Session 27 (Part Six)
Greetings All...
I guess one of the good things about not updating too often is that you don't loose much in catastrophic crashes!
This installment catches us up...
Far More Questions than Answers
Despite Cragen’s best mundane and magical work, efforts to revive the elder Scipio and Drusilla proved unsuccessful. Both remained in an unresponsive, catatonic state. After a brief conference, the remaining companions decided to make for Glynden with all haste. Normally a 2-day march, they pressed on throughout the late summer day and into the night, using the northern lights and Cragen’s eyes to guide them onward.
The dark mass of Kyndalyn’s watch rose above them, shadowed in the moonlight. The night was so clear the moonbeams even winked at them from the cloud crown of Dragonspire Mountain. It was nigh on the third turn of the hourglass after midnight when they climbed the switchback trail to the gates of Glynden. At first, the gate guard refused them admittance – even threatening to fire on them if they did not depart – until Rowan demanded they rouse Kyndalyn. Although he knew the militia was only doing its job, the ranger was too damn tired for such foolishness.
The Abbey bells tolled the fifth hour as they finally passed through the gate, welcoming them home.
The next week was a whirlwind of happiness, sorrow, disbelief and confusion. It was as if the last weeks of trial and turmoil had never happened. No undead army had sacked Glynden…no children had been kidnapped…Father Thomas and Kyndalyn were hale and hearty…Marcus Tiro and Garrick lay undisturbed in the crypts…all seemed well.
Yet they still had the Black Tome…and all of their memories. The enormity of it all threatened to overwhelm Rowan, Röse, Cragen and Sextus. The Emorians – Junior Tribune Mettalus and Bato – parted ways with the companions to carry out their diplomatic duties with troubled minds and heavy hearts.
They held numerous late night conclaves in the abbey library, working with Father Thomas to decipher the cryptic passages of the damnable book. Cragen, Sextus and Rowan read and talked until their eyes ached and throats were parched most nights before retiring to Nan’s Tavern on most nights for a late night flagon.
The condition of Quintus and Drusilla remained unchanged. Even the considerable skills of Father Thomas failed to awaken them and queries to Osirian on the nature and/or resolution of their ailments when unheeded. The priest indicated that some powerful, but very subtle magic, ensorcelled them. He made them as comfortable as possible in the Abbey Infirmary and checked on them regularly.
Cragen became quite the curiosity, with children double and triple-daring each other to touch the walking legend. At first, the dwarf gruffly ordered them away, but eventually gave up to. Röse and Rowan, grinning at their friend’s unease, hit upon a plan to charge folk a denarius per touch.
The Brigante howled, “We will be rich in no time!”
Cragen threatened death or worse if they tried to implement the plan.
Their first week back stretched into a second and then a third. Skills were practiced and honed, equipment repaired and replaced while study continued on their tarnished relic. An early north wind began to blow down over the Dragon’s Tail range, possibly heralding an early and long winter.
Finally, in their fourth week after returning to Glynden, Father Thomas invited them for dinner and discussion at the Abbey Rectory. After a simple, but hearty meal accompanied by some tangy Apulian wine, Father Thomas began.
“First, I want to thank all of you for the time and effort you have put in the last fortnight and more. I know the work is tedious but is, as I believe and I am sure you do as well, terribly important. Let us catalog what we know.
First, something amazing and nearly unheard of has happened to you. While some might call your tale crazy…I know most of you well enough to believe otherwise. I say almost unheard of, because some of what Sextus and I have uncovered hints at such an event occurring before in history.
What you have described is an immensely powerful mixture of arcane and priestly magic of a type not seen since the Shadow Wars. A magic that alters the very reality of time…a magic that unravels past events…a magic that alters future possibilities. The enormity of such a force is difficult for me to even get my mind around, yet we are presented with the very real possibility that someone…or something…has invoked just such an incantation, though to what end seems to be a mystery.”
The priest pauses and sips his wind.
Cragen mumbles, “Well…glad to hear we aren’t mad…”
His counterpart smiles wearily and nods before continuing, “Indeed, that is good news! We have also learned that this magic, while inordinately powerful, is also very unstable, since ripping the fabric of time can have all manner of unforeseen and unintended consequences. In fact, the only usage that we can ascribe with any certainty is just prior to the overthrow of the Shadowlord…and all indications are that the forces of Light invoked this magic.”
Rowan interjected, “Do we know who may have done so this time.”
Father Thomas shook his head, “I am afraid it is impossible to tell, but let us examine what we know. First, the adherents of Ashai were traveling to their ruined stronghold for an unspeakable rite fueled by the sacrifice of innocents. Second, your actions foiled this plot…or at least delayed it…if we can believe the warning to Sextus of ‘a year and a day’. Third, the usage of this incantation returned you to a time and place before any assault on Glynden while retaining knowledge of the threat…which can only be to our advantage. Lastly, passages in the Black Tome seem to indicate a particular set of circumstances…of proper timing and preparation…will allow the adherents of Ashai to complete their damnable ritual which, I firmly believe, is the resurrection of that demoness!”
“Your interdiction seems to have prevented, or at least significantly delayed, the possibility of the ritual being successfully completed. However, I believe the followers of Ashai will try again…although they will most likely steer clear of Glynden and seek another path to achieve their foul aim. This buys us time…time for further research and further preparation.”
Röse grunted, “How much time?”
The priest grimaced, “Therein lies a significant quandary. My study of the available material, with Sextus’s concurrence, is somewhere between three moons and a full year!”
“Nothing like locking it down,” whistled Rowan between his teeth.
Father Thomas nodded glumly, “To make matters worse, I believe the underground complex you located is not the actual Temple of Ashai. What you found is likely a false temple…easily found…but naught but a giant deathtrap.”
Sextus nodded in agreement, remembering the searing pain of the acidic slime.
Cragen drained a mug of ale and scowled, “Garn! That’s not much to go on…what do we do now…twiddle our collective thumbs until that Abigail bitch rears her ugly head again?”
“I am unsure as to the best course of immediate action. It seems we have some time to continue our research and gather additional facts. Lords is no more than ten days away by horse, so we probably have two moons or more before our hand is forced, at the earliest. I will continue my studies, with what help you can give me…and see what more we may uncover.”
They continued to discuss nuances and possibilities well into the night before weariness and heavy sense of helplessness drove them to seek solitude one by one. After they took their leave of Father Thomas, Cragen marched straight to Nan’s Tavern, ordered a hand keg of their stoutest ale and proceeded to drink himself into blissful oblivion.
Sextus pulled up a stool next to Quintus’s bed and took hold of his hand.
“I wish you were here, brother. You would know what to do.”
The bard sat quietly until the wee hours of the morning before falling asleep.
Röse paced about the town for several hours, restless as a caged forest panther. Suddenly he stopped as an idea struck him like a thunderbolt. He quickly made his way back to the Abbey and slipped past a sleeping acolyte into the Catacombs. His skin crawled as he glided past moldering bones and the sickly sweet aroma of death.
He paused before the interment alcove of Garrick and took a deep breath. With trembling hands, he violated the halfling’s resting place and retrieved the delicate dagger with the reddish jewel in its pommel. The Brigante stared hard at the smoky jewel. Somewhere, deep within the myriad of facets, something flashed and swirled.
Rowan needed solitude and open space. He quietly slipped over the wall, easily avoiding the militia on duty and headed to his favorite copse of trees. He spread out his bedroll and lay down, looking at the stars through a break in the tree. He slept well that night…his best sleep in months…and dreamed of a treasure.
It was a treasure the Old Man had told him about once…‘something more valuable than gold’…that lay North and East of Glynden. He saw a momentary flash of a beautiful glade that filled him with peace.
He awoke with a start the next morning as a beam of sunlight washed over his face. He thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye, but it was gone as soon as he turned his head. Or was it?
There, fluttering in the gentle morning breeze was a bit of yarn, twigs and a tuft of animal fur. A trail marker, just like the Old Man used to make. Suddenly, filled with renewed purpose, the ranger grinned and set off for Glynden at a rapid pace. He knew where he was going next…
[/I]To Be Continued…[/I]
Next: Session 28 (Part One) – Bridges, Bears and Babes, Oh My!
More soon...
~ OO
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