Given the increasingly lengthy gaps between updates, and the moderate complexity of a story now ongoing for almost 10 years of real time, I understand that readers will invariably lose track of some plot threads, forget about now-distant events and characters, etc. Please feel free to ask for reminders about anything you think may be important. I, or someone, will answer them if possible.
Sagiro’s Story Hour, Part 228
Clues
“Those things SUCKED!”
Dranko nudges one of the machine-creatures with his foot, then casts a healing spell on One Certain Step.
“But,” he continues, narrowing his eyes, “I wonder if you can take those fire-shooters out and use them as weapons.”
The creature sparks and twitches; Dranko jumps back, but it doesn’t move again. Morningstar shoos him away and casts thought capture but only gets a pained memory from Step.
“What is this thing,” asks the paladin, mostly-rhetorically.
“I don’t know,” says Dranko, “But I want a souvenir out of it. It destroyed my net!”
“We’ll buy you a new one,” says Grey Wolf.
Since the find the path has run out, and the Company is likely going to camp nearby, they spend a couple of hours carefully searching the “corpses” of these strange things. The three wizards are especially interested in their function. Though they are marvels of engineering, they could not have moved or attacked without heavy ongoing magic. The fire attack in particular must have been magical; there’s no container or other source of fuel for its flame jet. But there’s no magic on them now.
Dranko and Flicker are more interested in the “material science” behind the mechanical constructs. Each one has three chocolate-bar-sized platinum rods at the base of the propeller, six four-inch-diameter adamantine discs from various joints, and a modest diamond (valued at over 2000 GP, at Kibi’s and Flicker’s guesses) behind the flashing lens in its “head.”
“We should take apart all of our enemies from now on,” Dranko says, prying one of the diamonds loose from a steel housing. “But what should we call these things. I need a label for ‘em.”
He is answered from an airy voice from the trees above.
“We call them ‘Screel.’”
Everyone leaps to their feet, weapons again drawn, and looks up. They see nothing.
“Uh. Hi,” calls up Dranko. “Thanks for telling us. If you’d like to come down...”
“Who are you?” asks the voice.
“I’m Dranko Blackhope.”
“We’re just travelers passing through,” says Kibi. “We didn’t mean any harm, but these things attacked us.”
“Did you come from the arena with the Lumbrese?” asks the voice. “The blue lizard?”
“Oh, that,” says Aravis off-handedly. “It’s dead.”
“I hope it wasn’t a friend of yours,” adds Morningstar hastily.
“No, no, no!” says the voice. “We’re happy to hear it’s gone.”
“It’s dead, but there’s no escape past it,” says Dranko.
“Oh? What’s beyond it?”
“Lightning,” answers Dranko. “Lots and lots and lots of lightning. And past the lightning is a plane with nothing but air. Just a long corridor of air, with no exit.”
“Ah. I’m sorry to hear all of that.” The voice sounds sad and disappointed.
“Are you trying to find your way out?” asks Kibi.
“Not anymore. All the ways lead to death. But you are able to defeat the Screel. You are very powerful!”
“More powerful than the Screel, at least,” says Dranko, nodding.
“What other ways out are th...?” Aravis starts to ask, but Dranko interrupts him.
“Hey, will you at least tell us your name? And why don’t you come down here where we can talk more comfortably.”
Two creatures descend from their hiding places in the tree-tops. They are small, slender humanoids, no taller than Ernie, with delicate fly-wings. Their eyes are long and alien, like those of the deer. Their wings make a soft humming noise as they fly.
“My name is Reynoso,” says one, as they land, still cautious, a few feet off from the party. The other says nothing but stares wide-eyed at them. Reynoso speaks in a high-pitched twittering language that is instantly translated to Charagan common by a translator disc around his neck – just like many folks had at the Eye of the Storm.
“What are your people called?” asks Dranko, once Reynoso’s feet are on the ground.
“We are called the Solfar. What are you?”
“Most of us are human. A couple of us are half-orcs.” He notices the second Solfar is starting directly at Kibi, and adds, “He’s a dwarf. His name is Kibilhathur Bimson.”
Reynoso’s companion points at Kibi and starts twittering excitedly in her own tongue. Kibi activates his ioun stone of tongues. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’re the one from the statues!” she says.
“You mean like this?” asks Kibi, pulling out the little figurine of himself that Omar had given him.
“You have one too!” she exclaims. “Have you met the man who made them?”
“No. Er... have you?” asks Kibi.
“Yes!”
“Where is he?”
“He left us a long time ago,” says the Solfar woman.
“Was he all right?” asks Kibi.
“No, he was mad,” says Reynoso. “He was an old, bearded, straggly... human. Like you. Like him, but older.” He points at Step.
The female Solfar whispers to Reynoso, “I should fetch Ilyrio right away.” Reynoso nods, and his companion flies off.
“I’m not getting into any machine!” shouts Kibi after her. Then, as an afterthought, he mutters to Step, “He’s not evil, is he?”
Step shakes his head.
“So, where did you get that translator thingy?" asks Dranko.
“Some travelers brought them, many years ago,” says Reynoso. “They had some they weren’t using and gave them to us.”
“We visited a place full of good people, and many of them had discs just like that one.”
“There are other people trapped like us, then?” asks Reynoso, eyes widening.
“Oh, sure!” says Dranko. He fishes in his pack and pulls out his map of the Slices. Before he can get started on what would no doubt be a faithful retelling of the Company’s adventures, Reynoso cuts him off with a gesture.
“Please... wait for my friend to return. We have sent for a scribe, who will write down everything you say.”
“Um... no problem,” says Dranko with a shrug.
“Should we be worried about more Screel finding us?” asks Morningstar, looking around.
“No,” says Reynoso. “Not if the pattern holds. We shouldn’t see any more for a week.”
“Where do they come from?” asks Kibi.
“One of the other blue doorways. They usually come out in pairs. This was your first encounter with them, then?”
“Yup,” says Dranko. “They went on and on about ‘self-defense.’ Pfffff.”
Reynoso sighs. “I’ve never heard them say anything else.”
“Charming,” says Dranko.
“What do they do,” asks Grey Wolf, “when they’re not torching passing adventurers?”
“If they don’t see us, they move through the woods until they find one of the blue doorways, and then they go through it. If they do see one of us, they say that phrase over and over again while attacking. We’ve lost several of our number to them. They fly as fast as we do, though either down near the ground or above the trees. The branches and hanging moss interfere with their gears and wheels and flying apparatus.”
When an awkward silence follows, Dranko breaks it by lightning a cigar and asking, “So, how long have you been here? And what is this place called?”
Reynoso looks at Dranko nervously. “We’ve been trapped here for sixteen years. Our homeland is called Solfaria. And what is that?”
He points at Dranko’s cigar.
“Do you want one?” asks Dranko.
“Say no,” advises Aravis.
“Is he going to breathe fire, like the Screel?” asks the Solfar.
“No,” says Aravis. “Just smoke. Nasty smoke. It’s not harmful unless you breathe it in.”
“Fascinating. We should be writing this down. Please, no more discussion while we wait for the scribe.”
“Scribes are very important to you,” says Morningstar.
“Yes! It’s very important that we write down everything. History, and its accurate recording, is one of the highest priorities of the Solfar. We are keepers of knowledge.”
Kibi raises his eyebrows. “Do you have written notes from when the man who made the statues was here?”
“Yes, of course,” says Reynoso.
“We’d like to look at them,” says Kibi, trying to hide his sudden anticipation.
“Most of it was nonsensical ravings,” says Reynoso, “but we did write it all down.”
“We’re experts in nonsensical ravings!” exclaims Dranko.
* *
A few minutes later the scribe arrives, descending gently to stand next to Reynoso. He carries a pack filled with scrolls and quills. A translator disc hangs around his neck by a string.
“Hello. My name is Ilyrio. Esheria told me there was need of a scribe.”
Even before he has finished his introduction, Ilyrio has fished out a pot of ink, unrolled a piece of parchment and readied his pen.
He looks at the Company expectantly.
No one says anything for a good ten seconds.
Aravis breaks the silence this time. “We’re interested in hearing more about the man who made the statues.”
“Of course,” says Reynoso. “And we’re interesting in knowing why he had statues of you.” He nods at Kibi.
“Well, that’s what I want to find out!” says Kibi.
“Because he’s good looking,” suggests Dranko. The scribe dutifully writes that opinion.
“How long ago was he here?” asks Aravis.
“He came to us not long after we discovered we were trapped. Fourteen years ago it was.”
“We’re hoping we can put this all back, some way,” says Morningstar.
“You mean return this piece of Solfaria to the rest?” asks Reynoso. “Good! Do you know, then, why we’re connected to other dangerous places?”
“This was done by some evil shamans,” explains Morningstar.
“So they meant to trap us here?”
“Sort of,” says Morningstar. “We think it’s an experiment gone wrong. But they weren’t up to anything good.”
“They weren’t trying to trap you specifically, if it makes you feel better,” says Aravis.
“There are lots of pieces of lots of worlds cut off, and strung together,” adds Kibi.
“And you can fix things,” says Reynoso. “I think that’s what the man said, though I haven’t looked at his transcriptions in a long time.”
“Like I said, I’d really like to see them,” says Kibi. “Different people seem to have different ideas about what I should do, but none of them really know.”
“And I’d be pleased to tell you all about my life, and where we’re from, if you want to write it all down,” says Dranko expansively.
“Yes!” says Ilyrio. “Of course!”
The scribe is writing astonishingly fast, in tiny handwriting on his parchment scroll. He easily keeps up with the conversation, noting it word for word.
Dranko opens his mouth to begin, but Ernie kicks him.
“Only say polite things, Dranko. None of your.... stories.”
“And you can ask him to stop smoking, if you don’t like it,” adds Kibi.
“Well, it is fouling the air...” says Ilyrio.
Dranko extinguishes his cigar by stubbing it on Ernie’s armor.
To Ernie’s look of indignation, Dranko responds, “It’s okay. When I made your armor, I made little rough spots so I could light matches and snub out cigars on it.”
While Ernie just stands there with his mouth open, Dranko muses out loud to himself, “Next time, I think I’ll make a magical hot spot on the armor, so I can light my cigars just by touching it.”
“And look, they’ve recorded your wonderful ideas,” says Kibi. “’The ravings of the mad half-orc,’ they’ll call it.”
“Ooooh. Ernie, show ‘em. Pull the little finger!” says Dranko.
“No!”
Aravis clears his throat and points at Dranko. “For the record, I don’t want to be included in the archive with him.”
* *
For a long while the Company shows the Solfar their map, and tells them about their adventures in Het Branoi while the scribe writes at a furious pace. Then Reynoso tells the Company their own tale.
“For a long, long time, after we discovered the nature of our predicament, we tried to find a way out. There were over two hundred of us trapped. Now we are only thirty. Many of us died going to where the demons live, thinking to find a doorway beyond that led to safety. Many died, we presume, going into the doorway from where come the Screel, hoping to find a way to stop their attacks. None ever came back. Yet more were slain by the Lumbrese, and while some made it past and through the horizontal doorway in the coliseum, none of them ever came back either. And a dozen or so of us went through a third blue doorway, and a week later the door itself changed from blue to gray. Now it is... disturbing... to go through, and it doesn’t lead anywhere.
“Eventually Sonia, our eldest, decided it was enough, that some day this would end on its own, and that we should stay in hiding until then, and avoid the Screel as best we can.”
“I like these guys too much,” whispers Dranko to the others. “That means something horrible is going to happen to them, doesn’t it?” Out loud, he says, “Do you guys have a map of what you’ve explored?”
“No,” says Reynoso, “but we have recorded the words of those who made it back alive. Beyond our woods is a... Slice, you call them? A Slice with demons, and beyond that is another Slice with more demons. There’s probably a way out beyond, but none of us have made it that far. A handful of travelers have come from there over the years, and they said things like, ‘I can’t believe how lucky we were to have survived.’ Some had lost companions to the demons. One or two left us and went back in, and another couple left in the direction of the Lumbrese. One went to where the Screel come from, and we didn’t see her again. There have been only six such travelers in our sixteen years here, though it’s possible there have been others who came by one doorway and left by another without us even knowing.”
Ilyrio fishes out a number of scrolls covered with tiny writing.
“These are what we wrote, from the ravings from the mad sculptor,” he says. “Please understand: most of what he ‘said’ was just noises, with no translation. And he was usually silent, laboriously carving little statues of Kibilhathur. We built him a small house, on the ground since he could not fly, and brought him food and water. A Scribe was always with him. These scrolls contain the only lucid things he said. Twice he was talking to himself, and twice he addressed the Scribe directly.”
Kibi takes the scrolls, casts comprehend languages, and reads aloud to the others.
(Directly to the Scribe) What if the beard is wrong? He’s so touchy about the beard. For a faulty beard could my whole plan fall into ruin? His image shifts so, and the details are sometimes blurry. And what of the rocks at his feet?
- -
(Directly to the Scribe): One thing I still don’t understand, why is the interstitial matrix in the far realms? I might have expected astral or ethereal or shadow. Even dream would have been plausible. Could wild magic be connected into the unspeakable reaches? It would be a measure of success if that is where the master is and would more explain his need, but at the same time would mean the whole enterprise was misguided from the start. Even the lowest of infinite layers is no closer or farther from the madness than anywhere else. More of the yellow fruits, please. I enjoy them immensely.
- -
If I ever find clouds in this mess I’m going to have his viscera for stew. Stop clamping the wild magic. More silver dragon blood. I’m sure the instability is normal given our power source. Don’t let’s waste any more precious essence on the structure. It’ll all be fine. Such seductive words. Such idiocy in hindsight. And that stupid, stupid woman of his. It’s a miracle she wasn’t throwing dinner parties for the slaves in the rotunda. Did she think we were all on holiday? If there’s any justice clouds has discovered the elemental plane of hornets and the cleaners have eaten the only way out.
- -
I carve he who will undo my mistake. He won't know, so I carve, his face so clear it muddies my thoughts, so people can tell him, he is the key. He will open the way out of here. The source thrashes like a wild beast, trying to escape its cage. The dwarf can bring peace to my caged beast, lift it away so it never troubles me again. Past the demons now, the abyss brought home, the heart of our hut, there is the beast, casting about, ripping away pieces of the universe with no stopping it. It should have worked! It did work! We tore an opening to the abyss where from to call our lord home. Alone of my brothers I hid, and strived, and succeeded. The call went out. We were to be his beacon, so floating in the vastness of the cosmos he would hear our voice and find us and reward our long service and punish who defied him, who blinded and bound him even as they fled. He is the circle and the circle is he. But I failed him. Curse the day I found the eye and set it within my wheels, and now gem and essence both marred. I must escape to rebuild and try again.
...to be continued...