The Orb of Storms, Lassoed
Outside, the storm lessens. The wind no longer screams, but circles like an oncoming tornado. A vast shadow passes over the shattered glass and stone: the Tempest. It is just visible through the torn roof, lighting flowing along its hull.
Pilus and Longinus exist and descend to the laboratory. Pilus walks the cold tiles slowly in bare feet, eyes on the Orb.
"You stood where a master should stand. You did not command it, did not flee from it. You listened." To Trevor, he says, "That sphere broke Caela because she believed that understanding meant ownership. You proved her wrong."
Longinus kneels next to Caela's body and closes her eyes. "She sought peace by forcing the world to agree with her. Balance sought peace by refusing to act. You chose neither."
I try not to grimace. I see very, very few people actually seeking peace. Everyone who claims such has chosen great and magical violence in its pursuit. Storms of the sky and the sea. Creating weird armies by tormenting the body. We, the Quell, seek to end the war that has driven us from our home, but seem to always leave the the land scoured by incredible violence to do so.
I have lost count of how many beings I've killed.
Longinus rises, visibly older. "That is... harder. And better."
Viggo wanders near the laboratory objects, looking through books and scrolls and Caela's notes, but appearing to tidy up the area whenever the two master monks glance over at him.
Pilus continues. "The firestorm around Castle Korstull is not random. It reacts to intent, timing, and harmonic resonance. The Orb has shown how to open a path; you have learned the shape of the lock, but the door still stands."
Oh, that makes it much clearer. Monks and mystical types. I hope Osnald, Viggo, and Trevor picked some of that up.
Viggo confirms from Caela's notes that she alone was working with the Ragesians, who had sent the Orb to Seaquen.
Trevor says, "That affords some comfort. But this big Tempest thing is crazy. What's the story behind it?"
Pilus rests one hand on the stone railing, eyes never leaving the Orb as its lightning settles into a slow, inward pulse. He exhales once, sharply, not unkindly.
"One assumes the storm is a thing to be commanded. That is the first mistake most make. The second is assuming it cares whether you survive." He gestures upward with two fingers. The Orb hums, low and steady. "The small device you encountered before — the wand, the lesser focus — that was a leash. Useful. Crude. It tugs at the storm and hopes it obeys."
"This does not tug." Pilus taps the air, as if striking an invisible bell. "This teaches. There is no remote control because distance implies ignorance. A storm does not accept instructions shouted from afar. It responds to presence. To rhythm. To intent made precise."
He stops, fixing us with a hard look. We look hard right back.
"You do not stand inside the storm this creates. You stand inside its pattern. The Orb establishes harmony — not safety. Those who worked here were never protected from the storm. They survived because they understood when the storm would breathe."
He face gives a faint, humorless smile. "Caela thought that made her immune." He looks back toward the east, where Korstull lies unseen. "As I said, the Firestorm around the castle is not random. It has a pulse. A cadence. A moment where its fury turns inward and leaves a hollow. That hollow is an eye."
He is silent for a moment. Fond of stage presence, this one. "Using what you learned here, you can create it. Not here. Not by carrying this." He gestures dismissively at the Orb. "Trying to move it would kill you, and likely everyone nearby. What you take with you is the method. The alignment of intent. The timing. The resonance."
His voice lowers. "You will have perhaps a minute. Less, if you hesitate. This Orb does not open the way to Korstull. It proves the way exists."
He folds his arms.
"And now you know enough to walk it — if you are disciplined, if you trust each other, and if you do not mistake understanding for control. The storm does not forgive arrogance. It does, occasionally, respect preparation."
More Blood on the Snow, Brought Upon The Morning Wind
The Tempest circles above the monastery. Monks move with urgency instead of serenity, now that Balance's spell is broken. Ragesian banners now dot the southern road, two or three hundred soldiers.
"Signus has returned, and this time the storm and the lethargy do not stop him," Pilus says. "We can mount a defense. The Tempest will be used to counter the enemy's wyverns. Afterward I will help you with using the Orb to get to Castle Korstull so you may seek the Torch."
Resuming the path up to the laboratory, we set up our ground defenses against the Ragesians climbing up toward us. A mounted figure, Signus, brings up the rear.
We hide among the snow-laden trees. Osnald gives us a motivational speech to boost our morale.
Spying an inquisitor's mask in the oncoming squad, I fire an arrow, missing terribly. The second finds its mark. I needed to adjust for this ever-present wind.
Osnald casts lovesick on a sextet of soldiers, who get moon-eyed. He ducks into the trees, his bardic work done.
A small figure among the Ragesians advances. He wears studded leather, and sword and bow, but is manipulating his hands to cast a spell. A cone of cold rips up the ravine at us, blasting the snow from the branches. Though I tried to hide behind a sturdy tree, ice shards still sear my face. Osnald's lovesick spell fizzles. Then, fingers bending, the enemy sorcerer sends a fireball our way. Steam hisses as the snow melts.
All right, change of target.
Viggo emerges from the rock wall and vanishes Trevor into a weird womb walk spell.
The Ragesian Inquisitor and the troops advance, battleaxes raised high. Signus rides ahead on a strange creature, which bellows a sonic blast in our direction. The trees shudder. My ears may be bleeding. Five soldiers run right up and surround me.
Fafnir's spirit guardians bellow into being, flooding the area with angry light. He drinks a potion and steps to draw attacks away from Osnald, who is barely standing.
I ignore the soldiers around me and focus, keeping the sorcerer in my sights with blade of the resistance and hunter's mark. I loose two arrows. Fafnir grants me his war god's blessing, and both plunge into the sorcerer with audible wet thumps.
Osnald backs away and casts magic missile with all his arcane might. The sorcerer throws up a counterspell but the missiles strike unerringly. The man staggers and hurls an acid arrow at the retreating bard, thankfully missing.
Trevor suddenly emerges, prone and covered in fluid, next to Signus's mount. The Living Blade absorbs the damage from teleporting, sprouting flames. He stands, spitting, and takes all three tines of Signus's trident. Ignoring it, Trevor grimaces and steps away to slash through the bleeding sorcerer, following with his shortsword with precision attacks. The spellcaster's eyes glaze as he catches flame. Trevor then turns and brings his blades onto Signus's steed with lethal slashes, causing a bellow of pain.
Viggo sends psychic bolts bouncing from foe to foe, beginning with the mount and passing through to the general, the Inquisitor, and a nearby soldier.
The surrounding soldiers, battered by spirits, all attack Fafnir and me with axes. I stand, bleeding, while they clang off the cleric's armor. Fafnir responds with Einherjar, laying about him with massive strokes. Two of the five soldiers fall with broken skulls.
I step away, ducking an axe swing, and take advantage of the general's stunned condition. Two arrows sink into his breastplate.
Osnald follows with more magic missiles striking Signus with a series of pings. The general slips off his mount onto the snow. "Well, naughty word you," the bard gasps.
Trevor turns to the Ragesian Inquisitor with a bloodied smirk and lets him have it with steel and wood. The Inquisitor's eyes cannot be seen under his mask, but they are certain to be widened in surprise at the flurry of incredible violence that has taken his general and the sorcerer.
Viggo scratches his beard and considers. He casts a new spell, prison of hungry bones, causing a cage of interlocking bone to erupt from the snow and enclose the Inquisitor, but the man dodges it. The Inquisitor moves to Trevor with his glaive slicing the air, and shoves Trevor backward toward the pit. He topples, but Viggo catches him with a spell to allow him to float downward safely. The inquisitor runs off down the path.
Nuadan bull spirits low and bellow, goring the soldiers. They gamely try to take down Fafnir, but his armor and shield stay true. Another soldier falls, leaving two.
"Surrender or I kill you," Fafnir growls. The soldiers do, dropping their battleaxes. "I will move away so these bulls don't slay you, but if I see you move, I will take terrible revenge." He then tromps away, and hurls his javelin of lightning straight through the last soldier, the beast, and the retreating inquisitor. Lightning crackles.
The freshly shocked soldier disengages from Fafnir, running away. The beast likewise takes the wise choice and flees.
This guy isn't getting away. The first arrow snaps the strap of the inquisitor's mask, which falls away. The second is planted between his shoulder blades, and he collapses in a puff of snow. This is the fourth time I have sent a man to his death by shooting him in the back, but I cannot feel badly about it.
Off Northeast Bearing An Orb, for a Castle Containing a Torch
Among the treasures of the Ragesians I find an exotic suit of half plate and a finely made scimitar. I take the latter. I'll be emulating Trevor somewhat what with a scimitar in one hand and a shortsword in the other, but I'll stick with steel. Viggo takes a robe of useful items and considers the half plate. Osnald finds a broom of flying.
Morning breaks hard and rest over the monastery. To the northwest, Castle Korstull awaits, barely visible in the distance under the roil of clouds hovering above it.
Pilus says the rain falling from the sky above the castle is from a planar rift. Not only fire, but negative energy. Longinus reports that all around Korstull should be dead... but not necessarily gone. Viggo is presented with the Orb and instructions on how to use it to reach Korstull. The Orb will push away the fire and the rain.
Villages lie between, beginning with the town of Ronda, where we can acquire mounts.
I study the land and the weather ahead, hoping to reduce the difficulty of our journey. Viggo casts guiding star and offers insight regarding the direction. We trade observations. Trevor packs up our gear while Fafnir undertakes his usual quartermaster duties and obtains some beasts of burden. Osnald sings a song and rallies us, which aids us and lifts our spirits.
We saunter forth and wind our way down the mountain toward the long grasslands of Sindaire. We come across a mausoleum devoted to an ancient kingdom. Some of its tombs have been vandalized, and signs of dark rituals past are evident. I pry inside. The place is unsettling, a grim aura that exudes from its vacant doors. We pass it by.
A golden path winding through the grasslands brings us to a crossroads. Multicolored signs adorned with images of gynosphinxes, rakshasas, and bugbears point the way to regions unheard of. Attempts to follow the road are unsuccessful, as they
quickly wind back into the wilderness. Crumbling ruins and relics are found everywhere, ancient memories long rotted that trigger our curiosity and poke at our knowledge of history. Viggo claims it is a tempory conceptual overlay, where ideology leaks into geography, and the images represent different balances and aspects of life. The paths wind back to nowhere because they do not exist yet. Trevor calls it a philosopher's crossing. I would have suspected they're both making up words to explain whatever buzzing is going on in their heads, except that we do keep looping around. I feel the road isn't malicious, but patient.
Points on the Map
About halfway on our journey, we make it to the first town, Ronda. Mostly humans, halflings and gnomes, living in homes with bear motifs. Coaltongue had once come here. The villagers know that thousands of soldiers are based somewhere east of the firestorm, the survivors of Coaltongue's army. Occasional raids still happen here, which adds to a growing rebellion to fight back against the Ragesians.
We pass through and continue. The highway beyond leads to the badlands. Most of Sindaire is lush, wooded prairie, but after several handfuls of leagues, the horizon grows dark even at noon, and the odor of ash and sulfur rides the air. The ground is seared by fire. A few animals survive on sparse grazing.
The tiny thorp of Gathin lies ahead. A shout can be heard as mounted soldiers harass a burly farmer.
