and have your fun.” The cloaked war-forged planted his uncomfortably warm palm on the half-elf and hissed the words to a fire ward. “I go for the mage.” Pyrus said as he jogged away.

“Argus, Pennelocles those crates over there look like a good place to set up.” Theodyl announced. Argus is carrying a great bow, Pennelocles is weighed down by a heavy repeating crossbow. The overwhelming amount of ammunition carried by the two makes Theodyl feel naked.

Siff found a corner to empty his bladder. He was alone in a room full of crazy war-forged; just listening to them talk made him sick. If he gets a chance, he is never doing anything this stupid again. He can't even steal anything until he gets the bloody gnome woman. The war-forged were guarding the end of the hall. He will start there.

Pook led his men to a place just behind the enemy archer with the ridiculous looking bow. He is very impressed with his squad. Every single one of them is as quiet as a cat. Their boots have padded soles, every item they wear is fixed as to produce as little noise as possible. They even wrapped their bodies in dull gray-brown cloth to match the sewer tunnels. Pook waited until the war-forged archer concentrated on a target and skulked into the structure. The larger pump rooms all have a blocky tower structure at their center to house the men that once supervised their functions. They are no bigger than two or three rooms with a stairway leading down to a sort of service room with levers and valves. Pook wonders how they were built, few know how to even repair them anymore.

Pyrus launched a fireball as soon as he was within range of the enemy caster. The tiny seed of fire flew true only to burst against an invisible barrier just in front of the war-forged mage. On the other side of the barrier, Skullstaff completed his incantation.

“Mourn Mist, answer my call!!” Skullstaff growled as the magical energies bleed from his frame. He fell to his knees.

A wail filled the pump room. The sounds of battle followed. Screams, words, the clashing of steel against steel echoed from wall to wall. A mist rose and flowed out of seemingly nowhere. It filled the center of the pump room, obscuring friend and foe alike. The phantom sounds of war became more persistent and soon those caught within the mist lost all track of time and place.

 

[skullsmurfer]

A hard battle, Chapter 15

Theodyl watched the mists fill the battle field. He ran forward, but found his way blocked by two laughing war-forged. He can see shapes moving in the mist behind them, this is bad.

“Get out of my way!” Theodyl growled.

Argus and Pennelocles began to fire over their heads into the mist. He did say he would cover them. Cursing, Theodyl drew his sword. The short sword once belonged to his captain during the war. It is a heavy thing of adamantine steel, leaf-shaped like the old style bronze weapons kept in library display cases. It never needs sharpening, Captain Thersyl der Sadelis said as he died. Theodyl felt his blood ice over as a grin stretched his lips beyond his control. The mist stinks like a day old battle field.

“Alright, which one of you dies first?” The half-elf barked at his opponents.

167 threw off his cloak and hissed. His large ovoid head was immediately noticeable. One arm is bigger than the other, the wooden bits are actually bulging over the metal plating. His other arm is shriveled, but it ends in a crude three fingered claw holding a sword. 308 followed suit. He's got four arms and his feet are clawed. He is equipped with two short swords and two bucklers. They watched the meat bag intently. They will wait until it moves, it is weak, the real challenge lies with the traitor war-forged behind it. They are young, but they have been taught all about meat creatures.

Theodyl took a side step then slid in the opposite direction to slash at the war-forged with the longsword. He's got reach. Better to start with the biggest problem. He's never seen anything like them. They look somehow, incomplete.

167 reacted faster than the meat. His swollen right arm swung towards it's head stretching to twice it's natural length. 308 moved towards the crates.

Theodyl let his knees bend and threw his head back. He slashed his sword at the arm and let the momentum spin him about to avoid getting stomped. The longsword sparked against the floor just between his legs. This thing may be a freak, but it knows how to fight. Theodyl lay still, the war-forged raised it's sword to finish him. His eyes focused on the blade, he released a powerful shriek. The blade shattered. He rolled to the side and tripped the one with four arms. He sat up and stabbed the other one in the leg, just where the knee meets the hamstring. He didn't see the fist coming.

167 grunted with pain. The meat bag has wounded him twice already. He pounded it pretty good, but it is already getting to its feet. He pulled 308 to his feet and pointed at it. They are going to kill it.

Theodyl shook the stars out from his eyes and started to sing. He doesn't do hymns like Paragon. The music comes from within. A few short notes make his movements just a fraction faster. The aches and pains fall away and time slows down. It is as if he is tuned in to the world. The war-forged with four arms is rushing towards him. The one with the weird arm is moving to his flank. Spear, he spoke to his sword. It thrummed in his grasp, stretching to just under 6 feet. It will be heavier, but he has had plenty of time to master it. He moved forward music leaking from his mouth as he charges at the one with four arms.

308 watched the spear spin as the meat bag half-danced and half-ran at him. 167 threw a punch, but missed. 308 bent his knees, and waited to meet the charge. 167 took a swing at the meat bag's legs. Somehow the meat avoided the blow and managed to wound 167. The spear blade actually tore out a chunk of his brother's plating. 308 is starting to think they underestimated the meat bag.

Theodyl tried to balance his movements with the music. Years back, when he had first joined the Cyre's 1st, he had faced a war-forged instructor on the practice fields. He called himself Thrust. His one lesson, which he repeated everyday until every recruit either took it to heart or choked on it, was simple, “In the field of battle, it's either them or you.” Thrust was convinced that a soldier was not ready until he understood that one, he faced certain death, and two, he didn't want to be the one to die. It didn't matter whether one fought out of fear, patriotism, or determination. A soldier needs to find the will to survive and to overcome. Master Sergeant Thrust made a lot of Longstriders into soldiers. Theodyl made a flying leap towards the four armed war-forged. He isn't the one about die here.

308 eyed the oily black fluid staining the floor. 167 is bleeding out too fast. Even with their limited intelligence 308 and 167 understand about dying. They had to prove themselves for battle before leaving the mournlands. For every new born war- forged that the Lord of Blades accepts into his service more than ten had to die. Imperfect as they are when compared to the others, 308, 167, and 204 had a will to live.

Theodyl drove the tip of his spear into the enemy's neck. He failed to penetrate the plating, but he gouged out a thin line upon the metal. The war-forged tried to get in close with his blades, but he used the spear to keep him at bay. The first war-forged is trying to creep in closer. It is noticeably slowed. It is bleeding black water, more so than he has ever seen a normal war-forged bleed. Maybe they aren't so tough.

167 took a running start and tried to drive his fist into the half-elf's middle. Meat bags are soft there, and broken ribs inhibit their breathing. The meat bag somehow twisted away at the last moment. 167 felt the spear blade lance beneath the plating on his wrist and then travel up towards his elbow. He bit back the pain and tried to draw back his arm. It made the damage worse. The metal holding the swollen mass of his arm together tore away. The wooden fibers that gave his arm its unusual flexibility, burst through the wound and unraveled unto the floor. 167 screamed and fell to his knees. 308 rushed forward, but the meat bag used 167's body as a shield.

Theodyl sang a the syllables to a Flash/Bang spell. As soon as the two war-forged were close enough together he released the magic.

308 tried to wipe the glare from his eyes. His ears are ringing so much he can't hear his own screams. Shaking with outrage he took two steps back and took a defensive posture. This magic trick can't last long.

Theodyl jammed the blade of his spear into the fallen war-forged's neck. The adamantine cut deeply. It tried to pry the blade off with it's shriveled limb, by it didn't have the leverage. The other arm flopped about, but it was useless from the elbow down. Theodyl used leverage to force the blade deeper and then wrenched on the spear shaft until it's head popped off like a wine cork.

“I get to go home.” Theodyl thought out loud.

308 heard the meat bag speak. It turned, shifting it's stance to face the voice. It still can't see more than a blur, but he was right about the effect not lasting very long. 167 isn't making anymore noise. 308 put the knowledge away for later. In the mournlands, failure means death. 308 doesn't know how to deal with death other than to fear and avoid it. It can feel the loss of it's brother, but there is nothing there to speak for the feeling. The fight is still on. It can hear the meat bag singing again.

Theodyl kept his distance from the remaining enemy. The song is coming easier now. Maybe killing the first freak gave him the necessary confidence. Maybe he just remembered what Master Sergeant Thrust had beat into him so long ago. Either way he sees his opponent much differently now.

308 lashed out with his blades, weaving a deadly pattern as he moved on the meat bag. It doesn't fear the meat or its weapon. 167 was weak, the weak must die to make way for the strong. The Lord of Blades spoke those words and they echoed through the training halls until they had forced their way into every new born struggling within. 308 will not soon forget them. The meat tripped, there is blood on it's leg. 308 sprung to take advantage. The spear lashed out. He caught the blow with a buckler and attempted to trap the weapon with one of it's sword arms. The war-forged started kicking. Its clawed feet are tearing through the enemy's weak armor. The meat bag pulled the spear back and rolled away to avoid getting stomped. 308 hissed, the spear blade gouged through the buckler and left deep scratches its short sword. It must be very sharp.

Theodyl rolled over to his belly. Blade, he commanded his weapon. He is on his knees with his back to the on coming war-forged. His shoulder is burning with pain. He nearly pulled his arm out to reclaim his spear from the war-forged. There is blood dripping from his mouth, his ribs are broken. He held the butt of his short sword against the ground and waited. The war-forged drew close. Theodyl coughed and made to crawl away, the enemy grunted and started to laugh. Idiot. The pause was just enough for him to mark it's position, he turned his wrist. Spear, Theodyl commanded.

The adamantine spear pierced the war-forged's breast plate and burst through it's back. It had been moving hard and fast to take out the half-elf. The momentum did most of the job. Theodyl wrenched the spear out one-handed. Blade, he said as he walked onto it's back. It's legs are kicking feebly. It's trying to get up. Theodyl jumped up and plunged the blade two-handed into the back of its neck. The war-forged started to fight, pushing off the ground with its four arms. Too late, Theodyl tore the blade out and hacked until it's head came off.

“Paragon said you were good,” Argus spoke, “ If the mist does not clear, perhaps we should join Pyrus?”

Theodyl looked to his men and tried to ignore the taste of blood in his mouth. The gnome rushed out of the tunnel and pulled him down to the ground. A potion was pressed against his lips. A hand slapped against his face.

“Wha-what do I do n-now?” The gnome asked.

“Don't ye know? A warrior needs strong drink!” the beer stein replied from the gnome's belt. “Get him some beer, and pour yerself some too!”

Moro Taller looked like he needed a drink. Theodyl let him drink first. He looked to the mist shrouded area and tried to identify the dark shapes moving within it's boundaries. The half-elf can't even guess at the spell used. He thought it must be a sort of illusion, but the mist is real. He brought the beer stein up to his lips and drank just enough to soothe his nerves. They will not be leaving their position. They have to cover the rescue team, and they have to stay where Paragon expects them to be. Theodyl eyed the dead war-forged and then caught some of the writing on the crates where the archers set up.

“Moro, get the hell away from those crates!” He snapped. “Argus, Pennelocles, does that say what I think it says!?”

Pyrus summoned some chips of obsidian onto his palm. The enemy spell caster is still recovering from whatever magic it used to summon the mists. It is protected by a wall of force; basic magic, not very imaginative. As magic goes Pyrus is very hard to impress. Once the fire touches your soul, very few things are ever impressive again.

204 charged the enemy. The sores on it's limbs burst painfully as it moved, it is a fact of his existence. 204 fixed it's eyes on his target and poured it's will into adding another victory to it's name.

Pyrus nearly dropped his spell as the sneak crashed into the wall of heat that surrounds his form. He watched it roll on the ground, attempting to put out the fire spreading over it's frame. Pyrus opened his palm and spoke to the fire. The obsidian chips flared to life and took to the air. As the pyromancer strode away, the burning missiles put an end to the war-forged. The stone paved floor blackened and cracked beneath his steps.

Skullstaff coughed out a gout of mist and struggled to keep a tight rein on the lich staff. The lich is hunting through the mist, slaying at will. He can feel the lich trying to overcome the binding with every spell it casts. The Lord of Blades would not forgive losing such a valuable servant. Skullstaff poured his will into the talisman about his neck. The lich will obey.

Pyrus stopped just before he wall of force. He looked up and to each side to gage it's size. He then leaned down. His hands melted through he paving stones. He scooped up some of the molten slag and rolled it in his hands to form a sort of cylinder. He spoke to the fire, filling the softened stone with heat and magic. The cylinder hardened and grew into a javelin of fire and molten lava. At the culmination of his spell, Pyrus took a few steps back and launched the weapon over the wall of force. It arched high and dropped like a hunting falcon.

Skullstaff screamed as the burning javelin pierced his body. The war-forged mage lost control of the summoned mist. He is burning, but he still has enough sense to call the lich-staff to his side. Sarok and the juggernaut will have to handle their fight on their own.

Slammer heard Skullstaff screaming. He shifted his bow and knocked an arrow in time to see a burning shape fly up and land next to the wizard's body. Slammer took aim and sent a deadly missile towards whatever the hell it might be.

Patter took the shot just as the enemy archer took his. He is supposed to watch for the Pook's rescue team, but he can't let the archer hurt anyone on his team. The arrow did not have enough power behind it to pierce the war-forged's armor. Patter knocked another missile and fired.

Slammer turned and sighted the meat bag on the pipes overhead. It knocked an arrow and sent it speeding towards the nuisance. The meat sprouted black wings and took to the air. The artillery arrow punched through one of the pipes and sent water streaming down over the mist shrouded parts of the pump room. Slammer cursed the Gods that made such creatures and tried his best to kill the meat bag.

Pyrus lay still and allowed the burning fluid that runs through his veins to consume the arrow. The impact knocked him hard against the wall of force. He can see the enemy wizard reaching for a staff that wasn't there before. Pyrus called to the fire and pointed to the mage.

“Burn!” Pyrus hissed. The fire responded.

The lich watched as Skullstaff caught fire. It laughed within it's prison as the fool called and called. It was too weak to utter a command. The lich felt no compulsion to help. Slammer heard Skullstaff scream again and again. He turned with just enough time to see the enemy make a clawing motion at him. He tried to knock an arrow, but a great burning claw took hold of him. The artillery bow snapped. Slammer felt his composite plates crack, then the smoke filled his vision. He burned.

Patter saw Pook exit the tower. Siff is with them, they are carrying him. He swooped down to see if he can help.

<Tell them to leave quick! You are all in danger!> Theodyl's sending screamed through Patter's mind. The panic in his voice was compelling. The changeling just about screamed the warning as he crashed in front of his friends.

Ivor crawled through the mist with a rope tied around his waist. He can't tell which way is which. Even sound can't be trusted. The mist dampens some noise and enhances others. He can hear people fighting, sometimes right next to his ear, but they are but phantoms. It is as if he is in some sort of maze, the only thing that he can hold onto is the rope. Ivor felt something through the floor. He froze. He felt it again. The changeling remembered the hulking juggernaut carrying the very large mace. Something has got a hold of his rope.

Paragon 152 to 3 eyed the changeling suspiciously. The war-forged doesn't like surprises. The changeling should have stayed out of the mist. It is dangerous. Paragon is bleeding from a multitude of wounds. Somehow the enemy war-forged can see much better through the mist than he can. Paragon has trained in complete darkness, he is sure that is the reason he has survived thus far. The mist is a poor trick to fool the senses. Ivor has been jabbering non-stop about phantoms and echoes. The lad is much too green. Paragon has been through the real Mourn Mists, this is a lesser imitation. He's found some of his own men, unlike the real Mournlands, the corpses did not attack him. He put Ivor down and told him to draw a weapon and hold on to the rope.

Sarok plunged through the mist and slashed at the enemy. Unlike the others he's killed, this one has proved to be a problem. Sarok does not take it personally, he is sure this is the traitor scum that issued the challenge. It is only polite to put up a good fight after uttering those words. He can see his hand in front of him. The mist is starting to thin, perhaps Skullstaff has met with a distraction.

The enemy came hard and fast. Paragon dodged without giving way. His mace smashed against its armored shoulder, while the cutlass dug into the area beneath it's other arm.

“I am War-Captain Sarok, race traitor,” the enemy spoke “I have claimed your men. You too will die!”

“My name is Paragon 152 to 3!” Paragon growled before punching Sarok in the face with the hilt of his cutlass.

Sarok drove his battle fist into Paragon's middle and then lunged with his heavy saber. Paragon was already gone. Sarok cursed, a mace to the back of his head answered. The war-forged spun away and tried to clear the spots in his vision. He felt a sharp pain on the inside his thigh. He slashed downward with his saber, but found nothing. Paragon materialized out of the mist and cocked his head at him. Sarok charged.

Paragon noted that Sarok favored his left shoulder. The mace must have had an effect earlier. The enemy commander is fast, but his fighting form has not improved much since the Cannith training halls produced him. He is using a standard sword style, probably augmented by a bit of magic. The battle fist could be used to much better effect. Sarok is predictable and unimaginative. Paragon side-stepped the slashing saber and hammered his mace into his wrist. Sarok dropped his weapon and swung his battle-fist at the spot where Paragon's head should be. Too slow, Sarok lost his balance as his heavy limb swung through empty space. A split second later Paragon 152 to 3 kicked Sarok in the stomach. The war-forged back pedaled. Paragon smashed his mace into Sarok's face and kicked his legs out from under him. The enemy commander fell flat on his back. A heavy foot pinned his battle-fist down. Paragon drove his cutlass through the enemy's shoulder, the injury took the entire limb out of commission. Before Sarok could even think to move, Paragon landed on his chest. Sarok tried to speak, but Paragon kicked and kicked at his head until it fell to pieces. A compartment on Sarok's chest popped open beneath Paragon's foot. It felt as if something is trying to get out. Laughing, Paragon squatted down and caught the final messenger before it could get away. He crushed it and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Paragon 153 to 3!” the victorious war-forged roared.

Javelin shook the lights from his vision, the big mace hits very hard. The juggernaut is a tough opponent. His entire body is tingling with the warm sensation that the war-forged has come to associate with excitement. The giant mace fell out of the mist again. Javelin flipped sideways and charged at the spot where the juggernaut's legs should be. The mace swept back and forth, but Javelin was already too far away. He came up right in between the enemy's legs. He drove his fists into the juggernaut's knee in an explosive burst of violence. The wood and metal shattered under his blows, the juggernaut screamed.

Chet felt his knee fall apart. He looked down at the flea that bit him. With a feat of enormous strength, it pulled the mace up and smashed the floor nearly crushing his own feet. It turned, favoring his good leg and struggled to bring Kruncher to bear.

Javelin jumped up and kicked at the juggernaut's hands. Armored fingers broke, the mace dropped. Javelin flipped backwards and then jumped up to kick the juggernaut in the face. The enemy swung it's massive fists, but it was too big and too slow. Javelin targeted the other knee. His hands and feet moved too fast for the eye to follow. He crippled the juggernaut and then he broke one arm and then the other. When Javelin was done destroying the clutching hands he moved on to the enemy's weapon. Chet watched the war-forged monk destroy Kruncher with his bare hands. Afterwards, he watched the monk stalk towards him just before the lights went out. Javelin found some of his squad's remains while he was hunted through the mist. Vengeance will do little to assuage his guilt, but vengeance is better than nothing.

Pyrus reached out to the fire within his breast. He sang in the hissing and crackling tongue of elemental flame. Heat flared out from his form. His cloak was consumed along with the few rags he wore. A swirling pillar of flame rose up around him. Pyrus rose from the stone floor, held aloft by the fire he commands. A finger of flaming death reached out to the mists, then another. The fire is hungry, Pyrus can barely keep it from consuming the entire room.

Pook watched the pillar of flame rise just as his men disappeared into the tunnels with the gnome woman and the goblin prisoners. Siff nearly lost his pretty head when he defeated one trap and set off the second, followed by a third. Pook and his squad came upon him while he struggled to climb out of a pit lined with spikes. The war-forged rogues made short work of the rescue. Three traps on one door, Pook shook his head. So, this is the Big Time, he mused.

Paragon 153 to 3 watched the flames consume the mists. Pyrus is a war-forged to be feared. It is a miracle the city allows him to remain within its walls. There are bodies in all directions. The mists had split them up and sowed confusion. They were hunted down as they wandered blindly about. His squad is down, as Sarok had said, but not all of them are dead. Javelin survived as did one of his squad that only got his legs crushed. Most of them can be repaired and revived. The others will receive a proper burial. The club made provisions for such a thing. He strolled over to the broken juggernaut and examined it's wounds. Javelin is a deadly opponent. He then noticed how the war-forged monk is looking at the bodies of the fallen. Paragon approves. He walked over to Javelin and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Come, we must take away the fallen. The Sister and the Watch cannot be far away now.” Paragon spoke softly. “We need to hurry.”

It took Theodyl only a few moments to show Paragon their new problem. The war-forged stared at the crates for a long time before he ordered Pyrus to incinerate them all. They kept one box as evidence. The goblin guards were killed as well. They are smugglers, and they let the wolf in the door. There was a time during the war when some desperate nations delved into the study of plagues and diseases to be used as weapons. They went far past dropping rotting bodies in a well or catapulting plague victims over city walls. Each crate holds three glass flasks. Each flask holds a dead fish in a yellowish fluid. Once in the city water supply, the plague would have spread and thousands would have died. The filth in the sewers would allow the plague to survive for decades. The Cyre manuscript must have been very important to them. They could have murdered the city in the time they spent waiting for it.

“They come, they come! We have about half an hour!” Patter announced as he returned from the tunnels. Pook must have sent him out to scout for the Sister.

 

[skullsmurfer]

Dog Soldiers, Chapter 16

Private Niabelis and Inquisitor Pallas shared the blessings of the Silver Flame with the others. The Dog Soldiers introduced themselves as Bashful and Point. Sweet Lips, she already knows. Private Niabelis prayed for deliverance. It is likely that they are all convicted criminals.

“They are around the corner! There's a monster with them.” Sweet Lips whispered.

“I don't care what they've got. They will die!” Private Niabelis hissed.

Sweet Lips charged. Private Niabelis ran close behind with her mace ready. A horribly mutated ape fell upon the young man. Behind it, a thing that could only be a dolgaunt stood next to another twisted thing that might have once been human. A shimmering door flashed open behind the monster. The dolgaunt gestured at her and then disappeared. Private Niabelis felt a wave of darkness and terror flood through the tunnel.

“Black Magic!” Inquisitor Pallas announced.

“I will feast on your tender flesh!” the enemy growled as the waves of foul magic caressed his body.

Bashful and Point bent under the magic, but they did not break. Inquisitor Pallas called upon the flame to bolster all of them against the corruption. Private Niabelis shook off the darkness and lifted her mace. The dolgaunt's companion peeled a bit of flesh from a nearby zombie and stuffed it in it's mouth. The zombie mewled and cried out like a child. The ghoulish mage made a rude gesture and invited her to die at his feet.

Sweet Lips kicked the ape away from his throat. His blood is flowing freely from too many wounds. The rage is gnawing at the back of his mind. The young man gritted his teeth and held on to his sanity. He batted the ape away with his war cleaver and started to look for a way to kill it. Private Niabelis is fighting the witch. The Inquisitor and the others are probably busy keeping the dolgrim back while Niabelis kills their leader. Sweet Lips dodged a claw swipe and wounded the monster. The enraged beast only came on stronger and faster. Sweet Lips fought back just as hard. The ape drew back and took a flying leap at him. The young man was overwhelmed.

“Sweet Lips is down!” yelled Bashful.

“Watch the line!” snapped Inquisitor Pallas.

The ape dug into his arms and thighs with it's claws. Sweet Lips had no leverage to wield his cleaver, but he managed to keep it from biting his face off. Pain flooded through his senses. The young man started to foam at the mouth. Sweet Lips head-butted the beast. He let go of the cleaver and struggled away from its grasp, fighting like a demon. The ape recovered quickly. It charged the young man again. Sweet Lips grabbed hold of his cleaver and met the charge screaming. The ape died. The berserker continued to hack at the broken corpse until something else drew his attention. Sweet Lips turned and charged the monster fighting Private Niabelis.

Point pulled Niabelis out of the way as the raging Dog Soldier charged past. The ghoulish mage sent him back with but a gesture. The berserker rolled to his feet and charged again and again. It's magic was foul, leaving cold and darkness in its wake. The rage filled him, none of the magic seemed to stick. He wounded the monster with each charge, but the creature just would not give. Private Niabelis used the distractions to smash into the enemy as well. She called to Flame for strength, but the enemy laughed at her efforts. It's resistance is beyond anything she has ever experienced. She used the Flame's gifts to keep the berserker alive until she could figure out a way to hurt the thing. It's fell gaze made her feel dirty.

Inquisitor Pallas poured his last blessing into Bashful. The dolgrim are pushing hard. His mace arm is tired and slick with blood. The battle rages behind him, though he can't tell if they are winning. He is convinced that they are over their heads.

Private Niabelis felt weighed down with fatigue. The evil creature before her is somehow responsible. She reached for the small spark of Silver Flame that she carries within her breast and struck out with a beam of searing light. The enemy screamed out of rage and pain. It dropped to the floor trying to put the flames out. Sweet Lips drove his cleaver through it's chest. The witch continued to fight, striking out with its clawed hands and sharpened teeth. If Sweet Lips noticed, he didn't show it. The berserker ripped the cleaver out and tore into the monster with renewed vigor. The thing screeched a spell and sent Sweet Lips flying backwards wrapped in tendrils of cloying shadows. It should be dead twice over. Every time it gets a chance the thing pulls another strip of flesh from it's zombie companion. Her eyes grew wide, Private Niabelis did not hesitate. The Sister Inquisitor kicked the zombie away from the monster's reach. She then dove in and crushed the enemy's skull with her mace, calling on the Flame to smite the unholy terror. It mocked her even as it died, calling out obscenities that would haunt her dreams for months to come.

Sweet Lips rose to his feet and eyed the dolgrim surrounding him. His eyes are bulging out of his skull. His face is flushed red and his teeth are clenched so tight that his jaw threatens to crack. The young man's skin is covered in angry red boils from the witch's latest assault. He just stood there wavering slightly. Point waved the Inquisitor back away from the young berserker. The Sergeant had told the men what to expect from Sweet Lips. Bashful sat very still. The young man had bowled him over just a moment ago. None of them want to set him off. An idiot dolgrim jabbed Sweet Lips with a spear. The other Dog Soldiers breathed a sigh of relief.

The berserker growled and swung his cleaver like a scythe. Point and Bashful fell in behind the young man, killing with only a bit more sense. They will protect his back while he fights for them. The gawky young man is gone, his features are unrecognizable. There is no stopping Sweet Lips now, the two Dog Soldiers only hope that the Sergeant knows how to calm the boy.

“We need to bless the corpse.” Private Niabelis told the Inquisitor. “This filthy thing dared to laugh at the Flame. It resisted most of my prayers.”

“Verily, that was not a natural creature,” Pallas agreed. “A ghoul mage, I think, it should be burned. What about that one?”

The zombie stood against the wall, begging to be killed. It was once a young woman, approaching maidenhood. The voice was that of a child very much younger. When Inquisitor Pallas demanded it's name, it just started crying. Private Niabelis felt her skin crawl at the sound. Pallas raised his mace and held unclean thing in place with the power of the Flame. Niabelis lifted up her holy symbol called for judgment. The zombie screamed and fell to ash. A dark shadow, like a smudge upon reality hung in place for a moment, then it too was destroyed.

“It was evil.” Private Niabelis frowned. “Let us move on. You saw the dolgaunt, did you not?”

“The Bishop will know what to do. We must finish this mess first.” If Inquisitor Pallas saw Niabelis flinch, he did not care. “Chances are, you will not be free to pursue it.”

Private Niabelis sprinkled some holy water upon the corpse of the ghoul mage. It sizzled as it touched the unnatural flesh. Her mace crushed what was left of it's head, she then circled the corpse and destroyed its hands. She took a step back and held the holy symbol of the Flame before it.

“Be thou Blessed!” She intoned, “Be thou Cleansed!”

The corpse twitched and then started to writhe obscenely. Niabelis heard the thing laugh as if from a great distance. She girded her heart against it, her mind grew hard and cold with the hot burning will of the flame strengthening her resolve. The ghoul mage resisted, but not for long. Private Niabelis felt something give within her breast, a new strength poured through her body. She poured the last of the holy water upon the ghoul mage. The water set it ablaze. Niabelis stood there holding the holy symbol of the Silver Flame until it was over.

Sergeant Ironson barked out new orders when the dolgrim started to panic. The Dog Soldiers started tossing tangle-foot bags. A moment later, several bottles of alchemist's fire and acid followed. The Sergeant made sure none to the filthy dolgrim could get away. Sweet Lips and the others capped the other end of the trap. It was bloody, the dolgrim fought like trapped rats. The Dog Soldiers fought harder.

At the very end, Private Niabelis held Sweet Lips down while the others held on to his arms and legs. By rights he should be dead. The battle is done and yet he continues to hack at the fallen enemy. She channeled the Flame's blessing into him and tore out the bolts from his chest. The wounds from the ghoul mage are festering, he is shaking with fever. Two more inquisitors had to spend their blessings to save him. The young man's eyes rolled back into his head and he suddenly burst free. He blinked at them with no recognition in his eyes.

“Down boy,” Sgt. Ironson commanded. The necklace about Sweet Lips' neck sent a burst of electricity through the boy's body. The berserker collapsed, this time for good.

“He will need to stay in bed for a week, at least.” Niabelis said as one of the Dog Soldiers helped her up. “Has he been checked for taint?”

“No, he is a berserker, not a lycanthrope.” Sgt. Ironson replied tersely.

“The Flame will tell.” Inquisitor Pallas said.

“He is a follower of the Host, touched by Dol Dorn. His strength is a blessing. Keep yer bloody Flame to yerself, Inquisitor.” Sgt. Ironson barked.

“The boy is obviously cursed. Can you not see that?” Niabelis demanded.

“He bears a heavy burden, that is true, but he is a man. No gift from the Gods comes without a price. Test him if you will, but the Chaplain must be present. He is a Dog Soldier.” Sgt. Ironson ended the conversation by giving them both the evil eye.


The Sergeant counted the wounded. Six men are too wounded to fight, but no one is dead just yet. The rest bear assorted wounds and scratches, nothing to keep them from taking a few heads in the next fight. The Inquisitors kept his lads alive, that much is undeniable. The Sister is going to be trouble later. For now, she is bound to her commission. The law is very clearly on his side, let the City Council deal with the politics. Potions and divine healing will allow them to drag their feet to the objective. However, he doesn't know if the men will be able to fight effectively if he forces a march. Sgt. Ironson hissed a curse and kicked at a dolgrim corpse.

“Chaplain Odus, contact Captain Rolland. Tell him we ran into trouble, and that we will be delayed. Give him our current position and an estimate of 45 minutes to the pump rooms.”

Odus pulled short rod from his belt. It is an advanced communication device from the war; the kind of thing generals get to play with. It is expensive, too expensive for even the City Watch. The Inquisitors looked at one another and then to the Sergeant. He shrugged his shoulders at them. When the Nobles issue equipment, Sergeants don't ask questions.

“Sir...the Captain said he is five minutes away!” Chaplain Odus called out in shock. “He's got a watch mage flying ahead to meet us! They were scrying us, sir!”

“Oh, this is precious!” the Sergeant snapped. “Private Niabelis, front and center! Chaplain Odus, Inquisitor Pallas, you too. You, start counting dolgrim heads! Is Sweet Lips awake yet!?”

The Watch Mage swooped in with a wand in each hand. He is wearing an auxiliary badge and a University tabard. The Captain must have pull, accomplished wizards do not just drop classes to answer calls to the sewers. The mage started asking questions, the Sergeant answered as best he could. The Captain marched in minutes later with his reserves.

“Well, Sergeant, I see that you are aiming for a promotion. We haven't killed this many dolgrim in ten years!” The Captain spoke cheerfully. “Is there anything left for me?”

The Dog Soldiers lined up. The Chaplain had to physically pull some of the wounded out of the ranks. The Captain authorized healing for the more stubborn soldiers and then ordered a fast march. The Watch Mage tried to scry the pump rooms before they left. He was blocked. The Captain thinks that means a good fight is brewing, the Sergeant just shook his head. The Watch Mage actually said something about looking forward to wielding his power without restriction.

Private Niabelis is keeping her mouth shut and her head down. This should be her day. She did everything in her power to get to this place and now it is all crumbling to dust. Maybe she should have let the Sergeant take her head. Inquisitor Pallas should have backed her up. They are both Inquisitors, yet he looked at her as if she were a stranger. The Bishop is her only hope now. Private Niabelis took a calming breath and tried not to grit her teeth. She will endure, her day will come.

 

[ragboy]

I really like the way you handle the description of magic in this story. You've stripped away the 'metagame' portions of the spells and powers and made them your own. Very nice. Great battle scene, as well. I got a little lost on who was who, but you had so many combatants on both sides that you probably couldn't avoid a little battle confusion. The scene where Niabelis was 'recruited' was absolutely brilliant.

Keep it up!

 

[skullsmurfer]

I really like the way you handle the description of magic in this story. You've stripped away the 'metagame' portions of the spells and powers and made them your own. Very nice. Great battle scene, as well. I got a little lost on who was who, but you had so many combatants on both sides that you probably couldn't avoid a little battle confusion. The scene where Niabelis was 'recruited' was absolutely brilliant.

Keep it up!

Thanks Ragboy, I didn't know what to do with Sister Niabelis at first. I have her at Lawful Neutral, she is loyal to the Flame, but she is also arrogant, vain, and power hungry. Having her pressed into service in exchange for her life made me feel good. I have to admit that I modelled the Niabelis character after an ex-girlfriend. I found the Ghoul Mage in an old 3rd party supplement from a garage sale, eating flesh gives it power. It was disgusting enough to make a good target for Sister Niabelis and Sweet Lips. The berserker he plays is closer to the actual Myth than the D&D version, it just feels better.

I am glad the fighting came off the way it did. I wanted to challenge my characters but my lack of experience led me to take some short cuts. The next fight will go more smoothly, I hope. What did you think about the malformed war-forged? Should I tone-down Pyrus the Pyromancer? Should Sister Niabelis suffer some more?

 

[ragboy]

The next fight will go more smoothly, I hope. What did you think about the malformed war-forged? Should I tone-down Pyrus the Pyromancer? Should Sister Niabelis suffer some more?

Tone down nothing! Keep it big, loud and pulpy.

Depends on what you want her story to be, I guess. To keep interest, you may want to consider bringing her back to the 'sympathetic' fold. I like the character, but I think she probably needed to be put through Sharn's grinder to get that pride where it belongs.

But, don't be afraid to keep kicking your characters in the teeth. Lester Dent has excellent advice on that front.

 

[skullsmurfer]

Of Lies and Bigger Troubles, Chapter 17

Paragon had Ivor and Theodyl take charge of looting. He and the other war-forged hurried to clear away their fallen brothers. Pyrus guarded against scrying, while making preparations to burn away all magically traceable evidence. The pyromancer took the time to ward the tunnel being used by Sister Niabelis. It will buy them another ten minutes at most.

Moro Taller waited just inside the tunnel. He is in charge of the healing and repair wands. The gnome is in a bit of shock. Reading about a fight and actually seeing one are two wildly different things. The gladiators at the arena, were putting on a show of that, he is now certain. He doesn't know what he is going to do once he is back with his wife and children, but he is sure that it will be nowhere near as horrible as what he has witnessed.

“Ho there, young gnome! There be someone approaching.” The beer stein warned.

Moro drew a Wand of Missiles and turned. His hands are shaking, but not so much that he will miss. He recognized Pook. The changeling still had to give the password. The beer stein took care of the rest by ordering Moro to have another drink.

“What are you doing back? W-where's my w-wife?” the gnome asked in between gulps of Theodyl's beer.

“She's fine, the others took her to the private box at the arena.” the changeling replied as he disrobed and put on a fine set of women's clothing.

Pook started to speak in a woman's voice as his body changed to match. He now a she, threw a luxurious silk lined cloak over her shoulders and had Moro tie her hair back with a jeweled comb. She uncorked a visually striking perfume bottle and dabbed an absolutely delicious rose scented oil onto her neck and just beneath her breast line. Moro's hands started to shake under the effects of the heady aroma. He blushed as he found his eyes traveling over her neck line. Pook winked at him. She then put on some earrings and a necklace to match her comb on her head. Pook put on the shoes last. They look great, but they pinch after a while.

“You will address me as Lady Eunice Nigma, Ser Gnome.” Pook said with refined noble accent. “Now stay out of sight, you are supposed to be dead.” She kissed him on the cheek and left him to trip over his feet in a hurry to get under cover.

Theodyl sniffed at Pook's neck as she strolled past and ignored him with just the right swing in her hips. The half-elf copped a feel and hurried away to join the gnome in a side tunnel. Ivor rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out. Paragon 153 to 3 noticed something, but he doesn't care enough to ask. Theodyl's bed habits make his joints ache, flesh people are crazy. The war-forged handed Lady Nigma his creator's signet ring and adjusted his tabard to House Cannith regulations. Pyrus summoned an impressive aura of flame. Argus and Pennelocles joined Javelin just behind Paragon. The crate lay safely within a warding circle drawn in living flame.

“Hold!” Sgt. Ironson ordered the troops. “Squads 1, 3, 4: I want three wedges in front of the Captain. Number 2 squad, form up around the mage. Inquisitors, Pallas with the Captain, all others will each go with a Chaplain. Private Niabelis, squad number 5, you are with me!”

Captain Rolland Sevin raised his falchion and spoke. The magic woven into the blade generations past took his words and carried them to every ear within the pump rooms. “This is the City Watch! Lower your weapons and stay where you are!”


“Oh Rolland! How wonderful to see you here!” Lady Nigma exclaimed, her voice as delightful as bird song. “Have you a wizard? My boys found something of great import!”

The Captain did everything but run to her and give her a kiss. He strutted up to the woman like a peacock, leaving his men behind. Inquisitor Pallas scowled, he called on the Flame, but could detect no deviltry. The woman is surrounded by an impressive aura, however, centered on her jewelry.

Sgt. Ironson kept a weary eye out for Sweet Lips. The young man kept a straight face, but the crimson color of his skin said a lot. There is no doubt in his mind, this is the woman he saw with the war-forged escort earlier in the week. Private Niabelis could have bored a hole in the Captain's back. The Sergeant sent the Watch Mage and his squad up to Captain Sevin. He then ordered the crossbows to cover the Lady's escort. The war-forged with the cloak of fire must be a mage of some sort.

Private Niabelis surveyed the battlefield. The broken juggernaut is an impressive sight. There is another body, this one with it's head crushed. There are bolts and arrows littering everywhere. A broken pipe overhead is pouring brown water onto the floor. Not far to her left she can see the smoking remains of perhaps two more war-forged. Against the far wall a pile of crates is smoldering along with something else, maybe goblins and more war-forged. House Cannith got here first, but why? It doesn't make sense.

Sgt. Ironson nearly gave the order to fire as a small commotion broke out. The Watch Mage took to the air and sped towards the pile of crates smoking against the far wall. A bright green ray swept from is wand, reducing the crates to little than dust. Captain Sevin signaled the Sergeant to approach. The war-forged mage with the cloak of fire stood up and joined the others behind the woman from Cannith. The Captain let them leave and then turned to stare at the lone crate sitting within a warding circle of fire. Inquisitor Pallas drew his mace and called his Inquisitors to his side. They surrounded the circle, ready to kill anything that approaches.

“What the hell is going on here?” Niabelis screeched.

“Shut it, Private! The Captain can still have yer head if he don't like your tone.” The Sergeant snapped.

Captain Sevin turned to his Sergeant and told the news. His face was pale, several beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

“Hag's Plague, Sgt. Ironson.” He said with a tremor in his voice. “They were going to pour it into the sewers.” The Captain turned away. “From the sewers it would have spread to the bay and from there, who knows? We don't even know how far the pipes reach down into the earth. Our water comes from below. Gods, they could have murdered us.”

“How did they get it in here? The goblins are smugglers, but the ship still had go through the docks. This could start a panic.” Niabelis said while trying to think away the shock.

“There won't be a panic.” Captain Sevin cut in. “Sergeant, we camp here tonight. I will make arrangements with the City to search every pump room between here and the docks. Inform your men, I am declaring a quarantine. I trust they can keep a secret?”

“They are good men, sir.” the Sergeant replied.

“Then I don't need to say anything more, Sergeant.” Captain Sevin said locking his eyes on the officer, “Instruct the men, then turn over every stone in this place, I have had far too many surprises today.”

The Sergeant jogged away with Private Niabelis in tow. He is scared, but that is between him and Dol Dorn. His duty is clear. There is trouble and the Dog Soldiers are once more in the middle of it. He put on his best Wrath of the Gods scowl and started barking orders. The men jumped the proper height and moved like the devils are nipping at their heels. They just don't know. Private Niabelis realized the Captain had just threatened all of their lives. She turned to the Sergeant, he told her to shut up.

“Cities run on blood...” the Sergeant quoted from a poet turned activist now rotting in a City dungeon. “What did you expect, a medal?”

The Arena, an hour or so later......

Moro blubbered like a baby as he rushed to his wife's arms. Theodyl and the changelings gave them space, but did not go away. Ivor and Siff stayed close to the door. Pook and Patter stood ready to catch them if they tried to jump into the arena. Paragon is taking care of his men, Javelin and Argus stayed behind to act as bodyguards. They are outside. There is an owlbear fighting a slow, armored dinosaur in the arena below. It is too noisy for their business to be overheard. Theodyl is waiting for the couple to calm down before he starts asking questions. The beer stein is sitting on a ledge brimming with beer and screaming down to the savage combatants.

“So,” Theodyl interrupted their embrace, “which one of you fine upstanding gnomes set me up?”

Moro grew silent. His wife looked up to Theodyl and met his eyes. The half-elf did not waver. Moro made to speak but the woman shushed him and told him to go watch the fight. She is very pretty, or cute as humans would say. Fat, rosy cheeks and curly blond hair give her an almost cherub like appeal. She is also obviously older than her husband, but no more than a few decades, though. To Theodyl's thinking, she would be the perfect kind of woman to seduce a young, but well placed mark. No one looks at the wife, not unless you are an expert in the spy game. The dragons ran into complications, though, Theodyl could tell just from the way they gazed at each other. There is love in those eyes, that cannot be faked. Theodyl sent the changelings away to set her at ease. It isn't personal, yet.

“It wasn't supposed to happen like this,” She began. “I was supposed to use the Cyre Manuscript as a distraction while I used some hired mercenaries to steal the other file. The Mercenaries I hired had their own ideas. The one named Sarok said he would drown my babies in sewer sludge...”

“I understand,” Theodyl calmed her, “Tell me, who is your Master? Vergris? Dothon? Blackscale?”

“Dothon.” She answered after a long pause. “Vergris is crippled, she won't allow anyone to see her face. She is in Thrane, last I heard. Blackscale and Dothon are in charge of operations in Sharn now.” She looked up at Theodyl. “What are you going to do? They said you would go to them, they planned on it.”

“Fat chance of that happening.” Theodyl laughed. “I want to set up a meeting at a neutral location. Will you take care of that for me?”

“You are crazy.” She said looking to her husband. “I can't....”

“What's your name,” Theodyl interrupted, “I never asked.”

“Dulcimella,” She replied, and then recovered, “I really don't think...”

“I am only a little bit crazy,” the half-elf interrupted again, “besides, you need help getting out of Sharn with your children. They think your husband is dead, but you will not have it as easy.” Theodyl locked his green eyes on her. “I doubt the dragons will help. You failed.”

“Don't say another word, either of you.” A voice hissed and twisted out of empty space.

Mooneye the Necromancer made his entrance. The lights dimmed, every shadow in the room suddenly spread like a stain. A clammy chill crawled up Theodyl's spine. The lights sprung back to life and suddenly Mooneye was there. A gnome sized skeleton wearing black and red silk cocked it's head and waited for everyone in the room to remember to breathe. Theodyl could do nothing but clap.

“I would like to be join these negotiations,” Mooneye announced. “In a few hours there are going to be City Watchmen crawling through the under city like rats on a corpse. I stand to loose a lot of business.” The red dots of light within his eye sockets flashed. “You, Mrs. Taller, and you Mr. Vair, will help me make up for those losses.”

“Master Mooneye, I found six renegade war-forged with enough Hag's Plague to kill the city and then go on to kill everything that touches the bay waters. I think the City Watch is justified.” Theodyl addressed the lich.

“Hag's Plague? In my City?” the lich snapped. “Tell me more.”

Theodyl felt the pressure of the lich's gaze. He started talking, describing every detail of the pump rooms, the goblins, the war-forged, the fight. The lich wormed his way into the half-elf's mind and tore out the details even as his mouth continued to speak
them. Theodyl's natural defenses shook beneath the relentless mental assault. The lich hissed, Theodyl focused his mind on telling everything he knew. The constant detailed stream of information kept the lich from digging any deeper. Mooneye made him hurt for his effort, however.

“Now, it is your turn, Mrs. Taller.” Mooneye said almost politely. “Talk or I will just reach in and drag it all out.”

Moro rushed the lich only to be struck unconscious. Dulcimella fainted. The beer stein assaulted the lich with a stream of expletives in several different languages. In some way, the curses struck Mooneye like physical blows. The lich blasted the beer stein to pieces spraying beer in all directions. The ghostly form of a heavily armored dwarven fighter took shape over the debris. The spilled beer froze solid beneath his feet. A great otherworldly howl erupted from beneath his helm. His long braided beard moved as if buffeted by a great wind. An urgosh, as immaterial as the ghost, cut the air in front of Mooneye, followed by another stream of expletives.

“You will NOT touch them!!!” The dwarven spirit cried. “Thou walking corpse! By my beard I shall SMITE thee!!!!” The world shook with his voice.

“Peace! Peace!” Theodyl leapt between the two. “Master Mooneye, I think that we can come to a profitable arrangement. Ser Dwarf, please stay thy rage.” He is bleeding from his nose and ears. It is obvious he can barely stand. “Let us order some refreshments, some strong drink to calm our passions.”

“I want Bourbon.” The dwarven spirit said through his teeth. “and I want a new vessel. Silver, I think, with jewels!”

“Bourbon it is then.” The lich agreed.

The lich snapped his fingers and Moro woke up as if from a nightmare. His wife was startled awake at nearly the same time. Theodyl rubbed at his temples in a vain effort to make the headache go away. A table laden with food and drink rose out of the floor. The lich called a name, a shadow crawled out of a dark corner and lay at Mooneye's feet.

“This is my apprentice, his new name is Fletch,” the lich said to Theodyl, “I think you get the joke, yes?”

Theodyl cringed as the image of his arrow sticking out of the horned goblin's head came unbidden to his mind. Mooneye kicked at the shadow and demanded Bourbon. The shadow sank into the floor and soon returned with a great cask. The shadow then produced a set of glass tumblers for Theodyl and the gnomes. The lich waved his hands and the tumblers filled with clear amber fluid. He waved his hands again and a mist rose out of the barrel it traveled lazily to the dwarven spirit and then to the lich.

“I can taste it.” The dwarven spirit whispered, “Bourbon, hot as fire and cold as a mountain breeze.”

“Good,” the lich chuckled as the shadow returned to it's place at his feet “Theodyl, you can start talking now.”

“I have a certain bit of paper that someone else wants.” The half-elf started to explain.

“Bah! Pedestrian trade, hardly worth my time.” Mooneye interrupted. “I want something more interesting than that.”

“Dothon the Wise and Blackscale Stormbreaker are both very interested, the problem is that I am entirely too fragile for aggressive negotiations.” The half-elf said as he sipped from his glass.

“Nadothon Talonwise and Blackscale Terrorwind are not the kind to deal with anyone.” The lich spoke as he considered Theodyl's words. “I understand that a certain King of Galifar had to bribe Blackscale in order to save a year's worth of crops a few centuries past.” Theodyl pouted as the lich's superior knowledge became immediately evident. “Nadothon raided the Elven lands with the same trick. Blackscale destroyed their crops just so Nadothon wouldn't have to break his word after collecting the bounty. The elves called a blood debt on them both. They work together those two. The elves started a rumor that they are mated. Nadothon incinerated an entire forest out of spite.”

“They can afford your prices,” Theodyl added, “and they can't kill you permanently. You might even gain a new client or two.”

“What is on that bit of paper, exactly?” the lich asked.

“Names, dates, locations etc. Somebody has been trying to track stray Dragons through our lands.” Theodyl drained his tumbler and held it out for more. “I assume they want to either put a stop to it or they want to use it to some advantage. I wouldn't be surprised if they took over the operation and then sold the information to the highest bidder.”

“I will need to know for sure if I want to make a solid deal. The negotiations will drag until I have a firm grasp on their motives.” the lich mused. “You will give me sixty percent.”

“I want our freedom and my master's spell-shard.” Theodyl stated, waving towards himself and Dulcimella, “You can ask for whatever else you want, they probably have artifacts and wonders beyond words stashed in their hoards.”

“You only play at magic,” Mooneye snapped. “what could you possibly want with a spell-shard?”

“Only to stop playing at magic, Master Mooneye.” The half-elf replied. “I am tired of ending a fight tired and bloodied. I see a better way, just within my reach.”

The lich started laughing. His head came off and flew to a stop not an inch from Theodyl's face. They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Theodyl felt his skin go clammy as the lich bored into his mind again. He didn't resist this time. He waited until the lich was too deep to get away and triggered the most potent spell he knows. The notes to a sad hymn sounded. A sharp pain radiated from his heart and his body spasmed once and then twice. Theodyl smiled and then slipped away into darkness.

“No! You can't do this to me!” the lich screeched. “Damn your tricks! I will bring you back. Death is no escape with the likes of me!”

Moro and his wife held each other as the lich raged over Theodyl's body. The dwarven spirit moved to stand between the lich and the gnomes. Theodyl chose to die, there is nothing to avenge. The lich stopped his diatribe and decided to launch a spell instead. The words each shook the room as the necromancer spit them out through his teeth. The room went dark again as every light bent and wavered streaking towards the lich and the corpse in front of it. The light soaked into Theodyl's body until the gnomes had to look away from the glare. A scream echoed from very far away, then it came closer and closer until the gnomes realized it was Theodyl screaming.

“My mind is my business.” Theodyl rasped at the lich's red glaring eyes. “You got what you deserved.”

“I saw enough.” Mooneye snapped. “You are an accident waiting to happen. I will let you keep your secrets, but if I even smell another trick, you will join my apprentice at my feet.”

Mooneye continued to rant and threaten for about ten minutes. Theodyl stayed conscious the entire time. He gambled on taking the lich with him, he vaguely remembers the bastard snapping back at the very last moment. The lich had an anchor, something to hold on to. The phylactery must do something other than just hold a lich's soul when it's missing a body. Live and learn. His mouth tastes like dust. He is so tired he can't even pass out.

“I think that I might get to like you again, Theodyl.” The lich said as his head settled back upon it's neck. “My apprentice only tried to assassinate me after five years of service, you only shop at my store. Your will is strong, your mind is sharp, and you take risks, big risks. You have a chance at becoming a wizard.” The lich laughed again as if it had told a joke. “We meet at midnight tomorrow. Don't look for me I will find you. Oh, and don't bother trying to sleep, you won't sleep again until you suffer enough to give me an honest apology. You hurt me.”

 

[skullsmurfer]

Aftermath, Chapter 18

“You are three times an idiot!” the war-forged scolded. “I can't believe you did something so stupid!” Paragon 153 to 4 cursed and kicked the crate in front of him until it fell apart. “I couldn't protect you. Do you know how that feels!?”

“He was rifling through my head,” Theodyl tried to explain for the hundredth time. “I couldn't stop him, so I tried to take him with me.”

“Do you realize how crazy that sounds?!” Paragon ranted. “Look at yourself, I barely recognize you anymore! You look like a ghost!”

“I gambled and I lost,” Theodyl grumbled. “You have your standards, I have mine. Do I harp about you training guerrillas and picking fights with things that can kill you with a twitch? How many times have you been to the arena? Dol Dorn guides your steps, Olladra does the same for me.” Paragon glared at him, Theodyl decided to try a little honesty. “I am sorry to try your patience. You are my brother, please let us have peace.”

“You are an idiot. I am going to pick-up some things, Javelin will be outside. He's got permission to knock you unconscious if you do anything other than drink beer and talk to your cup. He killed that juggernaut barehanded, please don't try his patience.”

“I am sorry about your score!” Theodyl called at his best-friends back. The door shut and he was left alone.

The mirror isn't going anywhere. Theodyl stared at his reflection for over an hour, he is too lazy to move. Kicking the mirror over would take the same amount of energy. His eyes are many shades lighter, glassy olive, like those of a cat. It doesn't look right. The color is gone from his hair. That looks many times worse. He feels broken inside, as if something is missing. Theodyl can't stop thinking about what he could possibly be missing.

“Are you guarding me too?” He asked the dwarven spirit. “I see you looking at me. I am not senseless.”

“Ye usually don't see me at all.” The dwarf complained. “The shell-head told ye to rest.”

“Don't you like your new Beer Stein?”

“It's very nice. The diamonds are a fine touch.” The dwarf admitted. Only his voice carried emotion. “I used to collect beer steins before I died. I miss them.” The dwarf's face is hidden beneath a helmet, beard and mustache. He is wearing a round buckler on his left arm and holding an exotic urgosh on the other. It is a wicked looking weapon. The spiked gauntlets match his spiked boots and shin guards. An iron skirt ends just bellow his knees. The dwarf looks unassailable, noble and dangerous at the same time. He is a dwarf from a different age girded in armor of Black Iron.

“Quit staring at me, damn it!” the dwarven spirit growled.

“I just trying to get to know you.” The bard teased. He reached for a dwarven box-horn from a shelf next to his bed. It is made of rich, dark brightly polished hard-wood. The instrument produces deep bass notes, a resonator built into the box enhances the sounds further. Dwarves play them as one would recite poetry. It is a spiritual experience to hear the dwarven priests play them in the towering underground cathedrals within the Mror Holds. Theodyl knows only three compositions that he can play comfortably. The Path of the Morning, written by a long dead priest, is the shortest one.

“My mother named me Roarynn Morgani Vair, Ser Dwarf. I died to keep this name. Allow me to entertain you.”

The composition is paced. A lone priest stands vigilant deep within a mountain hold. The notes rise and fall slowly as a beam of light travels over a solar calendar carved onto the living stone of a temple. Theodyl taps a hard-wood stick against the side of the box to imitate the droplets of condensation falling from a cold stone ceiling. At the same time he deftly turns the polished air valves to adjust the resonating bass. The notes are serene, insightful, and moving. The notes move slowly with the ray of light around the hard unyielding floor. The priest taps a bell with every hour that passes, Theodyl rings a chime. With every chime he turns down the bass. The light fades, the bass dies away and only the droplets of water remain. It took over an hour. Theodyl's cheeks are burning and his ribs ache. It was designed for dwarven lungs.

The dwarven spirit lay his hand across his beard. It looked at the floor and then at the wall. It shifted and tapped it's weapon against a heavy shoulder pad. The spirit took off his thick Black Iron helm and scratched a bald spot. He misses the halls of his people.

“Ongred Narduur Ironshanks, of the Iron Eaves in Noldrunhold, pleased to meet you.” The dwarf donned his helm and faded away.

The polished mithril beer stein glimmered as the dwarven spirit took residence. It is decorated with a complex maze of classical dwarven scroll work leading to a large water opal set into the metal. A ring of large blue diamonds adorn the base. Their shade matches the blue from the water opal. The rim is accented by tiny white diamonds. The cap is etched with dwarven symbols for fortune and prosperity. It opens and closes smartly, with help from a spring loaded thumb lever. It is ostentatious, rich enough to be fit for a king. The jeweler had a commission with Theodyl to be paid in trade. The half-elf had his heart set on an emerald ring to match his eyes. The grumbling and moaning of a dwarven spirit crying for a beer stein changed his mind. He sent a letter with Paragon to Hercsztone's Treasury in the marble paved streets of the High Quarter. Paragon spent a little extra, just to irritate the half-elf.

The jeweler had needed help with his marriage. Theodyl had been entertaining a small wedding party months back, when a fight broke out. Some men from the groom's party were feuding over a business transaction. Theodyl wove a calming effect into his song to promote more singing and drinking. Master Hercsztone's wife had stopped nagging him at the very same time. The jeweler, an experienced Magewright, recognized the magical trick. The half-elf's solution was Birdsong. It is a whistle carved from a banshee's thigh bone with three holes for three different notes. Whenever Master Hercsztone plays it, his wife remembers that they are in love and stops nagging him, for a while. It is just a Calm Emotions spell, but the jeweler acts like he's got an artifact in his hands.

The whistle was in fact, his fourth most successful attempt at magical item design and enchantment. The only thing that irks him about it, is that if it is played for too long the whistle grows progressively cooler. Even the air blowing through it feels cold. His first creation was the Ring of Indifference. It stops functioning for a month after he uses it. While active, no one is shocked or surprised by anything he does. It is an absolute life saver when he is trying to impersonate somebody or when he is picking a King's pocket in front of his generals. Sadly, once a month for 5 minutes is not enough fun.

Theodyl's second magical project was a Purge Stone. It is an aquamarine stone that when held in one's mouth removes the effects of poison and intoxication. The enchantment was successful, but half the time it also causes vomiting, diarrhea, profuse sweating and a runny nose; all at once. Success number three was a Wand of Steam. Paragon was looking for a way to stay clean without having to go to a body shop as often. The shiny brass pipe projects blasts of cleansing steam. Unfortunately, sometimes the pressure is a little high and the wand flies out of one's hand.

Theodyl sighed as his thoughts returned once more to his predicament. He can't sleep and he is bone weary. Maybe he should read. To his right is a lap desk with a mess of scrolls, forgery tools and magical formulae. To his right his master's appointment calendar and traveling spell book lie in several pieces. A set of round brass plates were hidden within their bindings. It is an astrological tool, the plates fit together and the symbols engraved on their surfaces match up to decode star signs. All of Stargazer's codes and cyphers are based on astrology. It is the key to a spell-shard, a sort of Master Spell Book imprinted on a dragonshard. Apart from a key to a House Kundarak Deposit Vault, it is the only thing his master ceded to him upon death.

 

[skullsmurfer]

The Hazards of Politics, Chapter 19

Captain Rolland Sevin has been staring at the thrice cursed crate for the entire shift. The City Council promoted him to the rank of High Captain and sent him four irritating assistants. He is now in charge of 120 men, 4 warrant officers, 8 Sergeants and a horde of volunteers from the various crews that work in the underground. A contingent from House Cannith is due any moment to cart away the remains of the enemy war-forged. Two of the bodies drove one of their Artificers into a frenzy. He's been dotting over the remains for nine hours now.

A bearded wizard from the Twelve took one of the plague jars and left the other two behind. He had a letter from the Seat of Breland. The Council sent word that any one else that attempts collect a sample should be arrested, lethal force is authorized. The Inquisitors of the Silver Flame have been rotating on five hour shifts. They have already killed a changeling impersonating a guardsman. Flamers are entirely too obsessed with the idea of Smiting. The real man's corpse was found in the goblin refuse pile. A request for another Watch Mage has been denied.

Lady Eunice Nigma has all but disappeared. He received a letter claiming she has been assigned to a field office. She didn't apply the rose perfume to the letter, but she sent a lacy, scented handkerchief with a separate courier. It is an old fashioned gesture, typical of mature Nobility, he is flattered. Captain Sevin assumes she is in some sort of trouble. An agent from House Cannith denied her existence altogether. When the Captain pressed and asked how they knew to come to the pump rooms, the man refused to speak any further. The Council is demanding that he make a report on his relationship with her. The Captain requested a Writ from them. Even as a minor noble, his private life is his business.

“You! What in blazes is your name?” The Captain barked at one of his new assistants.

“Roanberry, sir.” the man replied.

“Well, Roanberry, that fine blade in your hands is named Lucy. It has been in my family since the last king of Galifar. Don't ever touch it again, or I shall have you flogged.” Captain Sevin took the heavy falchion from the underling's undeserving grasp. He stared the man down until he was sure the threat had time to sink in. “Now go and get me Sgt. Ironson, Private Niabelis, and Private Grimmson. After you do that, find out why you are here irritating me while your other fellow assistants are nosing about my camp. I loathe spies, killing them was my exclusive duty during the war. I expect a written report in, say, three hours?”

The assistants may be spies, but as a High Captain he can probably have them executed for looking at the plague box for too long. First, he will test them some more, if he can turn them to some use, all the better. If not, he will play with them until he gets bored, then he will assign them to camp duties. The thought of a bunch Council toadies handling chamber pots makes him smile. The Inquisitors have yet to cross the line, but as soon as they do, he will replace them with Dog Soldiers. It is the mother of all ironies that as a Noble and and a Superior Officer, the only folk he can put his trust in are common soldiers.

“Sir! Sgt. Ironson reporting, Sir!” The grizzled officer saluted smartly and then stood at attention until acknowledged. The other two soldiers held their salutes two steps behind.

“At ease. Pull up some seats, I have read your reports and I want to ask you all some questions.” The Captain said, trying to be as friendly as possible. He is too tired.

The biggest problem, Private Niabelis, was actually the easiest to solve. She decided to stay with the Dog Soldiers despite the Council's order for her release. As far as the Flame and the Sister are concerned, she signed the contract. Sgt. Ironson gets a medal for the battle with the dolgrim, the men will receive commendations. Private Grimmson, known as Sweet Lips among the men, is a different kind of hassle. The Silver Flame wants to have him examined for taint. They went through the City Council so he didn't have a chance to intervene. Inquisitor Pallas will perform the rite at the end of his shift.

“That zealot is getting on my last nerve.” Sgt. Ironson spat. “They should have cleared out hours ago!”

“I don't mind.” Sweet Lips stated. “The Chaplain will be there, won't he?”

“It takes three Inquisitors to perform an examination.” Niabelis spoke up. “It is uncomfortable, so if he is a Berserker he may not keep his composure.”

“What do you mean IF !?” The Sergeant grumbled. “Woman, ye should get yer priorities straightened out.” Private Niabelis looked stricken at those words. Her face turned a deep crimson. Sgt. Ironson immediately felt bad, but he gave her the evil eye anyway.

“I can do it, Paw taught me how to keep the rage back” The young man admitted. “He wouldn't let me leave the farm until I could.” He turned to Sgt. Ironson.
“Tell him, uncle, I can do it.”

“Wait, Red Face Grimmson married your precious baby sister!? I thought you hated each other!”

“He asked me very politely.” The Sergeant said as he shrugged his shoulders. “Willamina threatened to become a cloistered handmaiden if I didn't give him an answer. I had never seen fear in that man's eyes before that day. That was the only thing that convinced me of his sincerity.”

“Wow. What about you Sister Niabelis?” Captain Sevin raised his eyebrows. “Any last minute revelations?”

“I no longer hold a council seat for the church and the Bishop suggested I take some time to think about my priorities. He described my political activities as morally suspect.” She said while she stared at the floor. “At the moment I am training to become a regimental Chaplain.”

“Alright then.” The Captain ended the conversation. He forgets that her type take things literally. As a Superior Officer, she merely obeyed his request as she would an order. Maybe the Sergeant will teach her how to think. “Let's hear about the ghoul mage you incinerated. I understand it gave you all a hard time.”

 

[skullsmurfer]

An Apology, Chapter 20

Javelin broke through Theodyl's door to find the half-elf cranking the printing press. The contraption seems to be passing sheets of paper under a cylinder, the sheets come out with writing and drawings at the other end. Theodyl kicked a lever to cut off the paper feed. He continued to crank until the remaining sheets were fed through. Afterwards, he wiped his brow with the hem of his night shirt. He snatched a Sharn Anonymous off the stack and handed it to the war-forged.

“I'll be damned if this isn't my best work.” Theodyl said wearing his best smile.

The war-forged tucked his steel batons into his belt. He made to bring the rag sheet to his eyes, then tapped the half-elf in the jaw with a serpent kick. Javelin picked him up and put him to bed. The beer stein started laughing. After tucking the bard in tight, the war-forged dragged a chair in from the other room. Javelin lay his batons across his lap and started reading.

Theodyl scowled at his guardian from his bed. He is drinking brown Witch's Mead. It is sweet, with hint of honey. He likes it for its potent alcoholic punch, the effects of the dream root are an added bonus. He can't sleep, but the root is sure to keep the edge off and keep him sane. Theodyl snatched his Lute from the shelf over his head and set about tuning it. He can already feel the edge of his vision growing fuzzy. The instrument came to life under is dancing fingers. Every sound rang with a ghostly slash of color within his vision. He used the music to guide his trance while he considers how to get out of Sharn without anymore complications.

Paragon returned four hours later. He kicked at what is left of Theodyl's door, and walked over to Javelin. Javelin handed Paragon the rag sheet, pointing out a cartoon at the bottom. They both laughed. The changelings arrived with large wooden tub. Argus and Pennelocles each have a barrel of water.

“He's intoxicated!” Paragon complained. “Is that good?”

“It shouldn't make a difference,” Pyrus replied as he strolled in bearing his new lich-staff, “as long as you hold him under the water while I recite the incantation.”

“Hey guys,” Theodyl beamed as he welcomed his friends, “wanna throw some dice? I'm feeling lucky!”

“Sure, after your bath.” Paragon said with barely hidden amusement.

“I already took a bath.....” the bard slurred, “in mead!” The half-elf giggled like an idiot.

Pook and Ivor sneered at each other as they stripped off their leathers. Ivor shifted into a pouty lass with chestnut brown hair. Pook shifted to the familiar features of Lady Eunice Nigma. They both took a moment to daub some rose scented oil in all the best places. Ivor rolled her eyes at Pook, she is putting on jewelry. She commented on how real women don't need enhancement. Pook just turned her back on the other girl. Ivor caught Theodyl's eyes and coaxed him towards the tub. Patter and Siff shrugged their shoulders and decided to rummage through Theodyl's property. Pook has just called Ivor a slut. The war-forged can watch the fireworks, it's old news to them.

The women kept Theodyl distracted while Pyrus painted symbols on his skin. He was too busy talking romance to the two knowing nymphs at his arms. Pyrus sped through the ritual preparations. The war-forged pyromancer signaled Paragon and Argus. They have to hold Theodyl under the chemically treated bath for the last three mystical phrases of the spell. Pyrus channeled the fire through his hands and into the patterns painted over the half-elf. He pulled the changelings away as the bard's temperature soared and only the war-forged could stand to carry him. The look on his face as they dropped him in the water was priceless.

“It's going to be alright, Theodyl, we are brothers.” with that, Paragon pushed the bard's head under the bubbling water. “I forgive you.” He laughed as Pyrus channeled fire directly into the tub.

A pillar of dingy gray steam rose out of the water. Theodyl's head broke the surface. He gasped and gripped the edges of the tub as a greasy back shadow crawled out of his mouth. Pyrus snatched it off the bard's face and held it his grasp until it burned away to ash. The three war-forged watched as Theodyl's hair returned to it's normal dirty blond shade. His eyes remained a watered down green, however. Theodyl watched the blue twinge disappear from his creamy white skin. He called for mead, the changelings threw a towel at his face.

“The magic that resurrected you was tainted.” the pyromancer commented as he examined the half-elf. “I used the potency of fire to sear away the corruption and quicken the fires of your spirit.”

“Have I joined a cult?” Theodyl quipped.

“No, ” Pyrus laughed. “but you and Paragon owe me a service.”

“I still can't sleep, and now I'm sober too.” Theodyl pouted. “What the hell was that thing that came out of my mouth?”

“Taint, Necromancy is an unclean Art.” Pyrus began to lecture, “You are quite lucky that Fire......”

The changelings started to giggle as Theodyl dragged them off to bed. Pyrus continued to speak. Paragon drew the pyromancer's attention and convinced him to join the war-forged in the other room. Pyrus turned to see Patter and Siff curled up with one another on a pile of Theodyl's cushions. He then turned to see a pile of what should be Pook, Ivor and the half-elf. Somehow, Theodyl managed to sip from a bottle, while simultaneously wrestling with the others. Flesh people are damned strange. Paragon blocked the bedroom with a bookshelf as soon as Pyrus made his exit.

Theodyl forgot about his troubles for a while. Ivor and Pook can be very sweet when they want to. They fight too often for it to be simple recreation. They play him as often as he plays them. Changelings do not think the same as humans, so he can get away with quite a lot. Despite his fickle, wandering attentions, he understands that they have something worthy. Theodyl is proud that he can tell them apart no matter what face they wear. He saw their eyes when they understood what transpired with the lich. Theodyl can't bear to hurt them again. He kissed Pook in the forehead and gently pulled a blanket over Ivor's sleeping form. The alcohol slowed the dream root, but he's drunk way too much of it to avoid the dreams for long. He fixed his gaze on the colorful mass of swirls and shapes intruding into his reality. Theodyl left his flesh behind and let the dreams take him away.

Patter blinked the sleep away from his eyes. Siff has the blanked pulled over his face, it won't save him, he's supposed to be awake. Patter looked to Theodyl's bed. Ivor lost his shape in his sleep. Pook is still playing a girl. Changeling physiology scares the hell out of most humans, Theodyl either doesn't understand, or he doesn't care. As long as he continues to treat them well in any shape, Patter won't have to put a knife to him.

“Um, Patter....” Siff nudged his lover.

“Yeah, what?” Patter asked trying to imitate Theodyl's voice.

“Trouble, I think.” Siff's tone cut through Patter's playful mood.

The lich waved at the two changelings and helped itself to Javelin's chair in front of Theodyl's bed. Mooneye waved his hand at one of the half-elf's bookshelves and called forth a few choice volumes.

“I am early for my appointment,” the lich spoke at the two lovers, “please, don't let me keep you from your fun.”

Patter, stared at the lich for several long moments until Siff smacked him in the back of the head and sent him out to get Paragon. Siff walked over to the bath tub, scooped some water out with a bucket and started calling Theodyl to see if he would stir on his own. His eyes are open, but he is not in residence. The changeling gave his friends fair warning and then immediately splashed them with water before they could get away. Pook managed an incredibly lady-like scream, Ivor shifted to a male form to better punctuate his insults. Theodyl blinked, looked around and then rolled over to cuddle against Pook. She snapped her fingers in his face until he said something intelligible, then forcefully turned his face towards the lich.

“Hello....er, what time is it?” The addled half-elf tried to speak.

“It is now three minutes to midnight, I decided to come early.” The lich answered as it looked through Theodyl's spellbooks. “You aren't feeling a thing right now, are you? I half expected to find you at a church, or behind a warding circle.”

“Hey, are those my books?!”

“Your notation is rather advanced.” Mooneye commented, ignoring Theodyl's outrage. “I see also that your education is incomplete, you need a Master. One that can recognize your obvious talent.”

“What do you mean by that?” Theodyl stood naked on his bed.

“I mean that I can offer you that which you need most.” Mooneye replied. “Knowledge and Discipline.” The lich jabbed a bony finger at the half-elf and sent him into painful convulsions. “You need a strong hand to mold your talent.”

Pyrus put an end to the small talk by dispelling the magic over Theodyl. Paragon dared the lich to kill Theodyl again. He meant it in the very best way possible. Pook and Ivor drew blades, and pulled the half-elf back. Theodyl sipped on some wine to clear his head. Pyrus and Mooneye stared each other down. Alternating waves of blistering heat and numbing chill battled within the room.

“Hey, I have an idea. How's about you all go into the other room and allow me to get dressed?” Theodyl spoke up, drawing the center of attention back onto his person.

Paragon 153 to 4 took some convincing. Pyrus helped by not setting the building on fire. The lich followed along, but mostly out of amusement. The girls gave Theodyl a smack a piece. He's pushing his luck again. The half-elf shook off the dream root and hurried to get organized. A brilliant plan formed in his mind sometime during the last several hours. He grinned stupidly while he struggled to get dressed before Paragon called the lich out.

“Good Morning!” Theodyl's voice sang as he sauntered out his room with the beer stein in hand. The dwarven spirit told everyone to shut up and let him sleep.

“Enough, Idiot! Get this taken care of already!” Paragon snapped.

Mooneye broke away from his death stare with Pyrus. The changelings pulled their hoods away to show Theodyl their support. He planted a kiss on each and every one of his mirrored faces. Pyrus shook his head. Paragon harrumphed.

“Master Mooneye, I have decided to apologize to you publicly.” Theodyl spoke, “Read this, it is my hope that this makes up for my trespasses against you.”

The lich grasped the crisp new copy of the Sharn Anonymous. He pointed at Theodyl and held him in place with a spell. Mooneye read through the rag sheet once and then twice. The necromancer fixed his red unyielding gaze at the half-elf and then decided to read through the Sharn Anonymous once more. Pyrus looked to Paragon for a sign of how things are progressing. The war-forged pyromancer is way past the point where he would have let the fire have it's say. The lich seems like a worthy challenge however, tossing fire about may not be his best option.

“You are serious about this?” the lich asked, allowing the full terror of it's gaze to weigh on Theodyl. “Tell me, why did you try to kill me?”

“Because you were taking what is mine and I couldn't stop you any other way.” Theodyl replied firmly.

“Are you willing to do that again?”

“Only if you try to steal from me once more.”

Mooneye sat back and shook his head. Paragon's jaw hung open. The lich chuckled, then started to laugh. The unpleasant sound made the changelings cringe. When the necromancer finally stopped, even the war-forged were much gladder for it.

“Sleep, Theodyl.” Mooneye rasped as if winded. “When he wakes up, tell him that I am waiting for the file.” The lich chuckled at the unconscious half-elf. “He is not afraid of me, not one bit.”

Mooneye the Necromancer summoned a dirty gray snow ball and tossed it at the pyromancer. By the time Paragon drew his blade and Pyrus shook the snow out of his face, the lich was gone. The changelings saw the shadows in the room swallow their unwelcome visitor. Paragon spent an hour poking every corner in the room with his cutlass. Pyrus read through the Sharn Anonymous. The changelings dragged the sleeping half-elf to bed and tied him down. Paragon has errands for them, the new rag sheet has to hit the streets.

By the end of the week, Mooneye Rocco is going to be a household name throughout Sharn. Theodyl devoted the entire news sheet to the lich and how it saved the city from certain doom. The details about the Hag's Plague will cause trouble. Mooneye's biography will have the local clerics calling for his permanent destruction. It is as good an apology as Theodyl could give. The lich gets enough credit and notoriety to satisfy even his ego. The City Council is going to have fits. The bard gave the City Watch credit for wiping out an invading army of dolgrim. Theodyl even drafted a song to glorify their deeds. A simple, yet comical caricature depicting a Dog Soldier hacking away at a twisted goblin is included with the song. It is a series of lies so outrageous that there is no doubt the City of Sharn will believe them all. Even if a skeptic manages to find a hole in the story, they would be fighting an uphill battle to say otherwise. Sharn City Council is barely in charge of the city, they will go with whatever keeps the masses happy.