Travels through the Wild West: the Isle of Dread
Lazybones
Adventurer
Yeah, I was thinking about writing in a scene where I go back and wipe out the three sailors left behind in Tanaroa, but I ultimately decided against it. 
I can say that both Elly and Varrus are important to the upcoming plot. But will everyone make it to the Well of Worlds? Stay tuned...
* * * * *
Book III, Part 22
It took two hours for them to reach the lower reaches of the mountains, and three days to reach the summit.
The steep slopes of the mountain consisted of aged volcanic rock, and rose up at least a thousand feet above the surface of the plateau. The rock was pocked and uneven, and not too difficult to climb, and there was even a trail of sorts up the near face, allowing them to reach a point about a third of the way up by the end of the first day.
After that, however, it got much more difficult. Their efforts at finding an easier route—a lava chute or tunnel, or some other means of entry—failed, leaving them with only a nearly sheer course up the sides of the mountain. With clear reluctance, but few other options, they pressed on, the words of the matriarch of Tanaroa sounding in their thoughts.
Benzan took on a leadership role during the climb, with his particular skills in that realm. His fingers could find cracks when others saw only blank stone, and the magic in his sword allowed them to bypass several particularly difficult areas. They headed up in stages, using their rope to move from one ledge to another, fortunate that the uneven face of the mountain offered them plentiful ledges and crevices where they could rest and recover their strength. They spend the second night on one such ledge, huddling together against the biting chill of the wind. Their rest was interrupted once by a disturbing tremor that shook the mountain for almost half a minute, but other than that nothing unusual occurred. Dana expressed a fear held by all of them; that the pteranodons or the wyvern, or some other flying creature would happen upon them while they were climbing, exposed on the side of the mountain. But their luck held, and as the third day began they continued their wearying climb.
That day was the worst. By noon they had reached the snowline, and the rock upon which they climbed became slick with ice. Luckily they were nearing the summit, and they encountered fewer vertical climbs, but even so it took the entire afternoon to reach the crest. They were still crawling along the slick rocks when the sun set, and Cal called upon a magical light to help them make their way into a deep cleft that was at least partially sheltered from the cold wind.
They were bone tired from the climb, and clouds above hid the moon and stars from view, but they dared not remain there. The interior of the mountain was a great crater that opened before them, its contents hidden in the depths of the darkness. Benzan thought he could make out trees below, however, so they started down despite the hazards of traveling at night. Luckily the climb down was far easier, and they used a pair of Cal’s sunrods to drive back the encroaching darkness. They pressed on for several hours, until the bare snow-covered rocks gave way to trees and soil, then they staggered into a clearing, built a hasty fire, and crawled into their blankets and went immediately to sleep. Lok remained awake to keep watch, warding his exhausted companion with a stony gaze that penetrated deep into the surrounding night.
* * * * *
When the morning came, the storm to the east had apparently passed, as the skies above the crater were clear as far as they could see. They were in a highland forest, and the ground sloped sharply down ahead of them, with the thick boughs of trees visible as far as they could see. Benzan volunteered to take a look from above, and before any of them could comment he’d grasped his sword and shot up into the interlaced foliage above.
“He’s going to get himself killed one day, rushing off heedlessly like that,” Dana said. Cal only shrugged—Benzan was… Benzan.
The tiefling disappeared up through the network of branches at the tops of the trees, and a long minute passed before he returned, levitating back down to where the others waited.
“The crater’s pretty big,” he began, “several miles across, at least. There’s a lake that fills up most of the eastern half, and the forest takes up most of the western half that I could see. I did see one other thing of note, though—a village, looks like, on the western side of the lake.”
“Any people about?” Lok asked.
“Too far to make out clearly,” Benzan said. “Plus, I didn’t want to stay up there too long, in case someone spotted me. Wouldn’t want to rush off heedlessly and get myself killed.” Dana flushed slightly, but she didn’t respond.
“Let’s make for that village, then,” Cal offered, and they struck camp, soon making their way down the steep slope into the heavily forested depths of the crater.
* * * * *
The village of Mantru was used to dealing with hostile threats, as no place on the Isle of Dread could ever be considered truly safe. On this bright and sunny day, however, with the storm that had just passed already a memory, the little community seemed placid and peaceful. Its fifty or so inhabitants were an industrious folk, and as the morning passed into afternoon they went about their work busily. The men rowed tiny outriggers back and forth on the lake, bringing back fish for the evening meal or for the enclosed holding pens along the lakeshore, while others toiled in the vegetable plots that stretched out behind the large communal huts that served as shelter for the villagers. Young women ground maize into the meal used in most of their dishes, while the older ones repaired garments and watched the children that ran around the walled compound with boundless energy. To those carefree souls, the day was a never-ending game, and work something to be dodged with a passion that was nearly an art form. On the steps of one of the huts a small cluster of community elders passed the day in intense conversation, debating at any given moment any one of a thousand topics.
In short, it was a day like any other, but this day the peace of the village of Mantru would be interrupted by the appearance of outsiders, strange folk the like of which existed only in the oldest stories of their people. The community was not caught unawares, as the forest was always watched closely, if not as intently as they watched the lake and the island just visible far across its surface to the northeast. In addition, some had remarked seeing strange lights the night before, flickering along the crater rim, a clear portent of change.
Not that change was always bad, but the people of Mantru were used to things being the way they had always been, and they were wary of anything that threatened the peace of their community.
The men of the community took up their weapons and met the strangers while they were still a fair distance from the walls of the village. There was a moment of tension, there, as the strangers bore many weapons, and they did not speak the language of the people of Mantru. Some of them wore unusual skins of metal, and otherwise represented a dizzying variety of sizes, colors, and styles of dress. Their spokesman was a small man, who at first the warriors mistook for a child. The small man spoke with authority in his voice, however, despite his meaningless words, and the warriors exchanged confused glances, uncertain how to deal with these outsiders.
Fortunately, however, Fano and Umlat, drawn by the alert, quickly arrived to restore order to the situation. Fano, the talking chief of the community, showed the age of his fifty years, but a fire still burned in his eyes and the grip on his spear was still strong. Umlat, however, walking beside him with the aid of a village youth, was ancient and bowed. He was by far the oldest member of the community, granted long life through the beneficence of Oloron, the divine Lord of the Skies. That longevity came at a cost, however, and now Umlat’s body was a fragile shell, carrying him only reluctantly toward the confrontation between the village warriors and the armed strangers.
The strangers saw the two elders approaching and waited patiently, making no hostile moves under the watchful eyes of the warriors. They showed proper deference to the talking chief and the ancient priest, at least, and Umlat called upon the divine power of Oloron first in a ritual blessing, and then to grant him the power to understand the strange speech spoken by the outlanders.
The meeting lasted for some time. The strangers asked many questions, to which Umlat responded with answers and questions of his own. One of the strangers, a young woman with an injured hand, called upon the power of her own foreign god to allow her to understand the elder’s words, so a dialogue of sorts was established between the two sides.
By this time most of the remaining population of the village had gathered at the wall, fearful for their brothers and husbands and fathers that were confronting the strangers. They could not hear what was being said, but they saw the sun glint off of the weapons and metal skins of the strangers and felt an unease based on things they did not understand. Their fears eased slightly, however, as Umlat finally raised his hands in the ritual gesture of welcome, and the strangers were escorted to the main gate of the village. While still cautious, curiosity replaced fear for many, and they crowded in to get a good look at the strangers, and their unusual costumes. Several looked like children, but turned out to be miniature people, like adults in every way except for their size. Another seemed entirely unreal, his skin like stone statues that the gods had carved in ancient days, covered in a thick skin of metal that blazed in the light of the sun. One of the children even ran up to touch that one, to the sudden horror of his mother, but the stone-creature only laughed and waved to the amazed child.
The strangers seemed friendly, or at least not hostile, so the villagers followed the lead set by their elders and welcomed them into their community. Umlat let the people satisfy their curiosity, but soon was leading the strangers toward the boats along the sandy shore of the lake, so that they could travel to the council hut that stood on thick logs a short distance above the waters of the lake a short distance offshore.
The villagers nodded to themselves at the wisdom of the priest’s course. The strangers would be brought before the chief, who in his wisdom would decide how the village would deal with their sudden appearance in their midst.
* * * * *
“Well, they seem friendly enough,” Benzan commented, as the old man led them to the boats and indicated that they should head with him toward the large hut that stood up on stilts a short distance off in the lake. The boats were rather small but sound, fitted with outriggers like the large craft they’d taken from the raiders… had it only been a tenday since then? They were eventually able to squeeze into the boats, and rowed out to the structure out on the lake. Only Fano, the old warrior who’d been introduced to them as the “talking chief,” and Umlat, the venerable priest, went with them, leaving the rest of the villagers watching them from the shore of the lake.
“They’re showing a lot of trust, letting us into the village like this, and then bringing us to meet their chief without an escort,” Dana said as they approached the small wooden “dock” and the ladder that led up to the council hut, careful to keep her voice down so that the priest would not overhear.
“Perhaps,” Cal replied. “But something tells me that Fano and Umlat are pretty capable, for all their years. And I’m not sure, but I think that one of the ritual blessings Umlat made back there included a divination, an augury or some similar spell.” He looked at Ruath, who nodded.
“And of course, this might still be a trap,” Delem said, his voice almost a whisper.
“I don’t think so,” Cal said. “But keep your eyes open, as always.”
Fano helped them steady their boats as they disembarked on the small wooden platform abutting the hut’s thick support poles. Umlat had already headed up the ladder, moving more quickly than his advanced age would indicate. The “talking chief” waited until they had all made their way up the ladder, then he followed them.
The council hut was apparently made up of one large room, well crafted despite the fact that the natives did not appear to have any knowledge of metalworking. Raised slats along the walls let in plenty of light, revealing the only contents of the room: a few woven mats on the plank floor, and a small stone table upon which rested a small carved idol.
“We bring strangers from a faraway, o chief of the people of Mantru,” the cleric said as they entered, his words translated for the rest of them by Dana. The duration of her spell was fast approaching its end, so they hoped that the interview with the chief would not last long.
“Where is he?” Delem asked, as he and the others looked around the empty interior of the hut.
“Maybe he’s invisible,” Elly suggested, but Cal had realized the truth. “It’s the statue,” the gnome said in an undertone. “The statue’s the chief.”
“What?” Benzan said, a look of confusion crossing his face.
“Just don’t say anything stupid,” Cal added in a covert whisper. “We can’t afford to alienate these people.”
Fano had entered the hut, and with a deep bow to the idol crossed the room to kneel on a woven mat laid at the side of the table. Umlat gestured for them to sit, which they did, then he turned toward the idol, then to Fano, bowing each time.
Fano took a deep breath, raising his arms to the heavens and then bending forward until his forehead touched the plank floor of the hut. He repeated this motion several times, each time speaking a ritual phrase of invocation in his own language. Once that ritual was completed, he bowed once again to the idol, and then turned back to face the companions. The companions realized what “talking chief” meant when Fano addressed them again, his voice altered to sound deeper and more sonorous.
“I am the chief of the Mantru,” he said. “I speak to you through this vessel. Why have you come here, and what do you seek among my children?”
Benzan covertly rolled his eyes, but he didn’t say anything. Once again, Cal served as their spokesman, relating the barest outlines of their story to the two elders—and the stone idol. In the course of the conversation Dana’s spell expired, but Umlat and Fano kept the interview going, the priest using gestures to convey the questions he wished to ask. The ancient priest seemed particularly curious and sharp of mind, asking them questions about where they had come from, the people of Tanaroa and the other southern villages, their encounters on the rest of the island, and their purpose in coming here. Umlat’s own magic lasted throughout the interview, for he seemed to have no difficulty understanding what any of them said. He in turn translated for Fano and the “chief”, and Fano would intone questions of his own in the voice of the spirit of the statue that Umlat in turn would put to them through gestures.
Ultimately over an hour passed, and the companions began to feel a little hungry and tired. Finally, although his eyes betrayed the fact that his curiosity had not been fully slaked, Umlat turned and nodded to Fano. The talking chief made a final pronouncement, which of course none of them could understand, and then he conducted another series of ritual bows before he stood, “himself” once again.
Umlat made it clear that the adventurers were still welcome, and invited them to remain with them, to eat and take their rest. As if on cue the companions could smell the rich odors of roasting food drift over to them across the lake, and when they left the huts to return to the boats they could see numerous villagers working over firepits dug in the sand of the beach, preparing a feast. The smell reminded them of their hunger, and they were surprised to see that the sun was already starting to set, another day already nearly gone.
“What do you think?” Benzan quietly asked his companions, while they were waiting to head down the ladder and return to the boats tethered below.
“We play it by ear, as always,” Cal said. “These people seem genuinely friendly, though, if a little quixotic in their customs, and we can use the rest.”
“What about the Well of Worlds?” Delem asked. They had asked the priest and the “chief” about their destination—it had been one of their first questions, even before they had entered the village, and it had come up several times in the meeting with the “chief”. While the canny priest had dodged the question each time, not betraying any knowledge of the place, Delem had seen something flash briefly in the old man’s eyes when they mentioned it, a deeper understanding kept carefully hidden.
“Well see tomorrow, when Dana can use her spell again,” Cal said. He had seen it too, but he was willing to give the people of Mantru the benefit of the doubt, for now. And maybe, if necessary, Delem’s magical charm might also be useful in finding out what they needed. “Be on your guard, all of you,” he cautioned, then put on a smile as Fano gestured that it was the gnome’s turn to head down the ladder to the boats below.
I can say that both Elly and Varrus are important to the upcoming plot. But will everyone make it to the Well of Worlds? Stay tuned...
* * * * *
Book III, Part 22
It took two hours for them to reach the lower reaches of the mountains, and three days to reach the summit.
The steep slopes of the mountain consisted of aged volcanic rock, and rose up at least a thousand feet above the surface of the plateau. The rock was pocked and uneven, and not too difficult to climb, and there was even a trail of sorts up the near face, allowing them to reach a point about a third of the way up by the end of the first day.
After that, however, it got much more difficult. Their efforts at finding an easier route—a lava chute or tunnel, or some other means of entry—failed, leaving them with only a nearly sheer course up the sides of the mountain. With clear reluctance, but few other options, they pressed on, the words of the matriarch of Tanaroa sounding in their thoughts.
Benzan took on a leadership role during the climb, with his particular skills in that realm. His fingers could find cracks when others saw only blank stone, and the magic in his sword allowed them to bypass several particularly difficult areas. They headed up in stages, using their rope to move from one ledge to another, fortunate that the uneven face of the mountain offered them plentiful ledges and crevices where they could rest and recover their strength. They spend the second night on one such ledge, huddling together against the biting chill of the wind. Their rest was interrupted once by a disturbing tremor that shook the mountain for almost half a minute, but other than that nothing unusual occurred. Dana expressed a fear held by all of them; that the pteranodons or the wyvern, or some other flying creature would happen upon them while they were climbing, exposed on the side of the mountain. But their luck held, and as the third day began they continued their wearying climb.
That day was the worst. By noon they had reached the snowline, and the rock upon which they climbed became slick with ice. Luckily they were nearing the summit, and they encountered fewer vertical climbs, but even so it took the entire afternoon to reach the crest. They were still crawling along the slick rocks when the sun set, and Cal called upon a magical light to help them make their way into a deep cleft that was at least partially sheltered from the cold wind.
They were bone tired from the climb, and clouds above hid the moon and stars from view, but they dared not remain there. The interior of the mountain was a great crater that opened before them, its contents hidden in the depths of the darkness. Benzan thought he could make out trees below, however, so they started down despite the hazards of traveling at night. Luckily the climb down was far easier, and they used a pair of Cal’s sunrods to drive back the encroaching darkness. They pressed on for several hours, until the bare snow-covered rocks gave way to trees and soil, then they staggered into a clearing, built a hasty fire, and crawled into their blankets and went immediately to sleep. Lok remained awake to keep watch, warding his exhausted companion with a stony gaze that penetrated deep into the surrounding night.
* * * * *
When the morning came, the storm to the east had apparently passed, as the skies above the crater were clear as far as they could see. They were in a highland forest, and the ground sloped sharply down ahead of them, with the thick boughs of trees visible as far as they could see. Benzan volunteered to take a look from above, and before any of them could comment he’d grasped his sword and shot up into the interlaced foliage above.
“He’s going to get himself killed one day, rushing off heedlessly like that,” Dana said. Cal only shrugged—Benzan was… Benzan.
The tiefling disappeared up through the network of branches at the tops of the trees, and a long minute passed before he returned, levitating back down to where the others waited.
“The crater’s pretty big,” he began, “several miles across, at least. There’s a lake that fills up most of the eastern half, and the forest takes up most of the western half that I could see. I did see one other thing of note, though—a village, looks like, on the western side of the lake.”
“Any people about?” Lok asked.
“Too far to make out clearly,” Benzan said. “Plus, I didn’t want to stay up there too long, in case someone spotted me. Wouldn’t want to rush off heedlessly and get myself killed.” Dana flushed slightly, but she didn’t respond.
“Let’s make for that village, then,” Cal offered, and they struck camp, soon making their way down the steep slope into the heavily forested depths of the crater.
* * * * *
The village of Mantru was used to dealing with hostile threats, as no place on the Isle of Dread could ever be considered truly safe. On this bright and sunny day, however, with the storm that had just passed already a memory, the little community seemed placid and peaceful. Its fifty or so inhabitants were an industrious folk, and as the morning passed into afternoon they went about their work busily. The men rowed tiny outriggers back and forth on the lake, bringing back fish for the evening meal or for the enclosed holding pens along the lakeshore, while others toiled in the vegetable plots that stretched out behind the large communal huts that served as shelter for the villagers. Young women ground maize into the meal used in most of their dishes, while the older ones repaired garments and watched the children that ran around the walled compound with boundless energy. To those carefree souls, the day was a never-ending game, and work something to be dodged with a passion that was nearly an art form. On the steps of one of the huts a small cluster of community elders passed the day in intense conversation, debating at any given moment any one of a thousand topics.
In short, it was a day like any other, but this day the peace of the village of Mantru would be interrupted by the appearance of outsiders, strange folk the like of which existed only in the oldest stories of their people. The community was not caught unawares, as the forest was always watched closely, if not as intently as they watched the lake and the island just visible far across its surface to the northeast. In addition, some had remarked seeing strange lights the night before, flickering along the crater rim, a clear portent of change.
Not that change was always bad, but the people of Mantru were used to things being the way they had always been, and they were wary of anything that threatened the peace of their community.
The men of the community took up their weapons and met the strangers while they were still a fair distance from the walls of the village. There was a moment of tension, there, as the strangers bore many weapons, and they did not speak the language of the people of Mantru. Some of them wore unusual skins of metal, and otherwise represented a dizzying variety of sizes, colors, and styles of dress. Their spokesman was a small man, who at first the warriors mistook for a child. The small man spoke with authority in his voice, however, despite his meaningless words, and the warriors exchanged confused glances, uncertain how to deal with these outsiders.
Fortunately, however, Fano and Umlat, drawn by the alert, quickly arrived to restore order to the situation. Fano, the talking chief of the community, showed the age of his fifty years, but a fire still burned in his eyes and the grip on his spear was still strong. Umlat, however, walking beside him with the aid of a village youth, was ancient and bowed. He was by far the oldest member of the community, granted long life through the beneficence of Oloron, the divine Lord of the Skies. That longevity came at a cost, however, and now Umlat’s body was a fragile shell, carrying him only reluctantly toward the confrontation between the village warriors and the armed strangers.
The strangers saw the two elders approaching and waited patiently, making no hostile moves under the watchful eyes of the warriors. They showed proper deference to the talking chief and the ancient priest, at least, and Umlat called upon the divine power of Oloron first in a ritual blessing, and then to grant him the power to understand the strange speech spoken by the outlanders.
The meeting lasted for some time. The strangers asked many questions, to which Umlat responded with answers and questions of his own. One of the strangers, a young woman with an injured hand, called upon the power of her own foreign god to allow her to understand the elder’s words, so a dialogue of sorts was established between the two sides.
By this time most of the remaining population of the village had gathered at the wall, fearful for their brothers and husbands and fathers that were confronting the strangers. They could not hear what was being said, but they saw the sun glint off of the weapons and metal skins of the strangers and felt an unease based on things they did not understand. Their fears eased slightly, however, as Umlat finally raised his hands in the ritual gesture of welcome, and the strangers were escorted to the main gate of the village. While still cautious, curiosity replaced fear for many, and they crowded in to get a good look at the strangers, and their unusual costumes. Several looked like children, but turned out to be miniature people, like adults in every way except for their size. Another seemed entirely unreal, his skin like stone statues that the gods had carved in ancient days, covered in a thick skin of metal that blazed in the light of the sun. One of the children even ran up to touch that one, to the sudden horror of his mother, but the stone-creature only laughed and waved to the amazed child.
The strangers seemed friendly, or at least not hostile, so the villagers followed the lead set by their elders and welcomed them into their community. Umlat let the people satisfy their curiosity, but soon was leading the strangers toward the boats along the sandy shore of the lake, so that they could travel to the council hut that stood on thick logs a short distance above the waters of the lake a short distance offshore.
The villagers nodded to themselves at the wisdom of the priest’s course. The strangers would be brought before the chief, who in his wisdom would decide how the village would deal with their sudden appearance in their midst.
* * * * *
“Well, they seem friendly enough,” Benzan commented, as the old man led them to the boats and indicated that they should head with him toward the large hut that stood up on stilts a short distance off in the lake. The boats were rather small but sound, fitted with outriggers like the large craft they’d taken from the raiders… had it only been a tenday since then? They were eventually able to squeeze into the boats, and rowed out to the structure out on the lake. Only Fano, the old warrior who’d been introduced to them as the “talking chief,” and Umlat, the venerable priest, went with them, leaving the rest of the villagers watching them from the shore of the lake.
“They’re showing a lot of trust, letting us into the village like this, and then bringing us to meet their chief without an escort,” Dana said as they approached the small wooden “dock” and the ladder that led up to the council hut, careful to keep her voice down so that the priest would not overhear.
“Perhaps,” Cal replied. “But something tells me that Fano and Umlat are pretty capable, for all their years. And I’m not sure, but I think that one of the ritual blessings Umlat made back there included a divination, an augury or some similar spell.” He looked at Ruath, who nodded.
“And of course, this might still be a trap,” Delem said, his voice almost a whisper.
“I don’t think so,” Cal said. “But keep your eyes open, as always.”
Fano helped them steady their boats as they disembarked on the small wooden platform abutting the hut’s thick support poles. Umlat had already headed up the ladder, moving more quickly than his advanced age would indicate. The “talking chief” waited until they had all made their way up the ladder, then he followed them.
The council hut was apparently made up of one large room, well crafted despite the fact that the natives did not appear to have any knowledge of metalworking. Raised slats along the walls let in plenty of light, revealing the only contents of the room: a few woven mats on the plank floor, and a small stone table upon which rested a small carved idol.
“We bring strangers from a faraway, o chief of the people of Mantru,” the cleric said as they entered, his words translated for the rest of them by Dana. The duration of her spell was fast approaching its end, so they hoped that the interview with the chief would not last long.
“Where is he?” Delem asked, as he and the others looked around the empty interior of the hut.
“Maybe he’s invisible,” Elly suggested, but Cal had realized the truth. “It’s the statue,” the gnome said in an undertone. “The statue’s the chief.”
“What?” Benzan said, a look of confusion crossing his face.
“Just don’t say anything stupid,” Cal added in a covert whisper. “We can’t afford to alienate these people.”
Fano had entered the hut, and with a deep bow to the idol crossed the room to kneel on a woven mat laid at the side of the table. Umlat gestured for them to sit, which they did, then he turned toward the idol, then to Fano, bowing each time.
Fano took a deep breath, raising his arms to the heavens and then bending forward until his forehead touched the plank floor of the hut. He repeated this motion several times, each time speaking a ritual phrase of invocation in his own language. Once that ritual was completed, he bowed once again to the idol, and then turned back to face the companions. The companions realized what “talking chief” meant when Fano addressed them again, his voice altered to sound deeper and more sonorous.
“I am the chief of the Mantru,” he said. “I speak to you through this vessel. Why have you come here, and what do you seek among my children?”
Benzan covertly rolled his eyes, but he didn’t say anything. Once again, Cal served as their spokesman, relating the barest outlines of their story to the two elders—and the stone idol. In the course of the conversation Dana’s spell expired, but Umlat and Fano kept the interview going, the priest using gestures to convey the questions he wished to ask. The ancient priest seemed particularly curious and sharp of mind, asking them questions about where they had come from, the people of Tanaroa and the other southern villages, their encounters on the rest of the island, and their purpose in coming here. Umlat’s own magic lasted throughout the interview, for he seemed to have no difficulty understanding what any of them said. He in turn translated for Fano and the “chief”, and Fano would intone questions of his own in the voice of the spirit of the statue that Umlat in turn would put to them through gestures.
Ultimately over an hour passed, and the companions began to feel a little hungry and tired. Finally, although his eyes betrayed the fact that his curiosity had not been fully slaked, Umlat turned and nodded to Fano. The talking chief made a final pronouncement, which of course none of them could understand, and then he conducted another series of ritual bows before he stood, “himself” once again.
Umlat made it clear that the adventurers were still welcome, and invited them to remain with them, to eat and take their rest. As if on cue the companions could smell the rich odors of roasting food drift over to them across the lake, and when they left the huts to return to the boats they could see numerous villagers working over firepits dug in the sand of the beach, preparing a feast. The smell reminded them of their hunger, and they were surprised to see that the sun was already starting to set, another day already nearly gone.
“What do you think?” Benzan quietly asked his companions, while they were waiting to head down the ladder and return to the boats tethered below.
“We play it by ear, as always,” Cal said. “These people seem genuinely friendly, though, if a little quixotic in their customs, and we can use the rest.”
“What about the Well of Worlds?” Delem asked. They had asked the priest and the “chief” about their destination—it had been one of their first questions, even before they had entered the village, and it had come up several times in the meeting with the “chief”. While the canny priest had dodged the question each time, not betraying any knowledge of the place, Delem had seen something flash briefly in the old man’s eyes when they mentioned it, a deeper understanding kept carefully hidden.
“Well see tomorrow, when Dana can use her spell again,” Cal said. He had seen it too, but he was willing to give the people of Mantru the benefit of the doubt, for now. And maybe, if necessary, Delem’s magical charm might also be useful in finding out what they needed. “Be on your guard, all of you,” he cautioned, then put on a smile as Fano gestured that it was the gnome’s turn to head down the ladder to the boats below.
Broccli_Head
Explorer
Now I'm pretty paranoid.
Rugger
Explorer
Too funny....
I haven't even so much as looked at "The Isle Of Dread" in 10 years, yet as soon as I read the description of the village, a name came to mind...
"Fano, the Talking Chief"
Why I remembered it, I don't know....but I knew he was coming
Funny how memories work...Keep up the good work!
-Rugger
"I lurk!"
I haven't even so much as looked at "The Isle Of Dread" in 10 years, yet as soon as I read the description of the village, a name came to mind...
"Fano, the Talking Chief"
Why I remembered it, I don't know....but I knew he was coming
Funny how memories work...Keep up the good work!
-Rugger
"I lurk!"
Lazybones
Adventurer
Book III, Part 23
Still wary despite the apparently friendly attitude of the people of Mantru, and a little suspicious of the motives of the priest Umlat, the companions returned to shore to find that the villagers had gone all out preparing a great feast for them. They were given places of honor beside the tribal elders in a large circle in the central clearing in the middle of the village, and young villagers brought around woven trays heavily laden with roasted fish, fruits, and other varied delicacies. After days of eating trail rations and bland clerically-created food the feast was a welcome repast, and all of the companions ate heartily. Just to be on the safe side, Cal used his bardic magic to cast a cantrip that would allow him to detect poisons, but thus far the villagers seemed to be everything they appeared to be: a simple, friendly, and contented folk living out their lives in almost total isolation from the world around them.
The festivities apparently extended beyond the rich meal, for after the food was served several of the young villagers began a dance in the central area, moving to the tune of a simple woodwind instrument played by several of the older villagers. Cal immediately added his lyre to the melody, which met with immediate approval from the gathered group.
“You’ll never get a moment’s peace, now,” Lok commented to Cal with a smile, as the villagers greeted the end of another song with applause and an immediate clamor for another. The genasi in turn was the focus of at least a half-dozen children, who swarmed around him, and retreated in mock terror each time Lok growled fiercely at them, raising his arms in a simulated gesture of menace.
“This is nice,” Dana said, smiling at the energetic smiles on the faces of the people around them. “We need the break, after all that we’ve gone through to get here.” She glanced over at Varrus and frowned—the sailor seemed to be getting a little too friendly with one of the native girls, and she looked a little uncomfortable at his attention. She had little need to worry, however, as she immediately saw the hawkish eyes of a warrior—the girl’s father, perhaps?—a short distance away, his gaze locked on the man. Varrus finally felt the stare, and subsided, shrinking back into himself, causing Dana to laugh.
“What is it?” Delem asked.
“Oh, nothing,” she said. “Just the oldest story in the world.” She laughed again at the confused look on his face, and handed him another fruit—banane the villagers called it, and it was delicious once you peeled back the thick skin to reveal the tender yellow flesh inside. Watching Varrus’s behavior reminded her of something else, though, and her gaze traveled around the clearing.
Benzan was absent.
* * * * *
Benzan stepped out from the shadows of the village wall, feeling much better now that he’d relieved himself of his… burden. He started to head back toward the ongoing celebration, but he paused at the faint sound he heard coming from the rear of one of the raised huts. Curious, he crept closer, his booted feet making barely a whisper on the sandy soil.
It was Elly, he saw, and the sound was of her crying. Unwilling to intrude upon her grief, he started to move away, but she sensed his presence and spun around to face him.
“Who’s there?” she asked, with an edge to her voice.
Remembering that she couldn’t see in the dark as he could, he said, “It’s just me, Benzan.”
“I… I’m sorry,” she said, trying to covertly wipe the tears from her cheeks as she half-turned her head away from him.
“For what?” he said. “There is no need to be sorry for your grief. Horath was a good man.”
Her eyes glistened as she looked up at him. “It happened… back in Tanaroa. I guess I was sort of a wreck… more so, I mean,” she said with a faint laugh. “He comforted me… I guess I just got a little too attached. I doubt I meant as much to him.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Benzan said. It was a simple statement, but he meant it, and the sincerity must have crept through into his voice, for when she looked up at him the thanks shone in her eyes.
“Benzan,” she said. “I… I mean…” she came closer to him, still tentative. “Would you… stay with me tonight? With everything that’s happened, and this place, I just don’t want to be alone tonight.”
It wasn’t clear which of them moved first, but then their two shadows became one, a single vague outline in the darkness.
* * * * *
The celebration lasted well into the night, and only weariness finally caused the excitement caused by the coming of the strangers to Mantru to ebb. Villagers and guests headed off to the communal huts or just to an open spot along the beach, as the air was quite warm and the night clear. The villagers had insisted on giving up several of their homes for the comfort of the adventurers, who quickly dropped off into an exhausted slumber, their suspicions finally giving way to at least some modicum of trust.
All save one. Lok walked alone along the outer reaches of the beach, just inside of the boundary of the village wall, near the pens where the villagers kept trapped fish for a ready food supply. He paused there, in the shadows, the night holding no secrets against the vision granted by his otherworldly origin. He rarely thought about the details of that mixed parentage—it was just who he was—but tonight, alone under the light of the moon, it seemed a night for memories.
The evening air was cool against his skin. His heavy armor was close at hand, the disassembled pieces held safely in the magical bag of holding at his waist, but without the thick plates encasing his body he felt almost naked, exposed. Since they’d arrived at the Isle he’d doffed the armor only when sleeping, slipping into it again with the first light of each new day. His gaze traveled down to the battleaxe that rested in its usual position at his hip. No, even in this place of apparent safety he would not go so far as to relinquish that protection. He grasped the weapon and held its blade up to catch the moonlight. At his touch the icy nimbus of frost stirred, glistening around the blade like the halo that sometimes surrounded the moon in the sky above. It was a raw, elemental power that fueled his weapon, a counterpart to the elemental strength that drove the blade into Lok’s enemies.
He put the weapon away. Was there more to him than that? In battle, there were few that were his equal, and while it appeared to others that the call of arms drew him into an elemental rage, it in fact sharpened his control.
Control. That word, more than any other, seemed to encapsulate the reality of Lok, a creature that straddled two realities, two disparate backgrounds merged into one sole being. One sole… soul?
His hand traveled seemingly of its own accord into the inner pocket of his undershirt, and withdrew the flat silver disk held safe therein.
Memory came.
* * * * *
He was found on a battlefield, his cries not dissimilar from the cries of men dying in battle. Luckily for him Moradin’s blessing shone down on the dwarves of Caer Dulthain that day, or Lok’s story might have been brought to a precipitous end on the shoulder of the mountain that the dwarves called the Maker’s Anvil.
A grim-faced dwarf, his beard caked with the blood of his fallen adversaries, strode through the wreckage that had once been vital, living dwarves and fell, snarling orcs, drawn to the faint sound that hung faintly on the cold wind. He passed larger mounds, hacked corpses that had once been ogres, and at one point even had to detour around the massive body of a fallen hill giant. He and his comrades had been victorious against the raging horde this day, but the cost had been high, and the surviving dwarves could not linger long. Already most of the wounded had departed on the road back to Caer Dulthain, and the few dwarves left on the battlefield were hastily gathering equipment from the fallen, or muttering prayers for the passage of their slain comrades to Moradin’s breast. Dwarves did not typically leave their dead upon the battlefield for their foes to dishonor, but this was not the only enemy force on the march within the range, and the defense of their home came first.
Borik Steelhelm, however, had hesitated over the battlefield, drawn by something that he didn’t fully understand. His injuries were such that would leave most men lying on the ground, mewling piteously for healing aid, but he shrugged them off. A battlefield was a place where strange noises were common, but he could have sworn that he’d heard something even stranger carried on the wind, a word that to his ears had sounded like the dwarven word for “mother.” His axe was ready, in case the source of the sound was an injured foe still hanging onto life, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight that he encountered when he finally discovered the point of origin of the cry, nestled securely in a small cleft in the mountainside not ten paces from the nearest bodies of orcs and dwarves.
“By Moradin’s beard,” the dwarf rumbled. Putting down his axe, he reached into the cleft, and tried to draw out what was secreted inside.
“Hold, boy, I’m not goin’ ta hurt ye,” he said, when the shadowed figure shrunk further back into the cleft, huddling against the shelter of the stone. The cleft was not deep, but it penetrated far enough so that Borik could not quite reach the boy.
How he’d gotten here, at the edge of a battlefield, the old veteran could not fathom. He didn’t look to have more than a half-dozen years, but it was obvious at first glance that the child was no ordinary dwarf. “What’s yer name, lad?” the dwarf asked. The child was afraid, that much was obvious, and for a moment Barik feared that perhaps the boy was simple, his mind dulled by whatever unexplainable trauma had deposited him here.
“I’m Borik,” the old dwarf said, realizing that he had to look threatening to the boy, but persisting in his effort to draw out the frightened child. “Come now, we’ve got to get ye out of this place—it’s not safe. Come with me, and I’ll take care of ye.” The old dwarf was surprised even as he spoke the words, knowing that they were a promise but unsure how he might keep them. Of course, there had once been a time… but no, that was long ago, in a different lifetime altogether.
But the boy seemed to sense something in the old dwarf that reassured him, for he tentatively came forward. Borik resisted the urge to grab at him, and instead backed off as the youth crawled up and out of the cleft.
The boy stared out over the battlefield, and Borik realized that whatever horrors were evident there were nothing compared to whatever pain the boy had already experienced. The light of the fading day revealed what Borik had already guessed about the boy, a fact evident in the rough, stony texture of his skin. The boy was planetouched, his dwarven blood mixed with that of some otherworldly creature not native to Faerûn. The old dwarf had heard of such pairings, although the boy was the first actual example he’d seen.
“My name is Lok,” the boy said, with a determination that belied the fear and uncertainty in his wide eyes.
“Come then, lad,” the old dwarf said, grasping the boy’s shoulder in his hand.
* * * * *
“Lok!” Borik cried, faltering as the heavy weight of the cauldron threatened to tip off of the shelf and overbear him. The old dwarf cursed as his tired muscles, once able to cleave an orc in two with a single chop, now struggled against the heavy weight.
The youth appeared within moments, however, and rapidly set the weight aright atop the shelf, wedging the support that had fallen free back into place. Borik regarded him with fatherly affection, impressed by the strength already evident in the boy’s rapidly growing frame.
He’d never thought he could feel that way again, not after the deaths of his own children, taken from him along with their mother in a tunnel collapse that had torn more than one family apart. He’d been young then, just starting life, really, but he’d aged that day, transformed by grief into a solitary creature, unable to build anew the emotional connections that had been so abruptly sundered. He was respected, both for his skill as a smith and crafter of weapons, and when necessary a wielder of those weapons in battle against the many enemies of the dwarves of the northern ranges. Maybe it was the lack of caring about life or death that had turned him into such a deadly fighter, but for decades his name had been spoken with reverence at the clan gatherings, and with fear around the fires of the orc tribes.
And yet somehow, the young genasi, who had been delivered unto him by a twist of fate, a whim of the All-Father, had been able to break through his self-created walls of isolation, to open up the old dwarf’s neglected heart once again. It hadn’t been easy. The shield dwarves of Caer Dulthain did not look upon the planetouched—the earth genasi—as the blessing that the followers of Dumathoin living in the deep underground perceived them to be, and the young Lok—younger than Borik had initially thought him to be—had to deal with the harsh reality of being an outcast within his new home. That had only driven he and the elder dwarf closer together, though, and for the last twenty years the two had lived together in relative happiness, in a simple aboveground dwelling in a sheltered vale about a mile from the entrances to the underground dwarven town of Caer Dulthain.
“What is it, father?” the youth—still young by dwarven terms, although he had the strength of any battlerager Borik had ever seen—asked, after he had finished bolstering the sagging workbench.
Borik’s reply was a tired but warm smile. “Nothing, me boy, nothing. Why don’t ye finish the work on the blades for Torac, like we agreed. I’ll join ye in the smithy after I rest these weary bones a stretch.”
Lok’s face creased in a slight expression of concern—the boy could be tough to read sometimes—but then he nodded and departed. Borik watched him go, then turned back to the task of etching the scrollwork around the top border of the cauldron. He didn’t have much time left, he knew; he could feel the passing of each day in his bones, and had not taken up his arms to march to the summons of the battlehorns since that day when Lok had been delivered to him. Borik picked up his tools, but he’d barely set back to work when he felt the breath catch in his chest. His limbs felt leaden, and his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to flex the reluctant muscles in his old hands.
He tried to call for Lok, but the breath just wouldn’t come.
Sooner, rather than later, then, he thought. His last thoughts, before unconsciousness embraced him, were of his boy, and how he would fare out in the world. He knew that Lok wouldn’t stay here after he was gone—no, somehow he just sensed that the boy was meant for greater things. He’d done his best to prepare him for whatever might come, passing on his own knowledge and experience, teaching him the arts of war, helping him craft his own suit of plate to shield him through whatever battles lay ahead.
He didn’t remember falling, but somehow he was lying on the floor of the workshop. He wasn’t sure if Lok was there or not, but his last words were an echo of words spoken once before by another parent, not so far from this place.
“I love ye, me son.”
* * * * *
Alone on a beach, a decade later and a world and more away from Caer Dulthain, Lok held the silver disk and stared out into the open night sky, a single tear trailing down each cheek.
“I love you, father.”
Still wary despite the apparently friendly attitude of the people of Mantru, and a little suspicious of the motives of the priest Umlat, the companions returned to shore to find that the villagers had gone all out preparing a great feast for them. They were given places of honor beside the tribal elders in a large circle in the central clearing in the middle of the village, and young villagers brought around woven trays heavily laden with roasted fish, fruits, and other varied delicacies. After days of eating trail rations and bland clerically-created food the feast was a welcome repast, and all of the companions ate heartily. Just to be on the safe side, Cal used his bardic magic to cast a cantrip that would allow him to detect poisons, but thus far the villagers seemed to be everything they appeared to be: a simple, friendly, and contented folk living out their lives in almost total isolation from the world around them.
The festivities apparently extended beyond the rich meal, for after the food was served several of the young villagers began a dance in the central area, moving to the tune of a simple woodwind instrument played by several of the older villagers. Cal immediately added his lyre to the melody, which met with immediate approval from the gathered group.
“You’ll never get a moment’s peace, now,” Lok commented to Cal with a smile, as the villagers greeted the end of another song with applause and an immediate clamor for another. The genasi in turn was the focus of at least a half-dozen children, who swarmed around him, and retreated in mock terror each time Lok growled fiercely at them, raising his arms in a simulated gesture of menace.
“This is nice,” Dana said, smiling at the energetic smiles on the faces of the people around them. “We need the break, after all that we’ve gone through to get here.” She glanced over at Varrus and frowned—the sailor seemed to be getting a little too friendly with one of the native girls, and she looked a little uncomfortable at his attention. She had little need to worry, however, as she immediately saw the hawkish eyes of a warrior—the girl’s father, perhaps?—a short distance away, his gaze locked on the man. Varrus finally felt the stare, and subsided, shrinking back into himself, causing Dana to laugh.
“What is it?” Delem asked.
“Oh, nothing,” she said. “Just the oldest story in the world.” She laughed again at the confused look on his face, and handed him another fruit—banane the villagers called it, and it was delicious once you peeled back the thick skin to reveal the tender yellow flesh inside. Watching Varrus’s behavior reminded her of something else, though, and her gaze traveled around the clearing.
Benzan was absent.
* * * * *
Benzan stepped out from the shadows of the village wall, feeling much better now that he’d relieved himself of his… burden. He started to head back toward the ongoing celebration, but he paused at the faint sound he heard coming from the rear of one of the raised huts. Curious, he crept closer, his booted feet making barely a whisper on the sandy soil.
It was Elly, he saw, and the sound was of her crying. Unwilling to intrude upon her grief, he started to move away, but she sensed his presence and spun around to face him.
“Who’s there?” she asked, with an edge to her voice.
Remembering that she couldn’t see in the dark as he could, he said, “It’s just me, Benzan.”
“I… I’m sorry,” she said, trying to covertly wipe the tears from her cheeks as she half-turned her head away from him.
“For what?” he said. “There is no need to be sorry for your grief. Horath was a good man.”
Her eyes glistened as she looked up at him. “It happened… back in Tanaroa. I guess I was sort of a wreck… more so, I mean,” she said with a faint laugh. “He comforted me… I guess I just got a little too attached. I doubt I meant as much to him.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Benzan said. It was a simple statement, but he meant it, and the sincerity must have crept through into his voice, for when she looked up at him the thanks shone in her eyes.
“Benzan,” she said. “I… I mean…” she came closer to him, still tentative. “Would you… stay with me tonight? With everything that’s happened, and this place, I just don’t want to be alone tonight.”
It wasn’t clear which of them moved first, but then their two shadows became one, a single vague outline in the darkness.
* * * * *
The celebration lasted well into the night, and only weariness finally caused the excitement caused by the coming of the strangers to Mantru to ebb. Villagers and guests headed off to the communal huts or just to an open spot along the beach, as the air was quite warm and the night clear. The villagers had insisted on giving up several of their homes for the comfort of the adventurers, who quickly dropped off into an exhausted slumber, their suspicions finally giving way to at least some modicum of trust.
All save one. Lok walked alone along the outer reaches of the beach, just inside of the boundary of the village wall, near the pens where the villagers kept trapped fish for a ready food supply. He paused there, in the shadows, the night holding no secrets against the vision granted by his otherworldly origin. He rarely thought about the details of that mixed parentage—it was just who he was—but tonight, alone under the light of the moon, it seemed a night for memories.
The evening air was cool against his skin. His heavy armor was close at hand, the disassembled pieces held safely in the magical bag of holding at his waist, but without the thick plates encasing his body he felt almost naked, exposed. Since they’d arrived at the Isle he’d doffed the armor only when sleeping, slipping into it again with the first light of each new day. His gaze traveled down to the battleaxe that rested in its usual position at his hip. No, even in this place of apparent safety he would not go so far as to relinquish that protection. He grasped the weapon and held its blade up to catch the moonlight. At his touch the icy nimbus of frost stirred, glistening around the blade like the halo that sometimes surrounded the moon in the sky above. It was a raw, elemental power that fueled his weapon, a counterpart to the elemental strength that drove the blade into Lok’s enemies.
He put the weapon away. Was there more to him than that? In battle, there were few that were his equal, and while it appeared to others that the call of arms drew him into an elemental rage, it in fact sharpened his control.
Control. That word, more than any other, seemed to encapsulate the reality of Lok, a creature that straddled two realities, two disparate backgrounds merged into one sole being. One sole… soul?
His hand traveled seemingly of its own accord into the inner pocket of his undershirt, and withdrew the flat silver disk held safe therein.
Memory came.
* * * * *
He was found on a battlefield, his cries not dissimilar from the cries of men dying in battle. Luckily for him Moradin’s blessing shone down on the dwarves of Caer Dulthain that day, or Lok’s story might have been brought to a precipitous end on the shoulder of the mountain that the dwarves called the Maker’s Anvil.
A grim-faced dwarf, his beard caked with the blood of his fallen adversaries, strode through the wreckage that had once been vital, living dwarves and fell, snarling orcs, drawn to the faint sound that hung faintly on the cold wind. He passed larger mounds, hacked corpses that had once been ogres, and at one point even had to detour around the massive body of a fallen hill giant. He and his comrades had been victorious against the raging horde this day, but the cost had been high, and the surviving dwarves could not linger long. Already most of the wounded had departed on the road back to Caer Dulthain, and the few dwarves left on the battlefield were hastily gathering equipment from the fallen, or muttering prayers for the passage of their slain comrades to Moradin’s breast. Dwarves did not typically leave their dead upon the battlefield for their foes to dishonor, but this was not the only enemy force on the march within the range, and the defense of their home came first.
Borik Steelhelm, however, had hesitated over the battlefield, drawn by something that he didn’t fully understand. His injuries were such that would leave most men lying on the ground, mewling piteously for healing aid, but he shrugged them off. A battlefield was a place where strange noises were common, but he could have sworn that he’d heard something even stranger carried on the wind, a word that to his ears had sounded like the dwarven word for “mother.” His axe was ready, in case the source of the sound was an injured foe still hanging onto life, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight that he encountered when he finally discovered the point of origin of the cry, nestled securely in a small cleft in the mountainside not ten paces from the nearest bodies of orcs and dwarves.
“By Moradin’s beard,” the dwarf rumbled. Putting down his axe, he reached into the cleft, and tried to draw out what was secreted inside.
“Hold, boy, I’m not goin’ ta hurt ye,” he said, when the shadowed figure shrunk further back into the cleft, huddling against the shelter of the stone. The cleft was not deep, but it penetrated far enough so that Borik could not quite reach the boy.
How he’d gotten here, at the edge of a battlefield, the old veteran could not fathom. He didn’t look to have more than a half-dozen years, but it was obvious at first glance that the child was no ordinary dwarf. “What’s yer name, lad?” the dwarf asked. The child was afraid, that much was obvious, and for a moment Barik feared that perhaps the boy was simple, his mind dulled by whatever unexplainable trauma had deposited him here.
“I’m Borik,” the old dwarf said, realizing that he had to look threatening to the boy, but persisting in his effort to draw out the frightened child. “Come now, we’ve got to get ye out of this place—it’s not safe. Come with me, and I’ll take care of ye.” The old dwarf was surprised even as he spoke the words, knowing that they were a promise but unsure how he might keep them. Of course, there had once been a time… but no, that was long ago, in a different lifetime altogether.
But the boy seemed to sense something in the old dwarf that reassured him, for he tentatively came forward. Borik resisted the urge to grab at him, and instead backed off as the youth crawled up and out of the cleft.
The boy stared out over the battlefield, and Borik realized that whatever horrors were evident there were nothing compared to whatever pain the boy had already experienced. The light of the fading day revealed what Borik had already guessed about the boy, a fact evident in the rough, stony texture of his skin. The boy was planetouched, his dwarven blood mixed with that of some otherworldly creature not native to Faerûn. The old dwarf had heard of such pairings, although the boy was the first actual example he’d seen.
“My name is Lok,” the boy said, with a determination that belied the fear and uncertainty in his wide eyes.
“Come then, lad,” the old dwarf said, grasping the boy’s shoulder in his hand.
* * * * *
“Lok!” Borik cried, faltering as the heavy weight of the cauldron threatened to tip off of the shelf and overbear him. The old dwarf cursed as his tired muscles, once able to cleave an orc in two with a single chop, now struggled against the heavy weight.
The youth appeared within moments, however, and rapidly set the weight aright atop the shelf, wedging the support that had fallen free back into place. Borik regarded him with fatherly affection, impressed by the strength already evident in the boy’s rapidly growing frame.
He’d never thought he could feel that way again, not after the deaths of his own children, taken from him along with their mother in a tunnel collapse that had torn more than one family apart. He’d been young then, just starting life, really, but he’d aged that day, transformed by grief into a solitary creature, unable to build anew the emotional connections that had been so abruptly sundered. He was respected, both for his skill as a smith and crafter of weapons, and when necessary a wielder of those weapons in battle against the many enemies of the dwarves of the northern ranges. Maybe it was the lack of caring about life or death that had turned him into such a deadly fighter, but for decades his name had been spoken with reverence at the clan gatherings, and with fear around the fires of the orc tribes.
And yet somehow, the young genasi, who had been delivered unto him by a twist of fate, a whim of the All-Father, had been able to break through his self-created walls of isolation, to open up the old dwarf’s neglected heart once again. It hadn’t been easy. The shield dwarves of Caer Dulthain did not look upon the planetouched—the earth genasi—as the blessing that the followers of Dumathoin living in the deep underground perceived them to be, and the young Lok—younger than Borik had initially thought him to be—had to deal with the harsh reality of being an outcast within his new home. That had only driven he and the elder dwarf closer together, though, and for the last twenty years the two had lived together in relative happiness, in a simple aboveground dwelling in a sheltered vale about a mile from the entrances to the underground dwarven town of Caer Dulthain.
“What is it, father?” the youth—still young by dwarven terms, although he had the strength of any battlerager Borik had ever seen—asked, after he had finished bolstering the sagging workbench.
Borik’s reply was a tired but warm smile. “Nothing, me boy, nothing. Why don’t ye finish the work on the blades for Torac, like we agreed. I’ll join ye in the smithy after I rest these weary bones a stretch.”
Lok’s face creased in a slight expression of concern—the boy could be tough to read sometimes—but then he nodded and departed. Borik watched him go, then turned back to the task of etching the scrollwork around the top border of the cauldron. He didn’t have much time left, he knew; he could feel the passing of each day in his bones, and had not taken up his arms to march to the summons of the battlehorns since that day when Lok had been delivered to him. Borik picked up his tools, but he’d barely set back to work when he felt the breath catch in his chest. His limbs felt leaden, and his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to flex the reluctant muscles in his old hands.
He tried to call for Lok, but the breath just wouldn’t come.
Sooner, rather than later, then, he thought. His last thoughts, before unconsciousness embraced him, were of his boy, and how he would fare out in the world. He knew that Lok wouldn’t stay here after he was gone—no, somehow he just sensed that the boy was meant for greater things. He’d done his best to prepare him for whatever might come, passing on his own knowledge and experience, teaching him the arts of war, helping him craft his own suit of plate to shield him through whatever battles lay ahead.
He didn’t remember falling, but somehow he was lying on the floor of the workshop. He wasn’t sure if Lok was there or not, but his last words were an echo of words spoken once before by another parent, not so far from this place.
“I love ye, me son.”
* * * * *
Alone on a beach, a decade later and a world and more away from Caer Dulthain, Lok held the silver disk and stared out into the open night sky, a single tear trailing down each cheek.
“I love you, father.”
Broccli_Head
Explorer
Lok's awesome!
Lazybones
Adventurer
Book III, Part 24
Dawn broke on what looked to be another bright day for the village of Mantru, nestled snugly in the crater of the black mountain in the center of the Isle of Dread. Normally, the industrious villagers were up and about with the dawn, but this morning a quiet hung over the place, as its occupants rested and recovered from the festivities of the night before. Here and there a solitary villager could be seen, walking along the beach to greet the day or checking his latest plantings in the garden plot behind the community huts.
In a curtained-off space in the rear of one of the huts where the travelers from Faerûn were staying, Elly opened her eyes and stretched languidly. The knot of pain was still there in her heart, and she knew that it would take time for it to unravel completely. But on this morning she felt at least able to face the day and its promise, to go on with the rest of the living and leave the dead behind. The half-elven woman rolled over on the padded mat where she’d slept, and regarded Benzan, still sleeping beside her. Asleep, he looked almost placid, whatever demons that troubled him quiescent for the moment. Careful not to wake him, she bent over him and lightly kissed his forehead, then got up and slipped on her tunic—at least the bright red of the Tanaroan garment had faded somewhat, she noted—over her breeches.
With a final glance back at Benzan, she crossed to the curtain and slipped out into the larger front area of the hut.
And nearly ran into Dana, who was already dressed and was about to reach for the curtain.
“Good morning,” Elly said.
“Um… morning,” Dana replied. “I’m sorry… I thought Benzan had taken this room.”
“He’s still sleeping.”
“Oh.” An awkward pause followed, and then Dana said, “Well, I just wanted to tell him that we’ve another meeting with the village elders again today. Cal thinks that they have something else to share with us, something they were holding back, yesterday.”
“Maybe it’s something about that Well of Worlds,” Elly suggested. “Something that can help us get back home.”
“Yeah. Well, anyway…” She turned to leave, but paused as the two women heard noises from the other side of the curtain that indicated that someone was stirring beyond.
“Elly, is that you?” Benzan’s voice came, and then the tiefling, clad only in a blanket wrapped around his lower body, pulled back the curtain and stepped into the hallway.
“Ah, good morning,” he said, as the awkwardness factor suddenly increased about ten-fold in the room.
“Dana says we’re meeting with the elders again today,” Elly said. “Maybe that cleric will finally tell us something about how to get home.”
“I hope so,” Benzan said. “Have they said anything about breakfast?” he added optimistically.
“There’s plenty of food left over from last night,” Dana said. “Well, I’d better get back to the others. Come join us… when you’re ready.” With that she spun abruptly and all but darted to the door of the hut.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” Elly said, once they were alone again. “About last night… thank you.”
“Um… you’re welcome.”
“Look, last night was great… but we’re still in a strange place, and we’re a long way from home. What happened last night… it doesn’t have to mean anything, beyond what it was.”
“Elly…”
“Shh.” She came close and embraced him, folding into his arms, and there was a hint of something wistful in the look that he didn’t see, a glance back at the doorway where Dana had disappeared. When she broke back from the embrace, however, her smile was back in place. “You’re a better man than you give yourself credit for,” she said, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Let’s get our gear and rejoin the others.”
Still a little confused about exactly what had just happened, Benzan nodded and followed her back into their curtained nook.
* * * * *
They met again with the elders that afternoon, after they’d had the morning to recover their strength from the difficult trek up the side of the mountain. The lazy time was a welcome respite after all they’d been through on the island, and they spent it lounging about, cleaning weapons and repairing equipment, or helping the villagers in their various chores, as each saw fit.
The second meeting was held not in the audience hall with the “chief”, but in the smaller hut, also a short distance out into the lake, that served as the personal sanctuary of the priest Umlat. Once again only Umlat and Fano were present besides the companions, and the smaller, more intimate setting gave this meeting a more informal mood than the last. While the gathering hall had been spartan and ceremonial, Umlat’s hut was crowded with holy items, simple charcoal drawings of animals and people, and various knickknacks fashioned of wood, animal bone, and carved stone. They sat on small padded chairs around a central brazier of beaten bronze that looked to be as old as the world itself. A medley of smells hung in the air, strange but not unpleasant.
Once they had all crowded into the confined space, Umlat intoned the words of a ritual blessing to his god, Oloron, and indicated to them that they should use their magic that would enable them to understand his words. Since Dana’s mangled hand made it difficult for her to complete the gestures needed for the spell, Ruath cast it instead, and she served as translator for the meeting.
“Welcome, once again,” Umlat said to them, once he had finished his own spell. “I trust that you all enjoyed our hospitality last night. Many of my people have expressed their own appreciation of your friendship and openness with us.”
The native cleric didn’t mark the covert look that Dana shot in Benzan’s direction, although one other did. It had not escaped Delem’s notice how Dana had come back from Benzan’s lodgings clearly agitated, and even as he wondered what had transpired between them he felt a pang of jealousy twist at him, remembering how the young woman had embraced Benzan when he’d returned to them out of the chasm back at the edge of the plateau. At the time he’d not paid any attention, as they’d all been grateful to see Benzan alive, but now a gnawing tendril of dark emotion had taken root, and his expression darkened.
“When you first arrived, we had to be cautious, not knowing if you were friend or foe,” the cleric was saying. “There are many dangers in this place, as you yourselves have already learned in your time here, and some of them are capable of putting on a pleasant face. But in the short time you have been here I have watched you, and communed with the divine Lord of the Skies for guidance, and it is my belief that you have been sent here for a reason, to aid us in our time of need.”
“We seek only a way home, back to where we belong,” Cal said cautiously, once Ruath had translated the cleric’s words. “But we would be willing to extend what aid we could, if it is within our power to do so.”
The cleric nodded. “Our needs run along parallel courses. I apologize for dissembling with you earlier, but as I said, we had not yet taken your measure. I did recognize that which you seek, this Well of Worlds. Our most ancient chronicles, passed down from one generation to the next as is our tradition, mention this thing, though I know no nothing of it save the name.”
“You have no doubt seen the island that rests upon the surface of the great lake. To our people the place is taboo, forbidden to us as one of the very cornerstones of our tradition. It is a place of great power, which our legends tell us was once the home of our ancient gods when they walked upon the land, long, long ago.”
“We may not set foot upon the island, but you, as outsiders, may do so without offending the spirits of our gods.”
“So what is it that you want us to do there?” Benzan asked. “While we seek out this Well, of course.”
“Taboo Island is the home of a band of renegades, a fallen people that… excuse me… feed upon the roasted flesh of both men and beasts. There is little of the human left in them, just a savagery that penetrates to the corrupt core of their being. I suspect that it is living on the island, where the ancient power of our gods still persists, that has warped them, but one cannot be certain. Their depraved lusts and inherent violence keeps them in check somewhat, but every few seasons they raid Mantru, and carry off the bodies of those they kill. They kill all they can, save the children—those they take alive, and what transpires with them…”
The cleric broke off, the muscles in his neck bunching with obvious rage as his chronicle continued. Fano, too, looked grim, and his hand tightened around the haft of his dagger, as if he half-hoped that one of the cannibals would enter the hut at that very moment to be slain at his hands.
“How many are there?” Lok asked.
“They raid in groups of fifteen to twenty warriors,” Umlat responded. “They have not attacked the village directly in many years, but strike wherever our guard is weakest—at lone craft fishing on the lake, or forage parties in the forest, or small groups outside the wall. We slay many, but always with the next turning of the seasons there are more, as if the very stones of the island spawn more of them.”
“And your taboo, it prevents you from attacking their base of operations,” Cal noted. “Convenient, for them.”
“Your coming may shift the balance between us,” Umlat told them. “For many seasons—more than I can remember easily—my magic and Fano’s strong arm have kept them at bay, but I sense that the end of my days approaches, and none of the young men can wield the power of great Oloron as I can. I fear for my people, without my protection, at the hands of the renegades, and I suspect that they are waiting for just such a chance to finally strike and wipe us away for all time.”
Cal looked around at his companions, taking the measure of their reaction to the cleric’s dark tale. He understood the looks of anger they wore—he felt the same way about what man described—but he also knew that they were hearing just one side of the story. “It seems that we must go to the island anyway,” he said, “and we appreciate your warnings of what danger might lie ahead for us there. But our main goal is finding the Well, and if possible a way back to our home. We appreciate all the aid that you and your people have given us…”
“I understand,” the cleric said, raising a hand to forestall him. “Our struggle is not yours, and to request aid in slaying others, even such as those who live upon the island, is a heavy boon to ask of strangers.”
He rose, and bowed to them. “We will be happy to provide you with supplies, and even the use of two small boats that will allow you to reach the island. I wish you well in your search for a way back to your home, but I fear… I fear that your course will inevitably take you through the renegades, and I would suggest that you be prepared for a confrontation.”
“It seems we’ve prepared for little else since arriving at this place,” Benzan noted wryly.
“Thank you, Umlat, Fano,” Cal said, standing and returning the elder’s bow to each in turn. His companions also rose, checking their weapons and other gear almost reflexively, an instinct born of facing almost constant danger at every turn. They were ready for whatever tests lay ahead, Cal knew.
“We depart tomorrow.”
Dawn broke on what looked to be another bright day for the village of Mantru, nestled snugly in the crater of the black mountain in the center of the Isle of Dread. Normally, the industrious villagers were up and about with the dawn, but this morning a quiet hung over the place, as its occupants rested and recovered from the festivities of the night before. Here and there a solitary villager could be seen, walking along the beach to greet the day or checking his latest plantings in the garden plot behind the community huts.
In a curtained-off space in the rear of one of the huts where the travelers from Faerûn were staying, Elly opened her eyes and stretched languidly. The knot of pain was still there in her heart, and she knew that it would take time for it to unravel completely. But on this morning she felt at least able to face the day and its promise, to go on with the rest of the living and leave the dead behind. The half-elven woman rolled over on the padded mat where she’d slept, and regarded Benzan, still sleeping beside her. Asleep, he looked almost placid, whatever demons that troubled him quiescent for the moment. Careful not to wake him, she bent over him and lightly kissed his forehead, then got up and slipped on her tunic—at least the bright red of the Tanaroan garment had faded somewhat, she noted—over her breeches.
With a final glance back at Benzan, she crossed to the curtain and slipped out into the larger front area of the hut.
And nearly ran into Dana, who was already dressed and was about to reach for the curtain.
“Good morning,” Elly said.
“Um… morning,” Dana replied. “I’m sorry… I thought Benzan had taken this room.”
“He’s still sleeping.”
“Oh.” An awkward pause followed, and then Dana said, “Well, I just wanted to tell him that we’ve another meeting with the village elders again today. Cal thinks that they have something else to share with us, something they were holding back, yesterday.”
“Maybe it’s something about that Well of Worlds,” Elly suggested. “Something that can help us get back home.”
“Yeah. Well, anyway…” She turned to leave, but paused as the two women heard noises from the other side of the curtain that indicated that someone was stirring beyond.
“Elly, is that you?” Benzan’s voice came, and then the tiefling, clad only in a blanket wrapped around his lower body, pulled back the curtain and stepped into the hallway.
“Ah, good morning,” he said, as the awkwardness factor suddenly increased about ten-fold in the room.
“Dana says we’re meeting with the elders again today,” Elly said. “Maybe that cleric will finally tell us something about how to get home.”
“I hope so,” Benzan said. “Have they said anything about breakfast?” he added optimistically.
“There’s plenty of food left over from last night,” Dana said. “Well, I’d better get back to the others. Come join us… when you’re ready.” With that she spun abruptly and all but darted to the door of the hut.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” Elly said, once they were alone again. “About last night… thank you.”
“Um… you’re welcome.”
“Look, last night was great… but we’re still in a strange place, and we’re a long way from home. What happened last night… it doesn’t have to mean anything, beyond what it was.”
“Elly…”
“Shh.” She came close and embraced him, folding into his arms, and there was a hint of something wistful in the look that he didn’t see, a glance back at the doorway where Dana had disappeared. When she broke back from the embrace, however, her smile was back in place. “You’re a better man than you give yourself credit for,” she said, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Let’s get our gear and rejoin the others.”
Still a little confused about exactly what had just happened, Benzan nodded and followed her back into their curtained nook.
* * * * *
They met again with the elders that afternoon, after they’d had the morning to recover their strength from the difficult trek up the side of the mountain. The lazy time was a welcome respite after all they’d been through on the island, and they spent it lounging about, cleaning weapons and repairing equipment, or helping the villagers in their various chores, as each saw fit.
The second meeting was held not in the audience hall with the “chief”, but in the smaller hut, also a short distance out into the lake, that served as the personal sanctuary of the priest Umlat. Once again only Umlat and Fano were present besides the companions, and the smaller, more intimate setting gave this meeting a more informal mood than the last. While the gathering hall had been spartan and ceremonial, Umlat’s hut was crowded with holy items, simple charcoal drawings of animals and people, and various knickknacks fashioned of wood, animal bone, and carved stone. They sat on small padded chairs around a central brazier of beaten bronze that looked to be as old as the world itself. A medley of smells hung in the air, strange but not unpleasant.
Once they had all crowded into the confined space, Umlat intoned the words of a ritual blessing to his god, Oloron, and indicated to them that they should use their magic that would enable them to understand his words. Since Dana’s mangled hand made it difficult for her to complete the gestures needed for the spell, Ruath cast it instead, and she served as translator for the meeting.
“Welcome, once again,” Umlat said to them, once he had finished his own spell. “I trust that you all enjoyed our hospitality last night. Many of my people have expressed their own appreciation of your friendship and openness with us.”
The native cleric didn’t mark the covert look that Dana shot in Benzan’s direction, although one other did. It had not escaped Delem’s notice how Dana had come back from Benzan’s lodgings clearly agitated, and even as he wondered what had transpired between them he felt a pang of jealousy twist at him, remembering how the young woman had embraced Benzan when he’d returned to them out of the chasm back at the edge of the plateau. At the time he’d not paid any attention, as they’d all been grateful to see Benzan alive, but now a gnawing tendril of dark emotion had taken root, and his expression darkened.
“When you first arrived, we had to be cautious, not knowing if you were friend or foe,” the cleric was saying. “There are many dangers in this place, as you yourselves have already learned in your time here, and some of them are capable of putting on a pleasant face. But in the short time you have been here I have watched you, and communed with the divine Lord of the Skies for guidance, and it is my belief that you have been sent here for a reason, to aid us in our time of need.”
“We seek only a way home, back to where we belong,” Cal said cautiously, once Ruath had translated the cleric’s words. “But we would be willing to extend what aid we could, if it is within our power to do so.”
The cleric nodded. “Our needs run along parallel courses. I apologize for dissembling with you earlier, but as I said, we had not yet taken your measure. I did recognize that which you seek, this Well of Worlds. Our most ancient chronicles, passed down from one generation to the next as is our tradition, mention this thing, though I know no nothing of it save the name.”
“You have no doubt seen the island that rests upon the surface of the great lake. To our people the place is taboo, forbidden to us as one of the very cornerstones of our tradition. It is a place of great power, which our legends tell us was once the home of our ancient gods when they walked upon the land, long, long ago.”
“We may not set foot upon the island, but you, as outsiders, may do so without offending the spirits of our gods.”
“So what is it that you want us to do there?” Benzan asked. “While we seek out this Well, of course.”
“Taboo Island is the home of a band of renegades, a fallen people that… excuse me… feed upon the roasted flesh of both men and beasts. There is little of the human left in them, just a savagery that penetrates to the corrupt core of their being. I suspect that it is living on the island, where the ancient power of our gods still persists, that has warped them, but one cannot be certain. Their depraved lusts and inherent violence keeps them in check somewhat, but every few seasons they raid Mantru, and carry off the bodies of those they kill. They kill all they can, save the children—those they take alive, and what transpires with them…”
The cleric broke off, the muscles in his neck bunching with obvious rage as his chronicle continued. Fano, too, looked grim, and his hand tightened around the haft of his dagger, as if he half-hoped that one of the cannibals would enter the hut at that very moment to be slain at his hands.
“How many are there?” Lok asked.
“They raid in groups of fifteen to twenty warriors,” Umlat responded. “They have not attacked the village directly in many years, but strike wherever our guard is weakest—at lone craft fishing on the lake, or forage parties in the forest, or small groups outside the wall. We slay many, but always with the next turning of the seasons there are more, as if the very stones of the island spawn more of them.”
“And your taboo, it prevents you from attacking their base of operations,” Cal noted. “Convenient, for them.”
“Your coming may shift the balance between us,” Umlat told them. “For many seasons—more than I can remember easily—my magic and Fano’s strong arm have kept them at bay, but I sense that the end of my days approaches, and none of the young men can wield the power of great Oloron as I can. I fear for my people, without my protection, at the hands of the renegades, and I suspect that they are waiting for just such a chance to finally strike and wipe us away for all time.”
Cal looked around at his companions, taking the measure of their reaction to the cleric’s dark tale. He understood the looks of anger they wore—he felt the same way about what man described—but he also knew that they were hearing just one side of the story. “It seems that we must go to the island anyway,” he said, “and we appreciate your warnings of what danger might lie ahead for us there. But our main goal is finding the Well, and if possible a way back to our home. We appreciate all the aid that you and your people have given us…”
“I understand,” the cleric said, raising a hand to forestall him. “Our struggle is not yours, and to request aid in slaying others, even such as those who live upon the island, is a heavy boon to ask of strangers.”
He rose, and bowed to them. “We will be happy to provide you with supplies, and even the use of two small boats that will allow you to reach the island. I wish you well in your search for a way back to your home, but I fear… I fear that your course will inevitably take you through the renegades, and I would suggest that you be prepared for a confrontation.”
“It seems we’ve prepared for little else since arriving at this place,” Benzan noted wryly.
“Thank you, Umlat, Fano,” Cal said, standing and returning the elder’s bow to each in turn. His companions also rose, checking their weapons and other gear almost reflexively, an instinct born of facing almost constant danger at every turn. They were ready for whatever tests lay ahead, Cal knew.
“We depart tomorrow.”
Lazybones
Adventurer
Greetings, readers! Just wanted to note that I've updated the Rogues' Gallery thread for TttWW, located here. Cal and Dana have each gone up a level, and Dana has taken the first prestige class in the group.
Although I haven't statted them out, Ruath is now a 6th level cleric and the redshirts (Elly and Varrus) are now Com2/War2.
Thanks again for reading! Tomorrow we get to Taboo Island, and an epic battle scene that at first draft came in at twelve pages (I eventually trimmed it some and broke it into two smaller posts). Witness the devastating power of Great Cleave! See new spells used to good effect! Hope to see you here tomorrow for the first installment!
LB
Although I haven't statted them out, Ruath is now a 6th level cleric and the redshirts (Elly and Varrus) are now Com2/War2.
Thanks again for reading! Tomorrow we get to Taboo Island, and an epic battle scene that at first draft came in at twelve pages (I eventually trimmed it some and broke it into two smaller posts). Witness the devastating power of Great Cleave! See new spells used to good effect! Hope to see you here tomorrow for the first installment!
LB
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