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The Fall of Civilization
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<blockquote data-quote="the Jester" data-source="post: 4777200" data-attributes="member: 1210"><p><em>Nearly two thousand years ago...</em></p><p></p><p>Atop a mountain shorn of vegetation and stripped of the minerals that were its life blood, a gnomish god-king stood pensively, facing into the wind that blew cold from the north. He gazed for a long time at the jagged peaks spearing the clouds, at the blue-green forest vista beyond them that was slowing crawling up the slopes. </p><p></p><p><em>All that I have loosed,</em> thought the gnome, <em>has done what was needed- and more. Now it threatens to grow out of control- to encroach on the civilized lands that I protect, that I used the fey lands to protect.</em> He stroked his long, white beard, tugged at his moustaches. <em>Now the fey forces with which I have allied have come to show me that they are not under my control and never were. But then, I have always known that. The Elf-King of Ketzia and I have a long history of mutual respect and friendship- from the time when we saved the fey folk from the summoner that would have enslaved them on to the present. We have aided one another while each advancing our own interests.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Now his lands, whose encroachment on those of our enemies during the Great War helped us immeasurably, are coming uncomfortably close to us all. My growing city will not grow without roads, and my burgeoning kingdom- even if loosely allied to the Empire- will suffer greatly if the wild lands overtake the farms and villages.</em></p><p></p><p>He sighed. There were unseen eyes watching- his followers, and, he could only assume, Ketzian eyes as well. If the negotiations did not go well, the next step was probably an attempt at assassination.</p><p></p><p><em>I pray that it does not come to blows,</em> the gnome thought.</p><p></p><p>To his left, the sun was sinking. The shadows of the peaks before him were lengthening, each falling across the next mountain to the east like an ominous glove of darkness. Below him there was a rustle of leaves, and a flash of color as a cloud of butterflies materialized into view. They were followed by the flash of mithral: elfin chain mail, adorning the Elf-King’s guards. </p><p></p><p><em>Ah, old man, remember the days when he could travel freely, without guardians at hand?</em> the god-king thought. <em>Not anymore. Even with the war won, our own internecine conflicts have left him without safe haven, here or in his own realm. How very sad...</em></p><p></p><p>They climbed the trail quickly, half a dozen elven footmen with long gleaming rapiers thrust through their belts. They were followed by another half-dozen elven archers, behind whom came Oberon, the Elf-King of Ketzia. He beamed at the gnome king, who smiled back. They clasped hands, then embraced. </p><p></p><p>“Old friend,” murmured the elf.</p><p></p><p>“Greetings, my lord,” the gnome replied with a grin. </p><p></p><p>“It has been some time since you asked to meet personally. I trust there is some need?” </p><p></p><p>The gnome nodded and sighed. “My friend, your... encroachment.”</p><p></p><p>The elf-king smiled gently. “Ahhh, at last. I have long wondered when you would raise your concerns with me.”</p><p></p><p>“You understand my concerns, of course. My people-“ </p><p></p><p>“Cannot thrive in my realm, aye. I understand.” The elf turned his violet eyes to the north as well. “That area- the northern part of our continent- will never return to your world, my friend. You must realize that.”</p><p></p><p>“That is exactly why you must stop. Stop before you swallow up my lands and people.”</p><p></p><p>“It is not I,” replied the elf-king gravely, “it is <em>Ketzia</em> that you need the aid of. The true wilderness, the fey lands, the hollow hills and the forests above them- they do not serve my will. <em>I serve theirs.</em>”</p><p></p><p>“And what do they think on this subject?”</p><p></p><p>The elf-king smiled. “My lands are happy to have some measure of their ancient expanse restored.”</p><p></p><p>“They wish more, then. They wish to continue, until they engulf my lands.”</p><p></p><p>The elf-king arched an eyebrow. “Your lands, my lord?”</p><p></p><p>“<em>Mine,</em>” the gnome asserted, almost angrily.</p><p></p><p>“And after you are gone?”</p><p></p><p>The question drew the gnome up short. “My people,” he said, and stopped. “My people,” he said again, firmly. “The lands belong to them- and they, to the lands. Baron Lillamere is a perfect example. I am their liege- which means that I am <em>theirs.</em> They are mine- but they are my responsibility, my duty. They aren’t my toys. I’m no Wotanian despot- you know that- I take their well-being seriously. It’s the most important thing to me, and that’s why I asked you here. I want to work this out, before something bad happens.”</p><p></p><p>“Is that a threat, old friend?” The elf-king’s smile cooled quickly.</p><p></p><p>“No! It is a warning! There are indeed elements among my followers that would threaten you if you threaten my lands. I cannot know them all, nor can I stop them all. I need your help to help you.”</p><p></p><p>“You think your little spies threaten me?”</p><p></p><p>A shrug. “I have seen you threatened by a simple summoner,” he replied, “and my people know the details.”</p><p></p><p>Silence for perhaps thirty seconds.</p><p></p><p>”I would not see our friendship hurt,” the gnome finally said. “I respect you. You have given me aid and succor when no other could.”</p><p></p><p>“You have done the same for me and my folk,” the elf nodded.</p><p></p><p>“Then please- let us come to an accord.”</p><p></p><p>Oberon smiled again, sadly. “We already have.”</p><p></p><p>The gnome said nothing.</p><p></p><p>“My people are ready to fight.” The elf-king sighed. “Ready to fight each other. You have, perhaps, been too good a friend to my people. There are many among them that would fight against us, for you, in the name of the friendship that you have earned from them.” The gnome remained silent, showing no sign of the shock he felt at the words of the fey king. “Do you understand, my friend? You have caused a schism amongst my folk. No, we shall not fight you; we would have to fight ourselves to do so.”</p><p></p><p>“I never wanted that,” the gnome murmured. Yet in his heart, he was glad: glad for the chance to avoid so much bloodshed and ill-will that the echoes might never cease. </p><p></p><p>“No, but you are happy to take advantage of it, aren’t you? Ah, my friend, no need to worry; were I you, I would feel the same as you. I understand you well enough, I think, to forgive you. Did you know, there is even a new word in our tongue engendered by this break in my people. <em>Eladrin.</em> It means, roughly, ‘those who keep the faith.’ Bur where I say ‘faith,’ you must understand, it is a... much more complex concept.” </p><p></p><p>“Feyth,” the gnome murmured.</p><p></p><p>“Exactly, old friend,” the elf answered. “Exactly.”</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>When dawn broke, they went their separate ways for the final time. They would never meet again, and both of them knew it. Behind them, atop the mountain, an acorn had been planted, and it began to grow as the sun’s rays caressed the peak. It tore its ways free of the soil, growing greater and greater over the years, reaching high into the sky with thick barky limbs. Simultaneously, a great tower was built in the same spot. One existed in the lands of Ketzia, the fey wild lands that had grown so powerful in the aftermath of the Great War; the other grew from mortal hands, in mortal lands, growing into a staunch tower that, three centuries later, fell to ruin only to be replaced by a whole series of monuments, towers, libraries and keeps, each falling after many mortal generations. </p><p></p><p>On the mortal plane, the oak was invisible, intangible, a mere idea. Its absence was symbolic: the Feywild would encroach no further than that peak. To the south, the lands would remain in mortal hands. </p><p></p><p>But when the day was brightest, when the night was deepest- at those times, intercourse between the two realms could still take place. </p><p></p><p>In fact, it <em>would</em> take place. </p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p><em>Two thousand years later. Now.</em></p><p></p><p>The party sets out from Fandelose, heading into the mountains west of the city in search of Hyswell the Bitter. They ascend gradually, climbing up and over a ridge of mountains and then up to a peak, having a skirmish with agents of the Hand along the way. They take a goblin captive, and Hkatha interrogates him. The goblin says that his force was “going to talk to the elf,” but he doesn’t know why. It seems that he was merely a lackey. </p><p></p><p>“They were probably going to Hyswell,” opines Heimall. “He’s an elf, right?”</p><p></p><p>“No,” replies Iggy, “he’s an <em>eladrin.</em>”</p><p></p><p>“What’s the difference?” shrugs Heimall.</p><p></p><p>Iggy starts to answer, but the conversation has already moved on. Hkatha releases the goblin prisoner, but Vann-La and Torinn bring it down with javelins. “No way are we letting the enemy go right now,” Vann-La growls. “There’s too much at stake.”</p><p></p><p>The party travels on and upwards. The presence of the Six-Fingered Hand is always in their minds. As they ascend, they can see the plains to the south are aflame in many places. The Hand is on the move- towards Fandelose. Closing in like a noose. </p><p></p><p><em>I hope that the general’s preparations will be enough,</em> thinks Heimall. <em>But the enemy is so numerous, they have known such success, that I do not know if we can hold them. They have been already been bloodied on the other towns and cities in the area. They will be thirsty for blood, hungry for victory- while many of our troops are green, untested recruits.</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>I pray that General Argos is as good as his reputation implies.</em></p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>The party continues to climb, the ascent growing steeper and steeper. Scree slopes slip away beneath them; hard, sheer climbs require that they rope themselves together and work hard to help the weaker climbers make it up. “I’m not even supposed to be here,” groans Captain Ligir, as the others help haul him up to a narrow ledge. Panting, most of them rest for a few minutes as Cook, Vann-La and Kratos continue to blaze an upward trail.</p><p></p><p>The air grows colder, the wind harsher as they ascend. But the party works together, spelling each other when one or another of them becomes too exhausted, and they manage to crawl up the mountainside with impressive speed, taking only half a day to finish the climb. At the top they find a plateau that was clearly leveled artificially, and upon it, a squat watch tower, obviously of dwarven make. It fills the small plateau almost to the edges. “Good defensive work,” Cook comments approvingly.</p><p></p><p>The party circles around the building, seeking an entrance. It proves to be pretty much exactly opposite the area the party approached from, and a crucified dwarven corpse is hung before the door with a sign that reads, “STAY OUT” draped around its neck. The body has clearly rested here for months.</p><p></p><p>“Looks friendly enough,” comments Vann-La ironically.</p><p></p><p>“Oi, no,” moans Cook. “We have to take that body down and bury it! It is most disrespectful to leave him hanging like that!”</p><p></p><p>“One thing at a time, Cook,” replies Hkatha. “We have to deal with Hyswell first. <em>Then</em> we can deal with the dead.”</p><p></p><p>“Oi,” Cook mumbles, but says no more for the moment. </p><p></p><p>The party pushes through the outer door and into the courtyard, where a mangy-looking, flea-ridden hound rests, scratching itself. Vann-La clucks softly at it and extends a hand, trying to befriend it, but it only gives a trio of pitiful-sounding barks that are half whine- and then it <em>fey steps</em> out of sight. </p><p></p><p>“What the hell?” exclaims Loridell. “A vanishing dog?”</p><p></p><p>“It’s a cooshee,” explains Vann-La. “An elven dog.”</p><p></p><p>“I thought you said this guy was an eladrin, not an elf,” says Torinn. </p><p></p><p>Iggy rolls his eyes.</p><p></p><p>The party advances to the entrance to the tower proper, but as they reach a door, a voice cries out from inside an arrow slit. “Go away!”</p><p></p><p>The party stops. Loridell calls out, “Are you the great architect Hyswell?”</p><p></p><p>“Aye,” the voice replies suspiciously.</p><p></p><p>“We come to beg your aid,” Vann-La speaks up. “The people of Fandelose need you. We would restore you from your exile-“</p><p></p><p>From beyond the arrow slit comes a derisive snort. “You exiled me, and now you need me, of course! Hah! I think not!”</p><p></p><p>“Please,” Hkatha says, “we recognize that a grave injustice has been performed on you, and we wish to help make things right. We are not the ones that sent you-“</p><p></p><p>“Since you have deemed me outcast, I do the same to you. Now leave my mountaintop, or I will throw you from the edges!”</p><p></p><p>“We don’t want to fight you,” sighs Hkatha. “We want to help you.”</p><p></p><p>Vann-La moves towards the door. “Let’s talk face to face.”</p><p></p><p>The architect screams in rage, and suddenly there is a loud cracking sound as brick and stone rises up from beneath the ground itself to begin grasping at the party’s legs, tying them in place! Only Hkatha, who is far enough in the back of the party to be outside of Hyswell’s area, manages to avoid the strange effect. <em>Old foundation stones! It’s as if he can command the architecture itself,</em> thinks the tiefling. <em>Of course- his command of architecture must be mixed with the alien sorceries that General Argos warned us of!</em> With a grimace, Hkatha skirts the area of twisting, grasping architecture and moves to the door. He throws it open.</p><p></p><p>And there is something red and demonic snarling right behind it.</p><p></p><p>“Wrong door,” Hkatha says in Abyssal, and slams it shut again. </p><p></p><p>Meanwhile, everyone else struggles against the <em>grasping floor.</em> Vann-La manages to break partially loose and drag herself closer, but not close enough. The door flies open and the demon roars as it tears at Hkatha, who throws up a <em>shield</em> spell just in time to save himself! </p><p></p><p>From behind the arrow slit, a glowing green ray shoots out at Loridell, bursting into a noxious cloud of <em>Abyssal fumes.</em> The paladin gags and retches so violently that she finally manages to free herself of the <em>grasping floor!</em></p><p></p><p>With a grimace, Vann-La finally gets free of the area grasping at her, and rushes into the tower- only to find that there are <em>two</em> of the strange demons to deal with! She roars, “<em>Come and get it!</em>” They rush in at her, as does the cooshee- and even Hyswell seems to be drawn in by her bloodthirsty cry. As Heimall encourages her, she makes another brutal attack, smashing into the demon with bone-cracking force.</p><p></p><p>The cooshee and evistro savage Vann-La, leaving her bloodied. She strikes back, her hammer crunching into the cooshee’s shoulder. It yelps, and Hyswell the Bitter cries, “Leave my dog alone!” The walls, floor and ceiling strike out at the party, seemingly trying to protect the architect. </p><p></p><p>“Learn how to take care of a dog!” Vann-La counters. She steps in and swings at Hyswell- but he raises a hand, and a strange <em>ripple of distortion</em> throws Vann-La on her back and away. Her hammer swings through empty air as she yelps in dismay. </p><p></p><p>Hkatha intones a spell, and a <em>fireball</em> blossoms around Hyswell. The architect cries out, even as the party overcomes the evistro demons. Small fires burn on his cloak and the hem of his shirt. Hkatha snarls a threat at him in Abyssal, and Hyswell sneers in reply. </p><p></p><p>“Shamrock, up!” he cries, and <em>fey steps</em> away. </p><p></p><p>But before it can move, the cooshee is felled by Cook, Torinn and Vann-La.</p><p></p><p>Hkatha spies two staircases heading upwards, and without hesitation, he hurries up one of them. Cook sprints for the other, and the party pours upwards in two groups. </p><p></p><p>Both sets of stairs lead to the roof, where the bitter architect awaits them. As they attain the roof, Hyswell cries out, “Where is my dog? Damn you!!” </p><p></p><p>Cook shouts back, “My people <em>eat</em> dog!!”</p><p></p><p>Vann-La rushes at Hyswell. “Surrender or die!” she bellows, but again, a <em>ripple of distortion</em> throws her back and prone, this time almost pitching her off the edge of the roof! Her fingers scrabble for a hold and she catches herself on the mortared stones at the last instant, maintaining a precarious position near the edge. The building itself seems to strike at her. </p><p></p><p>“You had your chance,” Hkatha says, intoning the words to another spell. Infernal flames form a sphere, appearing next to the architect and immediately burning him. With a shout, Hyswell leaps away from the sphere and suddenly the very distance and direction of space itself seem to shift and rearrange. Torinn finds himself hurtling towards the edge of the cliff, but he catches himself just as Vann-La did. As he re-orients himself, the architect smashes bodily into him, trying to drive the dragonborn over the edge again! Torinn’s arms flail, and only a quick grab by Heimall prevents him from falling back and down a long, long way! </p><p></p><p>The group surrounds their foe, but he taps the heels of his boots together and <em>fey steps</em> again, out from the center of them all. “Hey!” exclaims Vann-La. “He can do that more than once!” Then she is choking on another round of <em>Abyssal fumes</em>. </p><p></p><p>Torinn charges out of the fumes, lashing her spiked chain at Hyswell. It smashes him across the head, leaving him reeling. “Strike them, building, strike them!” he cries, staggering back, and the very stones rise up, smashing at Torinn and Vann-La. </p><p></p><p>Heimall shouts, “Vann-La! Strike down the evil elf!”</p><p></p><p>“He’s not an elf!” she cries back, but attacks him nonetheless. Perhaps it is Heimall’s misidentification of the race of their foe, but the Kree warrior’s blow misses cleanly. She curses in Elven as Torinn misses again, too- and then, from behind the architect, Cook emerges from the shadows, his frying pan held high, and slaps Hyswell across the top of his head. He collapses, knocked unconscious.</p><p></p><p>“There we go!” beams the dwarf. “He is our prisoner now!”</p><p></p><p>The party binds and strips the architect, taking him back inside the tower. They search the place thoroughly- other than the architect’s magical boots, which prove to be <em>boots of eagerness,</em> the party finds a chest holding 450 gold pieces and 500 silver pieces. Best of all- at least, in the opinion of several of the party’s members- is a book of rituals that they find, containing the rituals <em>detect secret doors, arcane lock</em> and <em>knock.</em></p><p></p><p>Since it is already nearly dark and a descent of the mountain in the night seems most dangerous, the party elects to rest in the architect’s tower for the night. They set a watch.</p><p></p><p>Hyswell groans and comes awake. His eyes are bloodshot and a large lump has risen on his head. He finds himself bound in the corner of his bedroom, with most of the party sleeping around him and Heimall watching him intently. </p><p></p><p>“You’re awake,” Heimall says presently. “Well, don’t try anything, or-“</p><p></p><p>And, as eladrin are wont to do, Hyswell simply <em>fey steps</em> out of sight.</p><p></p><p><em><strong>Next Time:</strong></em> After Hyswell- into the Feywild!</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="the Jester, post: 4777200, member: 1210"] [i]Nearly two thousand years ago...[/i] Atop a mountain shorn of vegetation and stripped of the minerals that were its life blood, a gnomish god-king stood pensively, facing into the wind that blew cold from the north. He gazed for a long time at the jagged peaks spearing the clouds, at the blue-green forest vista beyond them that was slowing crawling up the slopes. [i]All that I have loosed,[/i] thought the gnome, [i]has done what was needed- and more. Now it threatens to grow out of control- to encroach on the civilized lands that I protect, that I used the fey lands to protect.[/i] He stroked his long, white beard, tugged at his moustaches. [i]Now the fey forces with which I have allied have come to show me that they are not under my control and never were. But then, I have always known that. The Elf-King of Ketzia and I have a long history of mutual respect and friendship- from the time when we saved the fey folk from the summoner that would have enslaved them on to the present. We have aided one another while each advancing our own interests. Now his lands, whose encroachment on those of our enemies during the Great War helped us immeasurably, are coming uncomfortably close to us all. My growing city will not grow without roads, and my burgeoning kingdom- even if loosely allied to the Empire- will suffer greatly if the wild lands overtake the farms and villages.[/i] He sighed. There were unseen eyes watching- his followers, and, he could only assume, Ketzian eyes as well. If the negotiations did not go well, the next step was probably an attempt at assassination. [i]I pray that it does not come to blows,[/i] the gnome thought. To his left, the sun was sinking. The shadows of the peaks before him were lengthening, each falling across the next mountain to the east like an ominous glove of darkness. Below him there was a rustle of leaves, and a flash of color as a cloud of butterflies materialized into view. They were followed by the flash of mithral: elfin chain mail, adorning the Elf-King’s guards. [i]Ah, old man, remember the days when he could travel freely, without guardians at hand?[/i] the god-king thought. [i]Not anymore. Even with the war won, our own internecine conflicts have left him without safe haven, here or in his own realm. How very sad...[/i] They climbed the trail quickly, half a dozen elven footmen with long gleaming rapiers thrust through their belts. They were followed by another half-dozen elven archers, behind whom came Oberon, the Elf-King of Ketzia. He beamed at the gnome king, who smiled back. They clasped hands, then embraced. “Old friend,” murmured the elf. “Greetings, my lord,” the gnome replied with a grin. “It has been some time since you asked to meet personally. I trust there is some need?” The gnome nodded and sighed. “My friend, your... encroachment.” The elf-king smiled gently. “Ahhh, at last. I have long wondered when you would raise your concerns with me.” “You understand my concerns, of course. My people-“ “Cannot thrive in my realm, aye. I understand.” The elf turned his violet eyes to the north as well. “That area- the northern part of our continent- will never return to your world, my friend. You must realize that.” “That is exactly why you must stop. Stop before you swallow up my lands and people.” “It is not I,” replied the elf-king gravely, “it is [i]Ketzia[/i] that you need the aid of. The true wilderness, the fey lands, the hollow hills and the forests above them- they do not serve my will. [i]I serve theirs.[/i]” “And what do they think on this subject?” The elf-king smiled. “My lands are happy to have some measure of their ancient expanse restored.” “They wish more, then. They wish to continue, until they engulf my lands.” The elf-king arched an eyebrow. “Your lands, my lord?” “[i]Mine,[/i]” the gnome asserted, almost angrily. “And after you are gone?” The question drew the gnome up short. “My people,” he said, and stopped. “My people,” he said again, firmly. “The lands belong to them- and they, to the lands. Baron Lillamere is a perfect example. I am their liege- which means that I am [i]theirs.[/i] They are mine- but they are my responsibility, my duty. They aren’t my toys. I’m no Wotanian despot- you know that- I take their well-being seriously. It’s the most important thing to me, and that’s why I asked you here. I want to work this out, before something bad happens.” “Is that a threat, old friend?” The elf-king’s smile cooled quickly. “No! It is a warning! There are indeed elements among my followers that would threaten you if you threaten my lands. I cannot know them all, nor can I stop them all. I need your help to help you.” “You think your little spies threaten me?” A shrug. “I have seen you threatened by a simple summoner,” he replied, “and my people know the details.” Silence for perhaps thirty seconds. ”I would not see our friendship hurt,” the gnome finally said. “I respect you. You have given me aid and succor when no other could.” “You have done the same for me and my folk,” the elf nodded. “Then please- let us come to an accord.” Oberon smiled again, sadly. “We already have.” The gnome said nothing. “My people are ready to fight.” The elf-king sighed. “Ready to fight each other. You have, perhaps, been too good a friend to my people. There are many among them that would fight against us, for you, in the name of the friendship that you have earned from them.” The gnome remained silent, showing no sign of the shock he felt at the words of the fey king. “Do you understand, my friend? You have caused a schism amongst my folk. No, we shall not fight you; we would have to fight ourselves to do so.” “I never wanted that,” the gnome murmured. Yet in his heart, he was glad: glad for the chance to avoid so much bloodshed and ill-will that the echoes might never cease. “No, but you are happy to take advantage of it, aren’t you? Ah, my friend, no need to worry; were I you, I would feel the same as you. I understand you well enough, I think, to forgive you. Did you know, there is even a new word in our tongue engendered by this break in my people. [i]Eladrin.[/i] It means, roughly, ‘those who keep the faith.’ Bur where I say ‘faith,’ you must understand, it is a... much more complex concept.” “Feyth,” the gnome murmured. “Exactly, old friend,” the elf answered. “Exactly.” *** When dawn broke, they went their separate ways for the final time. They would never meet again, and both of them knew it. Behind them, atop the mountain, an acorn had been planted, and it began to grow as the sun’s rays caressed the peak. It tore its ways free of the soil, growing greater and greater over the years, reaching high into the sky with thick barky limbs. Simultaneously, a great tower was built in the same spot. One existed in the lands of Ketzia, the fey wild lands that had grown so powerful in the aftermath of the Great War; the other grew from mortal hands, in mortal lands, growing into a staunch tower that, three centuries later, fell to ruin only to be replaced by a whole series of monuments, towers, libraries and keeps, each falling after many mortal generations. On the mortal plane, the oak was invisible, intangible, a mere idea. Its absence was symbolic: the Feywild would encroach no further than that peak. To the south, the lands would remain in mortal hands. But when the day was brightest, when the night was deepest- at those times, intercourse between the two realms could still take place. In fact, it [i]would[/i] take place. *** [i]Two thousand years later. Now.[/i] The party sets out from Fandelose, heading into the mountains west of the city in search of Hyswell the Bitter. They ascend gradually, climbing up and over a ridge of mountains and then up to a peak, having a skirmish with agents of the Hand along the way. They take a goblin captive, and Hkatha interrogates him. The goblin says that his force was “going to talk to the elf,” but he doesn’t know why. It seems that he was merely a lackey. “They were probably going to Hyswell,” opines Heimall. “He’s an elf, right?” “No,” replies Iggy, “he’s an [i]eladrin.[/i]” “What’s the difference?” shrugs Heimall. Iggy starts to answer, but the conversation has already moved on. Hkatha releases the goblin prisoner, but Vann-La and Torinn bring it down with javelins. “No way are we letting the enemy go right now,” Vann-La growls. “There’s too much at stake.” The party travels on and upwards. The presence of the Six-Fingered Hand is always in their minds. As they ascend, they can see the plains to the south are aflame in many places. The Hand is on the move- towards Fandelose. Closing in like a noose. [i]I hope that the general’s preparations will be enough,[/i] thinks Heimall. [i]But the enemy is so numerous, they have known such success, that I do not know if we can hold them. They have been already been bloodied on the other towns and cities in the area. They will be thirsty for blood, hungry for victory- while many of our troops are green, untested recruits. I pray that General Argos is as good as his reputation implies.[/i] *** The party continues to climb, the ascent growing steeper and steeper. Scree slopes slip away beneath them; hard, sheer climbs require that they rope themselves together and work hard to help the weaker climbers make it up. “I’m not even supposed to be here,” groans Captain Ligir, as the others help haul him up to a narrow ledge. Panting, most of them rest for a few minutes as Cook, Vann-La and Kratos continue to blaze an upward trail. The air grows colder, the wind harsher as they ascend. But the party works together, spelling each other when one or another of them becomes too exhausted, and they manage to crawl up the mountainside with impressive speed, taking only half a day to finish the climb. At the top they find a plateau that was clearly leveled artificially, and upon it, a squat watch tower, obviously of dwarven make. It fills the small plateau almost to the edges. “Good defensive work,” Cook comments approvingly. The party circles around the building, seeking an entrance. It proves to be pretty much exactly opposite the area the party approached from, and a crucified dwarven corpse is hung before the door with a sign that reads, “STAY OUT” draped around its neck. The body has clearly rested here for months. “Looks friendly enough,” comments Vann-La ironically. “Oi, no,” moans Cook. “We have to take that body down and bury it! It is most disrespectful to leave him hanging like that!” “One thing at a time, Cook,” replies Hkatha. “We have to deal with Hyswell first. [i]Then[/i] we can deal with the dead.” “Oi,” Cook mumbles, but says no more for the moment. The party pushes through the outer door and into the courtyard, where a mangy-looking, flea-ridden hound rests, scratching itself. Vann-La clucks softly at it and extends a hand, trying to befriend it, but it only gives a trio of pitiful-sounding barks that are half whine- and then it [i]fey steps[/i] out of sight. “What the hell?” exclaims Loridell. “A vanishing dog?” “It’s a cooshee,” explains Vann-La. “An elven dog.” “I thought you said this guy was an eladrin, not an elf,” says Torinn. Iggy rolls his eyes. The party advances to the entrance to the tower proper, but as they reach a door, a voice cries out from inside an arrow slit. “Go away!” The party stops. Loridell calls out, “Are you the great architect Hyswell?” “Aye,” the voice replies suspiciously. “We come to beg your aid,” Vann-La speaks up. “The people of Fandelose need you. We would restore you from your exile-“ From beyond the arrow slit comes a derisive snort. “You exiled me, and now you need me, of course! Hah! I think not!” “Please,” Hkatha says, “we recognize that a grave injustice has been performed on you, and we wish to help make things right. We are not the ones that sent you-“ “Since you have deemed me outcast, I do the same to you. Now leave my mountaintop, or I will throw you from the edges!” “We don’t want to fight you,” sighs Hkatha. “We want to help you.” Vann-La moves towards the door. “Let’s talk face to face.” The architect screams in rage, and suddenly there is a loud cracking sound as brick and stone rises up from beneath the ground itself to begin grasping at the party’s legs, tying them in place! Only Hkatha, who is far enough in the back of the party to be outside of Hyswell’s area, manages to avoid the strange effect. [i]Old foundation stones! It’s as if he can command the architecture itself,[/i] thinks the tiefling. [i]Of course- his command of architecture must be mixed with the alien sorceries that General Argos warned us of![/i] With a grimace, Hkatha skirts the area of twisting, grasping architecture and moves to the door. He throws it open. And there is something red and demonic snarling right behind it. “Wrong door,” Hkatha says in Abyssal, and slams it shut again. Meanwhile, everyone else struggles against the [i]grasping floor.[/i] Vann-La manages to break partially loose and drag herself closer, but not close enough. The door flies open and the demon roars as it tears at Hkatha, who throws up a [i]shield[/i] spell just in time to save himself! From behind the arrow slit, a glowing green ray shoots out at Loridell, bursting into a noxious cloud of [i]Abyssal fumes.[/i] The paladin gags and retches so violently that she finally manages to free herself of the [i]grasping floor![/i] With a grimace, Vann-La finally gets free of the area grasping at her, and rushes into the tower- only to find that there are [i]two[/i] of the strange demons to deal with! She roars, “[i]Come and get it![/i]” They rush in at her, as does the cooshee- and even Hyswell seems to be drawn in by her bloodthirsty cry. As Heimall encourages her, she makes another brutal attack, smashing into the demon with bone-cracking force. The cooshee and evistro savage Vann-La, leaving her bloodied. She strikes back, her hammer crunching into the cooshee’s shoulder. It yelps, and Hyswell the Bitter cries, “Leave my dog alone!” The walls, floor and ceiling strike out at the party, seemingly trying to protect the architect. “Learn how to take care of a dog!” Vann-La counters. She steps in and swings at Hyswell- but he raises a hand, and a strange [i]ripple of distortion[/i] throws Vann-La on her back and away. Her hammer swings through empty air as she yelps in dismay. Hkatha intones a spell, and a [i]fireball[/i] blossoms around Hyswell. The architect cries out, even as the party overcomes the evistro demons. Small fires burn on his cloak and the hem of his shirt. Hkatha snarls a threat at him in Abyssal, and Hyswell sneers in reply. “Shamrock, up!” he cries, and [i]fey steps[/i] away. But before it can move, the cooshee is felled by Cook, Torinn and Vann-La. Hkatha spies two staircases heading upwards, and without hesitation, he hurries up one of them. Cook sprints for the other, and the party pours upwards in two groups. Both sets of stairs lead to the roof, where the bitter architect awaits them. As they attain the roof, Hyswell cries out, “Where is my dog? Damn you!!” Cook shouts back, “My people [i]eat[/i] dog!!” Vann-La rushes at Hyswell. “Surrender or die!” she bellows, but again, a [i]ripple of distortion[/i] throws her back and prone, this time almost pitching her off the edge of the roof! Her fingers scrabble for a hold and she catches herself on the mortared stones at the last instant, maintaining a precarious position near the edge. The building itself seems to strike at her. “You had your chance,” Hkatha says, intoning the words to another spell. Infernal flames form a sphere, appearing next to the architect and immediately burning him. With a shout, Hyswell leaps away from the sphere and suddenly the very distance and direction of space itself seem to shift and rearrange. Torinn finds himself hurtling towards the edge of the cliff, but he catches himself just as Vann-La did. As he re-orients himself, the architect smashes bodily into him, trying to drive the dragonborn over the edge again! Torinn’s arms flail, and only a quick grab by Heimall prevents him from falling back and down a long, long way! The group surrounds their foe, but he taps the heels of his boots together and [i]fey steps[/i] again, out from the center of them all. “Hey!” exclaims Vann-La. “He can do that more than once!” Then she is choking on another round of [i]Abyssal fumes[/i]. Torinn charges out of the fumes, lashing her spiked chain at Hyswell. It smashes him across the head, leaving him reeling. “Strike them, building, strike them!” he cries, staggering back, and the very stones rise up, smashing at Torinn and Vann-La. Heimall shouts, “Vann-La! Strike down the evil elf!” “He’s not an elf!” she cries back, but attacks him nonetheless. Perhaps it is Heimall’s misidentification of the race of their foe, but the Kree warrior’s blow misses cleanly. She curses in Elven as Torinn misses again, too- and then, from behind the architect, Cook emerges from the shadows, his frying pan held high, and slaps Hyswell across the top of his head. He collapses, knocked unconscious. “There we go!” beams the dwarf. “He is our prisoner now!” The party binds and strips the architect, taking him back inside the tower. They search the place thoroughly- other than the architect’s magical boots, which prove to be [i]boots of eagerness,[/i] the party finds a chest holding 450 gold pieces and 500 silver pieces. Best of all- at least, in the opinion of several of the party’s members- is a book of rituals that they find, containing the rituals [i]detect secret doors, arcane lock[/i] and [i]knock.[/i] Since it is already nearly dark and a descent of the mountain in the night seems most dangerous, the party elects to rest in the architect’s tower for the night. They set a watch. Hyswell groans and comes awake. His eyes are bloodshot and a large lump has risen on his head. He finds himself bound in the corner of his bedroom, with most of the party sleeping around him and Heimall watching him intently. “You’re awake,” Heimall says presently. “Well, don’t try anything, or-“ And, as eladrin are wont to do, Hyswell simply [i]fey steps[/i] out of sight. [i][b]Next Time:[/b][/i][b][/b] After Hyswell- into the Feywild! [/QUOTE]
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