Thanks as always to StevenAC for the fantastic .PDF’s!
Regarding the silhouettes: I told the players about them after the fact, since they were unlikely to find out in-game. They were a peaceful race of semi-intelligent creatures who fed on the light motes, but needed to alter them somewhat to make the nutritionally viable. (Thus, turning them from white to green). But any physical creature moving through their territory would disrupt that chemical change, and effectively destroy the creatures’ food source. Since the creatures needed to eat constantly, such disruption was deadly to them. But they didn’t want to kill people who were only accidentally killing them, so they’d sap their intelligence and gently herd them back to where they came from. This was one of those challenges where I didn’t have a specific solution in mind, and was quite pleased (though not surprised) by my players’ ingenuity.
Regarding the scuffs on the wall: those scuffs were miniscule and left entirely unintentionally by the Evil Trio. That Dranko could spot them at all was because of his ludicrous spot checks, which often hit the high 40’s or low 50’s.
Finally, I’d like to mention that I hit a personal milestone that won’t mean much to you, but here it is anyway: I’ve gotten to my last shoe-box of game tapes. (I had accumulated so many tapes that I needed many, many boxes to house them, and for years now it has seemed I would never reach the last and smallest box.) But now I have!
The events of this update were from run 251 out of 266. So close!
Sagiro’s Story Hour, Part 374
The Ghosts of Mehar-Bec
As the Company stands on the precipice, looking down upon the blue crystalline city, there is a whoosh, a pop, and Aravis appears directly next to Pewter.
“Aravis!” Dranko exclaims. “We fought, and we won! We finally killed them all! Meledien and Seven Dark Words and…”
“I don’t believe you,” says Aravis.
“Yeah, I’m lying,” Dranko admits.
Aravis feels like he’s just woken up from a restful nights’ sleep, but he’s also had another vision from the Maze, and like the ones before it, it is grim indeed.
Naradawk Skewn stands at the edge of a crater, looking down. Below him lie the devastated remains of a large stone edifice, perhaps once a fortress or small castle. Twenty figures in red armor pick through the rubble; every so often, one of these bends down low and jams a sword blade into something.
The Emperor himself looks relaxed and unhurt, which cannot be said for the woman standing beside him. Her crimson armor is rent in places and some of her brown hair has been burned. Blood seeps through a bandage around her head. The red helmet at her feet has a large dent.
“My lord,” she says. “We lost four. Four of the ninety-nine, in a single engagement. Are you certain it was worth it?”
Naradawk nods and smiles. His voice is sharp and commanding, an icy wind over cold stone. “A small price. We have destroyed the largest remaining threat to us on Charagan. We had to make this our first and highest priority.”
Two of the warriors below struggle up the side of the crater, bearing a large wooden trunk retrieved from the ruin. They drop it at Naradawk’s feet. The Emperor looks down at it, his lip curling in a sneer. Emblazoned on the lid of the trunk is a silver shell.
After staring intently at the trunk for several seconds, Naradawk reaches down and, seemingly without effort, crushes the large steel padlock in his mailed fist, as easily as he snapped Rosetta’s neck. One of the red-armored warriors opens it, revealing a stack of small books, four candlesticks, and dozens of candles wrapped in leather.
“Destroy it all,” says Naradawk. “Destroy it, and anything else like it you find in this place. The Silver Shell’s counter-divinatories have been my only real worry; with their adherents slain and their tools burned, we’ll have a free hand to make our plans and gain control of this pitiful kingdom. “
The woman, standing almost six feet tall, looks up at the Emperor. “So you’re not worried about Fylnius and the rest? The Spire, that drove out and later killed your father?”
“No,” says the Emperor. “Yasper has confirmed it five times over. All of the vaunted Archmagi of the Spire have lost their powers. I don’t know how or why, but we know that their arcane abilities were not transferred or used for any lasting purpose; they’re just gone. Fylnius and Salk and the rest are just a cadre of old and brittle men. Alander’s Chosen have vanished off-plane and cannot return. All that the Spire can boast are a rag-tag assembly of second-rate heroes and cast-offs. Let them hide in Abernathy’s little sanctuary while we bring their world down around their ears.”
“But we have only the ninety-nine. Ninety-five, now, plus yourself,” says the woman.
“More than enough,” laughs Naradawk. “Besides, we’re not without allies. Some we sent ahead at Kinnet Vulthani. Others have been here long, waiting for us. Time is on our side, Pieriel. We need not hasten. We should not hasten. We have the might to do as we will, as long as we do not give in to impatience and overconfidence. Those things destroyed my father, but as the Circle is my witness, they will not destroy me.”
So, more bad news from the surface. Aravis notes that the Spire still has Cranchus and Parthol Runecarver up their sleeve, but there’s no denying that Naradawk’s confidence is troubling.
“It’s good that there are only 95 of them,” says Dranko, looking for the silver lining. “They don’t have thousands of soldiers at least.” He leaves unsaid that from what they've experienced of Naradawk's red-armored champions, ninety-five of them are as potent as an army.
“What did I miss while I was gone?” asks Aravis.
“You missed the opportunity to become stupid multiple times,” says Grey Wolf.
The oboe-like music drifts upward from the city. With more time to look, they can see that somewhere among the densely-packed buildings is a light, changing colors and intensities, its source not in their direct line of sight. It cycles through blues, reds, yellows, greens, pulsing in time to the oboe music.
As seems to be his signature method of getting to the bottom of a cliff, Dranko jumps off and feather falls. He finds the others waiting at the bottom, having dimension doored down directly. At ground level they can only see the closest buildings, and there is no sign of the coruscating lights. The music is hauntingly beautiful but doesn’t seem to be bewitching them in any way. Entirely of their own volition, they walk to find its source.
There are no people. The city could have housed tens of thousands, but aside from the source of the music, it feels like a sapphire graveyard. The buildings are all made of the same translucent blue crystal, though their shapes and sizes are organic and varied, as though it grew up from the ground like a forest. They are also enormously proportioned; whatever lived here were larger than humans. Some buildings have doors, and these are not locked. The Company ventures into a few buildings, and decides they were homes. There is furniture, mostly of crystal but occasionally constructed of a hard woody fungus, along with odd tools that could be kitchenware, and swirling crystal shapes on pedestals that look like artwork. Above ground such objects might have long since disintegrated, but the Underdark lacks the weather and the microorganisms that propel aged things to ruin. The city is a museum to a vanished people.
Dranko casts know age on a fork. Though more powerful divinations are difficult to effect beneath Yulan’s Barrier, the small one works with little additional effort. The fork is nearly 3000 years old.
Morningstar casts though capture at the threshold of one of the buildings. She absorbs a thought of someone who is very sad, knowing they would be dead in less than two days. She drops into Ava Dormo to see if anything interesting can be learned there, but finds the cavern infested with the warmongering Keffet, and returns almost immediately.
Kibi casts prying eyes and sends them out into the city to investigate, but the Company decides to walk on their own before waiting for the eyes to return.
They don’t get far before they are approached. There’s no way to know if the arrival was triggered by the prying eyes or their own physical presence, but when the party reaches a large intersection of three wide streets, giantish ghosts come streaming around corners from three different directions. They are twelve feet tall, and their indistinct limbs are unnaturally long compared to their torsos. All are wearing red uniforms that blur to translucent pink, and about half have small helmets atop smooth, hairless heads. The chill of undeath rolls off of them, though (thankfully) without the additional taint of Adversary blood.
Each ghostly soldier holds a strange weapon made of dark blue crystal, a jagged multi-edged club with a sharpened point. There are thirty all together in the regiment, and beyond the wind kicked up by their arrival, they are eerily silent. The wafting oboe music is an unlikely soundtrack to the encounter.
The Company pauses, unsure if they should attack or hold for the moment.
“We mean you no harm!” cries Ernie. “We don’t intend to disturb your rest. We came here by Leaping Circle and will pass through quickly.”
The ghost-soldiers glance at each other but do not halt their advance, and by some unspoken signal they surge to attack. Morningstar has to move quickly to deflect one of their crystal blades with Ell’s Will. Ernie’s armor absorbs one blow but another cuts his wrist. Where the weapon breaks his skin, tiny blue crystals sprout like a blooming azure flower, and Ernie feels his arm start to seize up. A chill floods his veins.
Flicker and Dranko are mobbed, and the ghost warriors were obviously well-trained in life. Between their shimmering ghostly bodies, and the unnatural physics of their attacks (their bodies don’t seem to account for the momentum of their swings), their blades are particularly difficult to avoid. And while their forms might be largely insubstantial, their weapons are plenty solid, landing numerous painful blows. Dranko and Flicker feel crystal growing on their skin like a freezing fungus, stiffening their muscles and hindering their movement.
Flicker tries a counterattack but misses all three times, even though Dranko has enchanted his weapon to ignore the insubstantial nature of his enemies. He still has the dexterity to tumble into the protected center of the group.
Ernie presents his holy symbol, and in a commanding voice implores, “Go away!” Two of the ghosts listen, turning and fleeing down the street. Then he steps back and casts cure critical wounds on Flicker. This repairs the damage, but has no effect on the crystal growth. Dranko lashes the closest ghost with his whip, but his damage is not impressive; there are crystals on his sword arm, hampering his effectiveness. At least his helm of brilliance is having some effect; it flares to life in the presence of undead, damaging them just by its proximity.
Enough fooling around. Aravis drops a Mordenkainen’s disjunction in the center of one cluster of ghosts. There’s a quick sucking sound as magical energies are drawn in and annihilated, and nine of the ghost warriors are instantly obliterated.
The remaining ghosts are not daunted. Three slash Kibi with their crystal blades. The blotches of crystal that form on his skin feel like they’re sending tendrils deep into his flesh, and he shivers. A half dozen soldiers close in around Dranko, but the crystals are only on his arms, not his legs, and he’s able to weave, dodge, twirl and leap, over and under their attacks. Not one lands a hit. Morningstar isn’t so skilled, and suffers several crystal-infected cuts.
Kibi casts wish, spoofing a spell called ghost trap. Waves of positive energy emanate from his body, and all the ghosts become more solid, losing the benefits of insubstantiality. Then he backs up a bit, putting the fighting types between him and his adversaries. Morningstar follows this with undeath to death; several more ghosts flash to vaporous ectoplasm.
Grey Wolf quickens an ironstorm and flings a chain lightning into it. One more ghost explodes, and many others are badly scorched. Wisps of white ghostly steam waft from their shoulders and crystal swords. “Consider them softened up,” says Grey Wolf.
But even so softened, the ghosts fight at full effectiveness. Three more land sword-blows on Dranko, and now he seems half-covered with crystal, a half-statue starting to blend in with the local architecture.
Ernie drops a flame strike on the enemies closest to Dranko; because of their height, he can avoid catching Dranko in its effect. Two of the four ghosts erupt into puffs of smoke. Then Ernie turns and casts earth reaver beneath the other cluster of ghosts. Fiery spikes thrust upward from the ground beneath them, ripping their legs.
From there it’s just a matter of attrition. Though Dranko and Flicker are both reduced nearly to crystalline statues by the end of the melee, the wizards pile on the area-of-effect spells – chain lightning, cone of cold a maximized empowered coldfire -- and finally Grey Wolf dissolves the final ghost with an acid orb.
Throughout the combat, the oboe music has not stopped or changed its beautiful melody.
Morningstar and Ernie heal their friends of their injuries, but the rocky growths still remain. “Very painful!” Flicker manages, though his mouth is nearly fused shut, his lips hard and jagged. On close examination, Ernie thinks the blue stuff actually is a kind of fungus, which gives Morningstar an idea.
“Close your eyes,” she warns. She casts darkbeam, a spell usually reserved for scorching and blinding bad guys, but in this case she makes use of one of its secondary properties, namely the efficient eradication of fungus. It mostly works beautifully; the crystal shrivels and flakes away, and after a couple of mass cures to soothe the burns, everyone is soon healed back to perfect health. (She makes sure no one notices that she accidentally blinded herself, and quickly heals herself with cure blindness.)
While the party is healing up, some of Kibi’s prying eyes return. Most saw nothing but abandoned buildings and lifeless streets, but two were able to observe scenes of interest, and deposit those observations into Kibi’s memory.
One came across a large one-story building with a symbol like an upside-down “A” over its main door. The door was ajar, and so the eye had slipped inside and seen that the building was mostly all one large room, and it was full of skeletal remains. Giantish skeletons, their bones dusty but mostly intact, were stacked into neat piles so numerous that only a few narrow aisles were left through which one might navigate the room.
A single ghost wafted up and down these aisles; she was wearing a blue robe with the same inverted “A” as appeared above the door. The eye watched as the ghost removed a bone from one of the hundreds of stacks, examined it, shook her head, returned it with painstaking care, and moved on.
The second eye came across an enormous pentagonal amphitheater, whose floor was natural rock but whose tiered seats were crystal. In the center of the stage was a pedestal, and standing there was a giantish ghost playing a large horned instrument. This musician is the source of the oboe music; he plays with his eyes closed, his expression one of intense concentration. As the music spills from his instrument, lights flash colors above his head, then stream out to where an audience might have sat, dancing blobs of varied hue and brightness. The movement of the colors is perfectly synchronized to the rhythm of his melody.
The building with the bones is slightly closer than the amphitheater, so the Company investigates that first. As they walk the streets, Kibi takes the time to examine the crystalline buildings more closely. The stone itself is most curious, seeming more like a fusion of quartz and some mysterious organic substance. Many of the buildings are warped and bent, and by all accounts should be cracked, but instead they rise up in elegant twists and curves like lithic bonsai trees.
“I cannot move through it,” says Scree. “It’s not entirely rock.”
The sounds of the horn music echo through the city, and the light motes float and sway like incandescent dust on a breath of breeze. The walk takes them half an hour, during which time the last of Kibi’s divinatory scouts come back with nothing new to report.
Ernie puts on the cloak of diplomacy, and they all go into the building. It smells dusty, but not rich or rotting. The skeletons, stacked with a startling attention to neatness and detail, are clean as fresh chalk. The ceiling is high, but the bone towers nearly reach it.
Ernie calls into the dry gloom. “Hello? Yondalla’s blessings on this place! We are but travelers, here on a mission of no ill will.”
There is a rustle, and the female ghost with the blue robe comes whispering around one of corners. She is nine feet tall.
“Are you the keeper of this place?” asks Ernie.
“Yes.”
The ghost’s voice is almost entirely telepathic; its vocal component is hardly audible. And even the mental aspect is quiet, serene.
“Who are you?” asks the ghost.
“My name is Ernest Roundhill. I am a traveler from a very distant land.”
The woman nods. “I am Pettim.”
“What has happened here?” asks Ernie, his own voice somber. “All the people are… it must have been a terrible tragedy.”
Pettim nods again. “I try so hard to understand,” she says. “Sometimes I feel like I am close… but I don’t understand. I have collected them all, and examined them all, and still I am baffled by the cause. And yet I will not rest, until I know.”
“Was there a disease?” asks Ernie.
“We were never certain. Centuries ago, we lived and thrived here. Traded, danced, loved. And one day there was a tremor. We felt it with our minds, in our thoughts, our thoughts. It shook this place, and we started to die. In three days, only three days, there were none left alive. But I swore as I lay dying, that I would find out what happened. When all my brothers and sisters had passed, I remained to carry out my work.”
“I think I know what caused it,” says Dranko, and the other realize the same thing. The tremor was the hand of the Adversary smashing into Abernia.
“You do?” asks the ghost, her voice a bit louder than before.
“How much do you know about the Gods?” asks Dranko.
“I know them well. We revere Yavin, and do not agree with Wlaqua’s philosophy.”
“In the place that is beyond this place, where there is no ceiling overhead…” begins Dranko.
“There is no such place,” Pettim interrupts.
“It’s a faraway place,” says Dranko. “We have traveled from there. At the time your people died so quickly, a piece of a god fell to the ground. Not a god you worship, but a very evil god.”
“You mean Wlaqua.”
“No,” says Ernie. “More evil than Wlaqua.”
“But there are no other gods,” says Pettim. “The Sister Gods would not allow it.”
“Where we come from, there are other gods,” says Ernie.
“Part of that evil god struck all the world,” says Dranko. “Imagine a ceiling collapsing, and a huge boulder smashing through it, and causing an earthquake rippling out from there. Only it was an evil boulder, and an evil earthquake.”
Pettim considers. “We… the Mehar… we are psychically sensitive, or were when we were alive. There was a tremor, and with it was… an earthquake of the spirit.”
“We are here to stop that god, the one that caused it,” says Ernie.
“We’re going to fix what is broken,” adds Dranko.
“You can bring my people back to life?”
“We don’t know,” says Ernie. “But we can avenge them.”
“I am not looking for vengeance. I was a physician in life. I am in death as well. You have given me… a new line of inquiry, though the psychic emanations will be weak after so many centuries. I don’t disbelieve what you say, but I need proof. I need to understand from within myself.”
Morningstar asks Pettim about the symptoms that had manifested.
“It was a slow descent into a torpor, a despondency,” Pettim explains. “We lacked the will to live, and so we perished.”
“In our world,” says Morningstar, “there was a city where the people all went mad and killed one another, due to the effect of this evil god.”
“So it sends out the evil of his psyche where you come from as well. Are all races destroyed as we were?”
“Not yet,” says Ernie. “But if we don’t stop this, they will be.”
“I have collected and examined the bodies of everyone who lived in Mehar-Bec, looking for anything that might yield a clue. There was nothing. Nothing. Until now. You have brought me a line of inquiry. I thank you.”
“Who is playing the music?” asks Ernie. “It’s beautiful.”
“That is Nellig, a musician. He was the greatest of our generation. He was rehearsing for a grand performance when we were… destroyed. Nellig never got to perform his Prism Symphony, but still he practices, and believes that one day he will have his concert. It breaks my heart, but I have my own duties to fulfill.”
“Do you still?” asks Dranko. “Now that we’ve told you what happened?”
“When I am satisfied, I will move on, and be in Yavin’s peace. You give me hope that that day is soon.”
“What about the soldiers who attacked us?” asks Kibi. “Were they simply doing their last living duty?”
“You encountered the honor guard of Mehar-Bec, sworn to defend the city from all invaders, no matter the cost. They also endured, and remained to fulfill their function.”
“We, uh, had to kill them, when they attacked us,” says Dranko.
“You sent them on to Yavin’s peace. It was their destiny. Their souls will thank you.”
“Have you seen anyone else come through here?” asks Kibi.
“I have not.”
“Is there a way to leave the city?” asks the dwarf.
“There are tunnels leading out in many ways, to many lands. And of course, there is the circle in the center.”
The Company obviously asks more about that!
“It is next to the university,” Pettim explains. “I have not visited there in many centuries, as I collected those bodies among the earliest. But perhaps Corriv is still there. He was a scholar. He was the only other one of us to endure beyond the fall. He was working on some grand project, and works on it still if he has not completed it.”
“Do we have your permission to use the circle?” asks Ernie.
“I don’t know that it can be used, but it is not for me to allow or deny it to you.”
“Does it have a number?”
Pettim thinks for a moment. “Yes, the Circle is inscribed with a ‘1.’”
The Company tries to hide their disappointment. They were hoping for a 5, 9 or 2.
“Do you still feel any evil vibes around?” Kibi presses. “Anything more recently?” He desperately wants to know if the Evil Trio passed this way.
“There was a shadow, some months ago,” says Pettim “It flitted across my mind, but passed in an instant. I did not know what to make of it, and it was soon gone. I did not let it interfere with my work.”
Kibi frowns. That certainly could have been Meledien and Co. passing through Mehar-Bec, probably on the way to the Leaping Circle.
“I would like to visit the world you come from. Some day. But if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
She turns back to one of the stacks of bones, and stares intently at it.
Ernie’s heart wells with pity for the poor medic, shackled to the mortal world by her own commitment. He has an idea, and receives the party’s blessing.
“Pettim, we believe we can help you,” he says.
“You already have.”
“But not enough.”
He and Morningstar jointly cast miracle. “By the power of our Goddesses,” Ernie murmurs, “we implore that this woman be given the knowledge she needs to find peace.”
There is a ripple in the air, and all the bones shift, sending up clouds of ancient dust. Pettim picks one of them up, and her ghostly eyes grow wide. “The fall of an Adversary’s hand,” she whispers. “I know… I know…”
She closes her eyes, smiles, and gently fades away
Ernie sighs his thanks to Yondalla, that he was able to give the dead medic the peac...
Shhhhhhhhhhh-ing! There is a sound like a fast rush of air, followed by a dull ringing sound like a heavy bronze bell. A tall humanoid being like a metallic statue has teleported, or somehow appeared, directly in front of Ernie and Morningstar. It is both black and white, with one hand open and one hand closed.
“You are not authorized to use power of that magnitude,” it intones. “You will desist, or you will face punishment.”
Shhhhhhhhhhh-oop. This time there is no bell-sound, just a staccato noise of a blast of air, and then silence. The figure vanishes.
Ernie’s jaw hangs open. “Uh, remember when they told us their Gods walk around down here, and we should tread carefully? Er… oops?”
…to be continued…
) is now available on the Collected Story Hour site. Enjoy!
