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Cormyr: The Smile of Chauntea
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<blockquote data-quote="MulhorandSage" data-source="post: 678600" data-attributes="member: 751"><p><strong>WARNING: SPOILERS for Pool of Radiance: Attack on Myth Drannor ahead</strong></p><p></p><p>25th day of Uktar, in the Year of the Standing Stone, 1372. </p><p>The tower of the Sammasterites, Within Spitting Distance of Myth Drannor</p><p></p><p></p><p>Dearest Sister,</p><p></p><p>I have heard that one only gets three opportunities to perform any task, and then it is gone forever. It seems a sensible policy to me, a way to cut failures out of life, like culling benighted grapes from a vat that could sour an entire vintage. But it feels rather different when that standard is applied to you, and it's <em>you</em> who stares at one's shortfalls in the face, and feel the spittle of thrice-failures like serpent venom in the eyes.</p><p></p><p>After our third attempt to take the citadel of the Sammasterites failed, we fled on foot. After a day's retreat, we regrouped at the road, this time at full strength.</p><p></p><p>"I'm ready to give up on this," Kord said. But he truly wasn't, for the alternative would be to return to Cormyr, where a substantial bounty was on his head for his murder of the farmhand (Ulrick had initially set a price five hundred crowns on him, which I, knowing he'd be insulted by such a small sum, raised to two thousand crowns). For some reason, this mattered little to Kord now - or he hid his feelings behind such a wall of sociopathy that even I could not glimpse at his true face. For now we were comrades, and the Sammasterites were the threat.</p><p></p><p>We marched northeast through a sharply cut passage in a moderately dense forest. Once, a dragon passed overhead in the distance, and we fell to our bellies, stayed still, and continued on our way after it was gone. Or maybe that happened during one of the earlier retreats - acts of cowardice (and common sense) become highly indistinguishable after awhile. But, to evoke a more heroic demeanor, courage lay ahead of us, not to mention mortal peril. At times, when the road climbed to a ridge and gave us a clearer view of our surroundings, the far more forebiding woods of Myth Drannor loomed in the distance. There can be found demon dens, dragon haunts, and the forlorn ruins of the elves whose great magic, the Mythal, became as twisted and ruined as the pride of fallen Karsus.</p><p></p><p>I think we must have been quite weary after so much running, for we made far less progress in a day's march approaching the keep than we did in our retreat. Kord informed us he would keep watch for the bulk of the night, boasting to us about how little sleep the elves required to remain sharp-witted, more proof of their race's superiority. His smugness has gotten quite insufferable. If I wasn't convinced that they'd lead us all into certain suicide, I'd wish a plague of dwarves upon him.</p><p></p><p>Night in the forest was uneasy - I got a vague sense of malevolence out of the shadows, as if the forest itself were angry at me for bringing fire to its borders during our previous assaults. In fact, during the night, a vine of poison ivy crept toward me during my sleep, but Kord roused me and I warded it away. That's a good thing, for itching and spellcasting do not make for a particularly good mix.</p><p></p><p>We discussed our battle tactics, which closely resembled the battle strategies of a tribe of naked enraged Damarans. Strike hard, take no backward steps, and kill, kill, kill. Ulrick was determined to make a hard charge directly for the front gate and stop for nothing. I must admit that while it lacked subtlety, this plan had the virtue of getting us into close proximity with our foe and allowing us to kill many Sammasterites as quickly as possible, providing us all with what's sure to be a most welcome catharis. The front gate, however, would not fall from wishful thinking alone. Ulrick proposed that he fell some trees and build a battering ram. We asked Ulrick if he had any experience whatsoever in constructing a battering ram out of a tree. The answer: no. Kord advised us against cutting down any trees near Myth Drannor, even a deadfall. It's one of the few times I've ever heard the elf make sense. Our backup plan was equally crude but likely to be more effective; we would proceed to the north side of the tower, where the cover of woods was thickest. Ulrick, Aron, and I would charge the door, Aron with greataxe in hand. The brutish Wyvernspur, despite prefering his flail, is certainly the strongest of our company and offers our best chance at chopping through the door. I will erect a <em>mystic shield</em> spell to ward away arcane bolts, while Ulrick prepares to charge as soon as an opening presents itself. Kord is to remain at the edge of the woods, under cover, and fire on anything that shoots at us from a tower window.</p><p></p><p>For once, we encountered no patrols, and the enemy received no warning until a forest shaking crack, courtesy of Aron's axe, struck the front gate. It's strong wood, and barred, but the huge Cormyte ripped through it like rotten timber with his very first stroke, not only cleaving through the wood but striking the metal and loosening the planks that holds a bar in place. Two more axe-strokes, which I could swear could be heard in Myth Drannor, rattled the gate and ripped at the planks. Selune must shining on the mad Wyvernspur, because it only took three strokes to open the passage.</p><p></p><p>It is usually an excellent thing to have strong and stupid friends.</p><p></p><p>Immediately, two guards attempted to fill the breach. Ulrick stepped forward, probably imagining that he shines more brightly than he does, and wielded his sword with consumate skill. Two guards quickly fell. He issued into the keep and Aron followed, discarding the axe for his beloved dire flail. I whispered an incantation and entered, beckoning Kord to come. I'm half-surprised when I see the elf sprinting across the breach to join us.</p><p></p><p>Ulrick turned into a guardroom and immediately confronted a wand-wielding mage. I leaned closer, hoping to overhear him recite the incantation of activation, but instead of proudly shouting it at the top of their lungs, as any mage in Sembia would, he whispered the words. I swear he did it just to annoy me.</p><p></p><p>Kord moved into a barrack room, while Aron searched several small storage chambers. A pair of stone staircases are stationed in the center of the room, one leading upward, the other downward. Aron made the mistake of standing in front of the upper stairs, and suddenly a hail of arcane bolts shot down the stairwell and connected with him squarely in the chest. I smiled, drew my wand, and imagined the smell of Sammasterite acolytes roasting in an open fireball.</p><p></p><p>Then that idiot of a knight charged up the stairs and ruined my brilliant design.</p><p></p><p>I called Ulrick, who's finished dispatching the pesky wizard, and warned him of Aron's predicament. He sighed noticeably. In the meantime, Kord was happily wandering through the backroom barracks, dispatching those who were unfortunate enough to be caught napping. I wonder if Ulrick realizes what the elf is doing in his spare time?</p><p></p><p>But it's Aron's plight that most concerns us. Ulrick made his best time up the stairs - magical boots, which allow him to charge without breaking his stride, he's almost as proud of them as he is of those damn wands - and arrived to find Aron surrounded by more foes than we've ever seen in one small space at one time: zombies, skeletons, guardsmen, necromancers and Sammasterite priests are all crowded into a hall and the only thing either of us can see is the host reacting to Aron's flail like ripples on a pond. Aron is quite the mighty lad, but Ulrick's power was more puissant. He removed his right gauntlet, an elaborate worked lattice of steel, and held it upright, in the same pose as the ironshod hand on the holy symbol of Torm. His body held itself with an inhuman firmness, a figure of divine resolve that bears little resemblance to the man I've seen shivering next to a campfire in the middle of a rainstorm, or bantering with mild baudiness with tavern wenches. It really is a thing to marvel at, that here, even in this desecrated dessicated hellhole of a tower, the god of duty is unwavering and can elevate his servants to such a remarkable degree. </p><p></p><p>Ulrick had become a thing of power. The steel gauntlet glowed, and the look in his eyes must be terrible to behold. "Back!" he said, firmly but without shouting. "The pit awaits for thee!" Then there was a sound like the cracking of a thousand timbers being shorn apart by some titanic thing, a giant who strides across the Battle of Bones and pays no heed to the cracking sound beneath his feet, and suddenly the skeletons collapse intod clouds of powder thick enough to choke upon. Their comrades, the shambling stupid undead, shrunk back and hid their decaying faces from the light of the most insufferably righteous of gods. Whom I'm glad stood with us today.</p><p></p><p>Of course, the priests were dismayed, if not outraged. To necromancers, skeletons are one part child, one part doting sweetheart, perfect in their obedience, the ideal toy. No wonder every necromancer I've ever met has been utterly lacking in the social graces. From their cloaks, the priests drew black maces with skeleton heads atop four black phalanges, and cried for paladin's blood. They're too angry to realize they're badly overmatched: <em>too many rituals rot your brain.</em> Aron (who exemplifies the same principle but with a different god), almost spent and bleeding from many wounds, took advantage of the opening that Ulrick has created and staggered backwards and propped his back against a wall, where he drew a healing potion from his belt and savored it like a drunkard who's been divorced too long from drink. That's fine. The lad has had his hour. Now time has become vengeance, for both the hour, and vengeance, was mine.</p><p></p><p>Barely visible behind shining Ulrick, I nonetheless had a clear view of several priests, who are concentrating on the glowing beacon of Torm's light that just spoiled the jubilation of their summoning. <em>Good</em>, I told myself, <em>ignore the true threat to your little necromancer's paradise</em>. I drew my hands together, spoke words of power, and felt that indescribable rapture that comes when one masters the thunder in one's hands. Three of their priests, craning their necks in a line to survey the extraordinary chaos of this fight, are scorched by my lightning, and two of them fall. I followed lightning with winter - Snilloc's Death, the doom of ice, that swarms and fells another two acolytes. By this time Kord, blood trickling down his sword and mixing with his forest green cloak in disturbing lines, has joined us, and charged for the surviving priests.</p><p></p><p>I'm not certain when the battle ends. I'm breathing too hard to notice, even though the one attempt to deal me a wound was deflected harmlessly off my arcane shield. The true threat was elsewhere.</p><p></p><p>Kord playedtracking games with the chief priest, who was slowly and cautiously being backed into a corner. Realizing that his best spells were useless against the elf's quick thrusts, he drews a wand and aimed several arcane bolts at the elf. Kord countered skillfully, and finally felled the necromancer with a quick thrust to the chest. Then the dying prelate screamed, and treated me to one of the most grotesque sights I've ever witnessed. The moment that the priest died, he exploded in a swarm of maggots that attempted to engulf his killer. The elf briefly managed to ward them away, then they encircled him and fell upon his flesh like locust on a grain field. Maggots must like the taste of fresh elf, as Kord quickly falls.</p><p></p><p>Realizing that the elf's death was imminent - and recognizing the maggot swarm as a simple summoning that was cloaked in a magician's trick - I cast a counterspell. I immediately realized that I'm facing a very powerful enchantment - the high priest's work, I'd guess - but I managed to overcome it. Then Aron dragged Kord over to our glorious leader, where he expended close to the entire contents of a single healing wand nursing the hurts of the twain.</p><p></p><p>"I'm surprised you haven't evoked your... what is it called... mirror images?" Aron remarked.</p><p></p><p>"The true connoisseur of magic calls them <em>dweomermirrors</em>," I replied, wondering why I'm wasting my breath correcting him.</p><p></p><p>I took a moment to inspect the room's stonework, which is well-fitted but otherwise unremarkable. We proceeded to search several chambers, leaving the collection of treasure for a later time. We discovered a chamber full of Sammasterite propaganda, roughly drawn tracts, stack upon stack of dirges and odes to the glory of moving bone without the prison of flesh. It took a major effort for me to resist burning them. We climbed to the third level of the tower, where we found the door to the fourth level is magically barred. Unfortunately I didn't have the spells to effectively counter its dweomer (which is a source of irritating banter and ridicule from my comrades). One door was barred by a lesser glyph, which Ulrick did not hesitate the walk through. He survived the flash of lightning to open up a lavish bedchamber, including a huge, fat badger plopped on a pillow.</p><p></p><p>It occured to us immediately that the animal is a familiar and thus a target of opportunity, but Kord kept us away and spoke to it in gnomish. It knew depressingly little about the tower, but as far as Kord's concerned, it's a pleasant conversationalist. Inspecting the room for magic, I discovered an enchanted tapestry on the east wall and a magical painting behind it. Alas, even Aron, though his arms are larger than most men's thighs and the envy of even a diligent blacksmith, is not strong enough to pry the painting from the wall.</p><p></p><p>"Must be magic," Aron said, stating the obvious.</p><p></p><p>Ulrick turned his attention to a far door. Opening it, we came into the main chamber of the third level - which was occupied by a swarm of zombies and several men wearing the livery of the Sammasterites, and one man with a pointed hat adorned with a dragon's skull.</p><p></p><p>The high priest has arrived.</p><p></p><p>Must dash,</p><p></p><p>Ascarin</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="MulhorandSage, post: 678600, member: 751"] [b]WARNING: SPOILERS for Pool of Radiance: Attack on Myth Drannor ahead[/b] 25th day of Uktar, in the Year of the Standing Stone, 1372. The tower of the Sammasterites, Within Spitting Distance of Myth Drannor Dearest Sister, I have heard that one only gets three opportunities to perform any task, and then it is gone forever. It seems a sensible policy to me, a way to cut failures out of life, like culling benighted grapes from a vat that could sour an entire vintage. But it feels rather different when that standard is applied to you, and it's [i]you[/i] who stares at one's shortfalls in the face, and feel the spittle of thrice-failures like serpent venom in the eyes. After our third attempt to take the citadel of the Sammasterites failed, we fled on foot. After a day's retreat, we regrouped at the road, this time at full strength. "I'm ready to give up on this," Kord said. But he truly wasn't, for the alternative would be to return to Cormyr, where a substantial bounty was on his head for his murder of the farmhand (Ulrick had initially set a price five hundred crowns on him, which I, knowing he'd be insulted by such a small sum, raised to two thousand crowns). For some reason, this mattered little to Kord now - or he hid his feelings behind such a wall of sociopathy that even I could not glimpse at his true face. For now we were comrades, and the Sammasterites were the threat. We marched northeast through a sharply cut passage in a moderately dense forest. Once, a dragon passed overhead in the distance, and we fell to our bellies, stayed still, and continued on our way after it was gone. Or maybe that happened during one of the earlier retreats - acts of cowardice (and common sense) become highly indistinguishable after awhile. But, to evoke a more heroic demeanor, courage lay ahead of us, not to mention mortal peril. At times, when the road climbed to a ridge and gave us a clearer view of our surroundings, the far more forebiding woods of Myth Drannor loomed in the distance. There can be found demon dens, dragon haunts, and the forlorn ruins of the elves whose great magic, the Mythal, became as twisted and ruined as the pride of fallen Karsus. I think we must have been quite weary after so much running, for we made far less progress in a day's march approaching the keep than we did in our retreat. Kord informed us he would keep watch for the bulk of the night, boasting to us about how little sleep the elves required to remain sharp-witted, more proof of their race's superiority. His smugness has gotten quite insufferable. If I wasn't convinced that they'd lead us all into certain suicide, I'd wish a plague of dwarves upon him. Night in the forest was uneasy - I got a vague sense of malevolence out of the shadows, as if the forest itself were angry at me for bringing fire to its borders during our previous assaults. In fact, during the night, a vine of poison ivy crept toward me during my sleep, but Kord roused me and I warded it away. That's a good thing, for itching and spellcasting do not make for a particularly good mix. We discussed our battle tactics, which closely resembled the battle strategies of a tribe of naked enraged Damarans. Strike hard, take no backward steps, and kill, kill, kill. Ulrick was determined to make a hard charge directly for the front gate and stop for nothing. I must admit that while it lacked subtlety, this plan had the virtue of getting us into close proximity with our foe and allowing us to kill many Sammasterites as quickly as possible, providing us all with what's sure to be a most welcome catharis. The front gate, however, would not fall from wishful thinking alone. Ulrick proposed that he fell some trees and build a battering ram. We asked Ulrick if he had any experience whatsoever in constructing a battering ram out of a tree. The answer: no. Kord advised us against cutting down any trees near Myth Drannor, even a deadfall. It's one of the few times I've ever heard the elf make sense. Our backup plan was equally crude but likely to be more effective; we would proceed to the north side of the tower, where the cover of woods was thickest. Ulrick, Aron, and I would charge the door, Aron with greataxe in hand. The brutish Wyvernspur, despite prefering his flail, is certainly the strongest of our company and offers our best chance at chopping through the door. I will erect a [i]mystic shield[/i] spell to ward away arcane bolts, while Ulrick prepares to charge as soon as an opening presents itself. Kord is to remain at the edge of the woods, under cover, and fire on anything that shoots at us from a tower window. For once, we encountered no patrols, and the enemy received no warning until a forest shaking crack, courtesy of Aron's axe, struck the front gate. It's strong wood, and barred, but the huge Cormyte ripped through it like rotten timber with his very first stroke, not only cleaving through the wood but striking the metal and loosening the planks that holds a bar in place. Two more axe-strokes, which I could swear could be heard in Myth Drannor, rattled the gate and ripped at the planks. Selune must shining on the mad Wyvernspur, because it only took three strokes to open the passage. It is usually an excellent thing to have strong and stupid friends. Immediately, two guards attempted to fill the breach. Ulrick stepped forward, probably imagining that he shines more brightly than he does, and wielded his sword with consumate skill. Two guards quickly fell. He issued into the keep and Aron followed, discarding the axe for his beloved dire flail. I whispered an incantation and entered, beckoning Kord to come. I'm half-surprised when I see the elf sprinting across the breach to join us. Ulrick turned into a guardroom and immediately confronted a wand-wielding mage. I leaned closer, hoping to overhear him recite the incantation of activation, but instead of proudly shouting it at the top of their lungs, as any mage in Sembia would, he whispered the words. I swear he did it just to annoy me. Kord moved into a barrack room, while Aron searched several small storage chambers. A pair of stone staircases are stationed in the center of the room, one leading upward, the other downward. Aron made the mistake of standing in front of the upper stairs, and suddenly a hail of arcane bolts shot down the stairwell and connected with him squarely in the chest. I smiled, drew my wand, and imagined the smell of Sammasterite acolytes roasting in an open fireball. Then that idiot of a knight charged up the stairs and ruined my brilliant design. I called Ulrick, who's finished dispatching the pesky wizard, and warned him of Aron's predicament. He sighed noticeably. In the meantime, Kord was happily wandering through the backroom barracks, dispatching those who were unfortunate enough to be caught napping. I wonder if Ulrick realizes what the elf is doing in his spare time? But it's Aron's plight that most concerns us. Ulrick made his best time up the stairs - magical boots, which allow him to charge without breaking his stride, he's almost as proud of them as he is of those damn wands - and arrived to find Aron surrounded by more foes than we've ever seen in one small space at one time: zombies, skeletons, guardsmen, necromancers and Sammasterite priests are all crowded into a hall and the only thing either of us can see is the host reacting to Aron's flail like ripples on a pond. Aron is quite the mighty lad, but Ulrick's power was more puissant. He removed his right gauntlet, an elaborate worked lattice of steel, and held it upright, in the same pose as the ironshod hand on the holy symbol of Torm. His body held itself with an inhuman firmness, a figure of divine resolve that bears little resemblance to the man I've seen shivering next to a campfire in the middle of a rainstorm, or bantering with mild baudiness with tavern wenches. It really is a thing to marvel at, that here, even in this desecrated dessicated hellhole of a tower, the god of duty is unwavering and can elevate his servants to such a remarkable degree. Ulrick had become a thing of power. The steel gauntlet glowed, and the look in his eyes must be terrible to behold. "Back!" he said, firmly but without shouting. "The pit awaits for thee!" Then there was a sound like the cracking of a thousand timbers being shorn apart by some titanic thing, a giant who strides across the Battle of Bones and pays no heed to the cracking sound beneath his feet, and suddenly the skeletons collapse intod clouds of powder thick enough to choke upon. Their comrades, the shambling stupid undead, shrunk back and hid their decaying faces from the light of the most insufferably righteous of gods. Whom I'm glad stood with us today. Of course, the priests were dismayed, if not outraged. To necromancers, skeletons are one part child, one part doting sweetheart, perfect in their obedience, the ideal toy. No wonder every necromancer I've ever met has been utterly lacking in the social graces. From their cloaks, the priests drew black maces with skeleton heads atop four black phalanges, and cried for paladin's blood. They're too angry to realize they're badly overmatched: [i]too many rituals rot your brain.[/i] Aron (who exemplifies the same principle but with a different god), almost spent and bleeding from many wounds, took advantage of the opening that Ulrick has created and staggered backwards and propped his back against a wall, where he drew a healing potion from his belt and savored it like a drunkard who's been divorced too long from drink. That's fine. The lad has had his hour. Now time has become vengeance, for both the hour, and vengeance, was mine. Barely visible behind shining Ulrick, I nonetheless had a clear view of several priests, who are concentrating on the glowing beacon of Torm's light that just spoiled the jubilation of their summoning. [i]Good[/i], I told myself, [i]ignore the true threat to your little necromancer's paradise[/i]. I drew my hands together, spoke words of power, and felt that indescribable rapture that comes when one masters the thunder in one's hands. Three of their priests, craning their necks in a line to survey the extraordinary chaos of this fight, are scorched by my lightning, and two of them fall. I followed lightning with winter - Snilloc's Death, the doom of ice, that swarms and fells another two acolytes. By this time Kord, blood trickling down his sword and mixing with his forest green cloak in disturbing lines, has joined us, and charged for the surviving priests. I'm not certain when the battle ends. I'm breathing too hard to notice, even though the one attempt to deal me a wound was deflected harmlessly off my arcane shield. The true threat was elsewhere. Kord playedtracking games with the chief priest, who was slowly and cautiously being backed into a corner. Realizing that his best spells were useless against the elf's quick thrusts, he drews a wand and aimed several arcane bolts at the elf. Kord countered skillfully, and finally felled the necromancer with a quick thrust to the chest. Then the dying prelate screamed, and treated me to one of the most grotesque sights I've ever witnessed. The moment that the priest died, he exploded in a swarm of maggots that attempted to engulf his killer. The elf briefly managed to ward them away, then they encircled him and fell upon his flesh like locust on a grain field. Maggots must like the taste of fresh elf, as Kord quickly falls. Realizing that the elf's death was imminent - and recognizing the maggot swarm as a simple summoning that was cloaked in a magician's trick - I cast a counterspell. I immediately realized that I'm facing a very powerful enchantment - the high priest's work, I'd guess - but I managed to overcome it. Then Aron dragged Kord over to our glorious leader, where he expended close to the entire contents of a single healing wand nursing the hurts of the twain. "I'm surprised you haven't evoked your... what is it called... mirror images?" Aron remarked. "The true connoisseur of magic calls them [i]dweomermirrors[/i]," I replied, wondering why I'm wasting my breath correcting him. I took a moment to inspect the room's stonework, which is well-fitted but otherwise unremarkable. We proceeded to search several chambers, leaving the collection of treasure for a later time. We discovered a chamber full of Sammasterite propaganda, roughly drawn tracts, stack upon stack of dirges and odes to the glory of moving bone without the prison of flesh. It took a major effort for me to resist burning them. We climbed to the third level of the tower, where we found the door to the fourth level is magically barred. Unfortunately I didn't have the spells to effectively counter its dweomer (which is a source of irritating banter and ridicule from my comrades). One door was barred by a lesser glyph, which Ulrick did not hesitate the walk through. He survived the flash of lightning to open up a lavish bedchamber, including a huge, fat badger plopped on a pillow. It occured to us immediately that the animal is a familiar and thus a target of opportunity, but Kord kept us away and spoke to it in gnomish. It knew depressingly little about the tower, but as far as Kord's concerned, it's a pleasant conversationalist. Inspecting the room for magic, I discovered an enchanted tapestry on the east wall and a magical painting behind it. Alas, even Aron, though his arms are larger than most men's thighs and the envy of even a diligent blacksmith, is not strong enough to pry the painting from the wall. "Must be magic," Aron said, stating the obvious. Ulrick turned his attention to a far door. Opening it, we came into the main chamber of the third level - which was occupied by a swarm of zombies and several men wearing the livery of the Sammasterites, and one man with a pointed hat adorned with a dragon's skull. The high priest has arrived. Must dash, Ascarin [/QUOTE]
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