Sagiro's Story Hour Returns (new thread started on 5/18/08)
- Thread starter Sagiro
- Start date
KidCthulhu
First Post
Baby is adorable. She and Aravis' infant son sat in on the game this last Saturday, and were very good. They got to watch us make Sagiro make that face. You know the one. The one where the party announces their plan, the DM checks his notes, makes a face and throws half the pages out the window. It was a triumph!
Sagiro
Rodent of Uncertain Parentage
Thanks for the various bumps and such; I haven't abandoned the story, I promise! In fact, I'm close to posting another update, though I won't make any specific promises as to when. I know better. 
Little Elanor is doing very well... just about 9 weeks old now, and still cute as anything. She loves looking and making baby noises at the stuffed monkey (representing Grey Wolf's familiar Edghar) that hangs from our kitchen chandelier.
One reason I haven't posted an update in a while is that I've been writing up a long-overdue photo-website-thingy from our honeymoon in New Zealand 17 months ago. If you want to look at pictures of an amazing country while waiting for the next update, or want to see pictures of the baby, you can follow the links from my home page, here.
-Sagiro
Little Elanor is doing very well... just about 9 weeks old now, and still cute as anything. She loves looking and making baby noises at the stuffed monkey (representing Grey Wolf's familiar Edghar) that hangs from our kitchen chandelier.
One reason I haven't posted an update in a while is that I've been writing up a long-overdue photo-website-thingy from our honeymoon in New Zealand 17 months ago. If you want to look at pictures of an amazing country while waiting for the next update, or want to see pictures of the baby, you can follow the links from my home page, here.
-Sagiro
Sagiro
Rodent of Uncertain Parentage
Sagiro’s Story Hour, Part 227
Ignis Ex Machina
Kibi teleports a couple more times to retrieve Flicker and get him past the lightning plane. Dranko pries a fang out of the ice-dragon's mouth.
“How did it end up in so many pieces?” asks Flicker.
“Ironstorm Chain Lightning” say many voices.
The party starts to explore the coliseum, noting that the temperature is warming up without the lizard around. Behind one of the pillars Ernie finds the remains of something like a smashed machine. It’s vaguely reminiscent of the thing Aristus was working on. It’s a lump of gears and chains and tubes and wheels and spouts, jumbled together and smashed.
“Hey wizards,” he calls. “What do you think this is?”
“Is it loot?” asks Dranko.
“It’s mechanical looking,” says Ernie.
“Dragons should have hordes,” says Dranko.
Some bits might almost have been meant as feet, to assist movement where its wheels wouldn’t work. There’s no indication about its purpose. There’s no blood, but there’s some black oily liquid on some nearby rocks. Nothing about it is magic.
Further searching reveals the skeletal remains of several halfling-sized creatures. Morningstar shoos the others away and casts thought capture, and (not surprisingly) picks up a fearful thought of someone about to be eaten. A second such spell cast near the machinery reveals a thought of powerful hunger.
“I hate hungry machinery,” says Dranko.
“I think that’s the dragon’s thought,” points out Aravis.
“Yeah. I knew that.”
“It’s still getting warmer,” notes Step, and it’s true. With the cold lizard dead the temperature has risen steadily, while the enormous sun glares brightly in the sky.
“I think the dragon broke its chain a long time ago, and not just to fight us,” says Flicker, examining one of the tethers. Meanwhile Dranko and Ernie examine the most intact of the skeletons and conclude it belonged to a winged humanoid, though there are no signs of wings.
There’s not much more to scout. The Slice turns out to encompass little more than the arena itself. Fortunately there’s a second blue Way in the far entryway (in addition to a gray one high up in the seats), so it’s clear which way they’re headed next.
“You know,” says Dranko to Aravis. “I always imagined I’d be fighting in a coliseum someday against a terrible draconic beast. But no, it had to be you, didn’t it. You had to steal my glory.”
“I’m not sure I’d call that fighting,” says Morningstar, shaking her head at the holes in Aravis’s clothes.
“Sure it was,” says Dranko. “Aravis, you were attacking from inside. You got inside its defenses.”
“Inside its toothy maw, you mean,” says Flicker. “But Dranko, if you want, one of our magic types can summon a monster for you to fight.”
Step jokingly volunteers to be polymorphed into a Dragon.
“Here’s the problem with that,” explains Dranko. “Years from now when I’m telling the story about the fight with the evil monster, people will ask, ‘So what kind of monster was it?’ And I’ll say, ‘a paladin.’ And they’ll say ‘oh, so YOU were the evil monster.’”
There are no magic items among the remains, and no reason to stay any longer. They finish healing up from the fight and head for the glowing blue exit. Dranko goes in first, rope tied around his waist and the rest counting out the standard five Abernathies.
There’s black sucking void, followed soon after by forest. It’s darker than Green Valley, shaggy, old, and mossy. The air is filled with the sounds of birds. Dranko quickly looks around himself but sees only thick trees and vegetation. The undulating ground is covered with leaves and mossy rocks. And the...
Yoink. Five Abernathies are up and the others pull him back.
“It’s a very attractive old forest full of carnivorous birds and evil druids,” Dranko tells them.
“You saw all that?” asks Aravis skeptically.
“Well, I heard the birds. And it was definitely an old forest.”
“Carnivorous?” asks Grey Wolf.
“Evil Druids?” asks Morningstar,
“Well... no. But I thought there might be.”
A minute later the whole Company stands on the mossy carpet of the forest. There’s no sign of intelligent life besides themselves, though admittedly they can’t see very far in any particular direction. There are no signs, no trail, no tracks, just dense dark-green woods.
Dranko scampers up a tree with unexpected difficulty. The tree-trunks are slick with moss and moisture, and the lower branches are few and weak. While he struggles, Grey Wolf’s monkey familiar Edghar clambers up Dranko’s back and hops into the treetops. When Dranko reaches the top a few minutes later and pokes his head above the canopy he sees no signs of man-made habitation. It’s just leaves (and the occasional parakeet) as far as he can see in every direction. Edghar sniffs the air and sadly notes the absence of other monkeys.
With no better plan Morningstar casts find the path to the next Way and gets a direction. At her request Step detects evil before they leave. It’s negative, though he allows his gaze to settle on Flicker for a couple of extra seconds, and then breaks into a chuckle when the halfling looks taken aback.
It’s mighty slow going. The forest is littered with boulders, some only a few feet across, some a hundred feet or more in length or height. There’s plenty of scrambling, stumbling and slipping on slick roots. Kibi grows so weary that he casts xorn movement to travel more easily through the ground, but finds that just as tedious since the roots block him there too. Dranko, in a telepathic bond with some of the others, scouts ahead. (But not too far ahead – Morningstar needs to see him to make course corrections when necessary.) Edghar parallels him high up in the trees.
For a couple of hours it’s an uneventful slog, save for a brief encounter with a deer-like creature. It’s alien-looking, with elongated eyes, six legs, and four sets of antlers. It responds to Dranko’s questions by scampering off into the woods.
The monotony is broken when Edghar says to Grey Wolf: “There’s something up here you’re going to miss, if you keep going in that direction. It’s in the trees.”
Grey Wolf relays this to the others, and Dranko again slowly climbs upward, until he sees what Edghar was talking about. About 150 feet away, and 60 feet off the ground, is a small tree house. At the base of that tree, Morningstar casts detect thoughts and Grey Wolf detect magic, and neither turn up anything unusual.
“Hello?” calls up Morningstar. There’s no response.
Dranko and Flicker climb the tree. There are no ropes, ladders, or any other visible means by which someone could reach the tree-house, but that doesn’t deter the pair of rogues. They climb up the trunk until they find themselves right below the wide wooden platform that serves as the little building’s floor. The radius of the platform is longer than Dranko’s arms, so he clings to a branch with one arm and wraps his whip around the closest branch on the next tree over. Flicker goes hand-over-hand along the taut whip until he clears the platform, and then flips himself upward onto it, landing on the thin ledge between the platform edge and the near wall of the house.
Before Dranko can loose the whip, Edghar climbs up the half-orc’s back and scampers across to the other tree. Flicker edges around the ledge until he finds a doorway and slips in, reporting over the telepathic bond that it’s abandoned.
“There’s furniture,” he calls to Dranko, “sized for a little person, about my size. Lots of moss, and bird-poop everywhere.”
“According to Flicker,” Dranko relays, “this place was once inhabited by small anthropomorphic birds who sat on chairs.”
“How did they get up there?” asks Morningstar.
“I’m telling you, they were bird-people,” says Dranko. “I’m actually being serious. And Flicker says there’s bird poop everywhere.”
“You may be sort of right,” admits Morningstar. “Remember the skeletons we found in the coliseum, that had wings. They were humanoid, but they flew.”
“There could be a whole race of the things around here,” says Dranko.
“Or maybe there was only that one left, and he got lonely, went out, and got eaten,” says Morningstar glumly.
There’s a second floor of the house, but Flicker doesn’t think the flimsy floor will hold his weight. Edghar scampers up and looks around, reporting to Grey Wolf that he sees a bed. He also finds a bird’s nest with small eggs in it.
“I wonder if they’re edible,” wonders the monkey.
“Don’t eat them,” advises Grey Wolf. “They could be poison, or unnatural. Remember that ‘deer’ we saw.”
“Whoever heard of a poisoned egg?” complains Edghar, licking his lips.
“We shouldn’t risk it,” thinks Grey Wolf.
“Wait,” says the monkey. “I have an idea....”
Flicker’s voice comes from the lower floor of the house. “What the...hey! Aww, yuck!”
“Well, it’s not contact poison,” thinks Edghar to Grey Wolf.
“Edghar! Get down here right now if you’re just going to be a pest.”
It’s clear that nothing has lived in the house for years. Dranko mutters a small prayer for its former inhabitants, and back on the ground cleans off Flicker with the decanter of endless water. That sparks a strange discussion about where the water comes from in Het Branoi. Could it be from the part of the Elemental Plane of Water they’ve already visited? And now that they know fish live there, they wonder why fish never come flying out of the decanter.
Edghar keeps exploring while the humanoids hold this vital discourse. He finds another half-dozen tree-houses, all abandoned and rotting.
“They must have fled ages ago,” says Dranko.
“Or died off,” adds Grey Wolf.
“But they wouldn’t have aged to death, right?” says Kibi.
“Why is that when we find abandoned houses, they’re not full of gold and jewels left behind by treasure-loving monsters?” complains Dranko.
“I don’t have an answer for that,” says Grey Wolf. “I’m sorry.”
* *
They keep going, keeping their previous course even though the find the path has expired. It’s only twenty minutes later that Dranko hears a very strange noise coming from behind a large mossy boulder still fifty feet away. He motions for everyone else to stop, and the rest of the Company hears it too.
It sounds like a repeating rhythmic buzzing sound, alternating with a weird beep. Had anyone in the Company known what it meant, they might have used the word “hydraulic” to describe the sound.
“Sounds mechanical,” says Aravis.
“Sounds like something we’ll have to attack,” says Grey Wolf.
“We shouldn’t, unless it provokes us,” says Dranko.
“Like I said,” says Grey Wolf.
The Company moves closer to the boulder to investigate. The sound continues, but now they hear something new – a sound like an automatic saw-blade spinning up, followed by a noise of splintering wood. Grey Wolf lifts his eyebrows.
“Maybe it’s chopping down trees,” says Dranko nervously.
“I’ve got an idea,” says Flicker brightly. “Whatever it is, we’ll capture it, take it back to the coliseum, and Dranko can fight it to the death!”
They reach the boulder, a round hunk of rock over twenty feet in diameter, and the strange sounds are still coming from the other side of it. Now that they’re closer, they can hear that it’s actually two sets of sounds, nearly identical. Click, buzz, whir, beep. Dranko scrambles up the boulder, crouches down when he nears the top, and peers over.
He sees right away that they’re intact versions of the smashed machine the Company found in the coliseum. There are two of them, each about six feet in diameter, trundling slowly along. They look like hodgepodge collections of machine parts and metal plates, rolling on wheels when possible and scooting on feet when necessary. Each has four strangely-jointed metal arms ending in sharp spikes, and assorted other moving parts – spinning tops, rotating gears, belts, tubes and the like. Dranko is reminded of the Apparatus of Aristus that the gnome was working on back at the Eye of the Storm.
As Dranko looks at them, one of them notices him, stops moving, and “looks” back. Something inside spins quickly, and a bright light shines in Dranko’s eyes. He instinctively shields himself with a hand and turns away.
“What are you things?” demands Dranko, calling down to them.
One of them makes some inscrutable semi-vocal sounds – clicks and buzzes interspersed. It sounds sort of like language, so Dranko casts comprehend languages just in time to hear the word “...engaged.”
From a spout somewhere inside the thing’s body, a wide jet of flames shoots out at Dranko. He just manages to duck out of the way, crouching behind the boulder as moss is burned from its top. Dranko smells the burning tips of his own hair.
“I think it’s hostile,” he announces to his friends, as he clings to the side of the boulder away from the strange machines. He can hear their strange voices, which repeat over and over again: “Bzzzz. Self-defense protocols engaged. Bzzzz. Self-defense protocols engaged...”
Craning his neck, he shouts over the boulder at them: “I AM NOT ATTACKING YOU! I AM A FRIEND!”
They just repeat themselves, one right after the other, like an echo. Then, yet another new sound. Chop-chop-chop-chop-chop. It quickly gets louder, until Dranko sees one of the creatures rising up above the boulder on the other side.
“Holy crap!” shouts Dranko, who sees it first. “It’s levitating upward and swinging swords around its head!”
When it crests the boulder it announces once more: “Bzzzz. Self-defense protocols engaged,” and sprays the entire area around the waiting Company with flames. Smoke rises from burned vegetation and various party members.
“What the hell is that?” shouts Flicker. He fishes out his sling and lets fly two bullets, but they just bounce off some of the metal plates.
Wisely, the party starts to scatter as well as they can while they return fire. Grey Wolf pegs it with an acid orb, setting the thing’s metal bits to hissing and smoking. Snokas fires off an arrow that’s deflected like the sling stone. Kibi uncorks a lightning bolt, and for a split-second electricity plays around the whole “body” of the machine. But almost instantly the electricity rushes down a thin cord dangling from the machine-creature and dissipates harmlessly into the ground.
“It’s immune to lightning!” calls Dranko from the boulder. “It’s got some magic cord hanging down that nullified the electricity!”
“It’s grounded,” calls back Aravis, understanding.
“No, it’s flying!” returns Dranko. Can’t they see it? “We’re the ones grounded!”
Aravis sighs. It’s just not worth the explanation.
The grounding wire seems to have no effect on Morningstar’s flame strike, which brings down dark flames on both the metal beasts.
A wonderful idea comes into Dranko’s head as he watches the “whirling swords” of the machine. On his first trip to the provisioners, the day after being summoned to Abernathy’s tower, Dranko had purchased himself a fishing net. Having carried it around all these years, here’s finally a chance to put it to use.
“Net,” he calls, and it comes into his hand from his magic widemouth pouch. He grips one of its weighted edges, hefts it in his hands, and flings it at the flying machine. It’s not a perfect throw, but the leading edge goes just far enough, and the whole net gets twirled into the thing’s propeller. A horrible wrenching sound comes from the machine, right before it drops from the sky and lands with a metallic thud.
“Self-defense protocols engaged,” comes its emotionless voice.
“That was good,” says Grey Wolf. “That was very, very good.”
Step, closest to the second machine, charges toward it. The machine has the same idea; it extends its own propeller and shoots toward step, hovering a few feet off the ground. As it flies it unfolds its four spike-tipped arms and drives three of them right through Step’s armor. Blood pours from the holes. With careful and practiced placement, Aravis and Ernie pound the machines with a fireball and flame strike respectively.
Dranko hears a whirring saw-blade sound from the one he netted, and in several places the net pops away, cut. From a nozzle it spews flame over half the party. Roots, rocks and clothing are blackened.
“Self-defense my ass!” Dranko exclaims.
Grey Wolf pegs the netted machine with another acid orb. He’s rewarded with even more hissing and smoke, and then the propeller droops down, melted, while a jet of steam shoots out the machine’s back. “Defense protoccccclllllllpffffff...” it says, before shutting down at last.
The other machine is soon overwhelmed. Snokas drives a pick into its gears, Kibi nails it with a coldfire, and Step, emboldened by a popular healing circle from Morningstar, hacks it with his keen broadsword. He severs enough important tubes and wires that it abruptly stops talking, falls five feet to the ground, and lies still.
...to be continued...
Ignis Ex Machina
Kibi teleports a couple more times to retrieve Flicker and get him past the lightning plane. Dranko pries a fang out of the ice-dragon's mouth.
“How did it end up in so many pieces?” asks Flicker.
“Ironstorm Chain Lightning” say many voices.
The party starts to explore the coliseum, noting that the temperature is warming up without the lizard around. Behind one of the pillars Ernie finds the remains of something like a smashed machine. It’s vaguely reminiscent of the thing Aristus was working on. It’s a lump of gears and chains and tubes and wheels and spouts, jumbled together and smashed.
“Hey wizards,” he calls. “What do you think this is?”
“Is it loot?” asks Dranko.
“It’s mechanical looking,” says Ernie.
“Dragons should have hordes,” says Dranko.
Some bits might almost have been meant as feet, to assist movement where its wheels wouldn’t work. There’s no indication about its purpose. There’s no blood, but there’s some black oily liquid on some nearby rocks. Nothing about it is magic.
Further searching reveals the skeletal remains of several halfling-sized creatures. Morningstar shoos the others away and casts thought capture, and (not surprisingly) picks up a fearful thought of someone about to be eaten. A second such spell cast near the machinery reveals a thought of powerful hunger.
“I hate hungry machinery,” says Dranko.
“I think that’s the dragon’s thought,” points out Aravis.
“Yeah. I knew that.”
“It’s still getting warmer,” notes Step, and it’s true. With the cold lizard dead the temperature has risen steadily, while the enormous sun glares brightly in the sky.
“I think the dragon broke its chain a long time ago, and not just to fight us,” says Flicker, examining one of the tethers. Meanwhile Dranko and Ernie examine the most intact of the skeletons and conclude it belonged to a winged humanoid, though there are no signs of wings.
There’s not much more to scout. The Slice turns out to encompass little more than the arena itself. Fortunately there’s a second blue Way in the far entryway (in addition to a gray one high up in the seats), so it’s clear which way they’re headed next.
“You know,” says Dranko to Aravis. “I always imagined I’d be fighting in a coliseum someday against a terrible draconic beast. But no, it had to be you, didn’t it. You had to steal my glory.”
“I’m not sure I’d call that fighting,” says Morningstar, shaking her head at the holes in Aravis’s clothes.
“Sure it was,” says Dranko. “Aravis, you were attacking from inside. You got inside its defenses.”
“Inside its toothy maw, you mean,” says Flicker. “But Dranko, if you want, one of our magic types can summon a monster for you to fight.”
Step jokingly volunteers to be polymorphed into a Dragon.
“Here’s the problem with that,” explains Dranko. “Years from now when I’m telling the story about the fight with the evil monster, people will ask, ‘So what kind of monster was it?’ And I’ll say, ‘a paladin.’ And they’ll say ‘oh, so YOU were the evil monster.’”
There are no magic items among the remains, and no reason to stay any longer. They finish healing up from the fight and head for the glowing blue exit. Dranko goes in first, rope tied around his waist and the rest counting out the standard five Abernathies.
There’s black sucking void, followed soon after by forest. It’s darker than Green Valley, shaggy, old, and mossy. The air is filled with the sounds of birds. Dranko quickly looks around himself but sees only thick trees and vegetation. The undulating ground is covered with leaves and mossy rocks. And the...
Yoink. Five Abernathies are up and the others pull him back.
“It’s a very attractive old forest full of carnivorous birds and evil druids,” Dranko tells them.
“You saw all that?” asks Aravis skeptically.
“Well, I heard the birds. And it was definitely an old forest.”
“Carnivorous?” asks Grey Wolf.
“Evil Druids?” asks Morningstar,
“Well... no. But I thought there might be.”
A minute later the whole Company stands on the mossy carpet of the forest. There’s no sign of intelligent life besides themselves, though admittedly they can’t see very far in any particular direction. There are no signs, no trail, no tracks, just dense dark-green woods.
Dranko scampers up a tree with unexpected difficulty. The tree-trunks are slick with moss and moisture, and the lower branches are few and weak. While he struggles, Grey Wolf’s monkey familiar Edghar clambers up Dranko’s back and hops into the treetops. When Dranko reaches the top a few minutes later and pokes his head above the canopy he sees no signs of man-made habitation. It’s just leaves (and the occasional parakeet) as far as he can see in every direction. Edghar sniffs the air and sadly notes the absence of other monkeys.
With no better plan Morningstar casts find the path to the next Way and gets a direction. At her request Step detects evil before they leave. It’s negative, though he allows his gaze to settle on Flicker for a couple of extra seconds, and then breaks into a chuckle when the halfling looks taken aback.
It’s mighty slow going. The forest is littered with boulders, some only a few feet across, some a hundred feet or more in length or height. There’s plenty of scrambling, stumbling and slipping on slick roots. Kibi grows so weary that he casts xorn movement to travel more easily through the ground, but finds that just as tedious since the roots block him there too. Dranko, in a telepathic bond with some of the others, scouts ahead. (But not too far ahead – Morningstar needs to see him to make course corrections when necessary.) Edghar parallels him high up in the trees.
For a couple of hours it’s an uneventful slog, save for a brief encounter with a deer-like creature. It’s alien-looking, with elongated eyes, six legs, and four sets of antlers. It responds to Dranko’s questions by scampering off into the woods.
The monotony is broken when Edghar says to Grey Wolf: “There’s something up here you’re going to miss, if you keep going in that direction. It’s in the trees.”
Grey Wolf relays this to the others, and Dranko again slowly climbs upward, until he sees what Edghar was talking about. About 150 feet away, and 60 feet off the ground, is a small tree house. At the base of that tree, Morningstar casts detect thoughts and Grey Wolf detect magic, and neither turn up anything unusual.
“Hello?” calls up Morningstar. There’s no response.
Dranko and Flicker climb the tree. There are no ropes, ladders, or any other visible means by which someone could reach the tree-house, but that doesn’t deter the pair of rogues. They climb up the trunk until they find themselves right below the wide wooden platform that serves as the little building’s floor. The radius of the platform is longer than Dranko’s arms, so he clings to a branch with one arm and wraps his whip around the closest branch on the next tree over. Flicker goes hand-over-hand along the taut whip until he clears the platform, and then flips himself upward onto it, landing on the thin ledge between the platform edge and the near wall of the house.
Before Dranko can loose the whip, Edghar climbs up the half-orc’s back and scampers across to the other tree. Flicker edges around the ledge until he finds a doorway and slips in, reporting over the telepathic bond that it’s abandoned.
“There’s furniture,” he calls to Dranko, “sized for a little person, about my size. Lots of moss, and bird-poop everywhere.”
“According to Flicker,” Dranko relays, “this place was once inhabited by small anthropomorphic birds who sat on chairs.”
“How did they get up there?” asks Morningstar.
“I’m telling you, they were bird-people,” says Dranko. “I’m actually being serious. And Flicker says there’s bird poop everywhere.”
“You may be sort of right,” admits Morningstar. “Remember the skeletons we found in the coliseum, that had wings. They were humanoid, but they flew.”
“There could be a whole race of the things around here,” says Dranko.
“Or maybe there was only that one left, and he got lonely, went out, and got eaten,” says Morningstar glumly.
There’s a second floor of the house, but Flicker doesn’t think the flimsy floor will hold his weight. Edghar scampers up and looks around, reporting to Grey Wolf that he sees a bed. He also finds a bird’s nest with small eggs in it.
“I wonder if they’re edible,” wonders the monkey.
“Don’t eat them,” advises Grey Wolf. “They could be poison, or unnatural. Remember that ‘deer’ we saw.”
“Whoever heard of a poisoned egg?” complains Edghar, licking his lips.
“We shouldn’t risk it,” thinks Grey Wolf.
“Wait,” says the monkey. “I have an idea....”
Flicker’s voice comes from the lower floor of the house. “What the...hey! Aww, yuck!”
“Well, it’s not contact poison,” thinks Edghar to Grey Wolf.
“Edghar! Get down here right now if you’re just going to be a pest.”
It’s clear that nothing has lived in the house for years. Dranko mutters a small prayer for its former inhabitants, and back on the ground cleans off Flicker with the decanter of endless water. That sparks a strange discussion about where the water comes from in Het Branoi. Could it be from the part of the Elemental Plane of Water they’ve already visited? And now that they know fish live there, they wonder why fish never come flying out of the decanter.
Edghar keeps exploring while the humanoids hold this vital discourse. He finds another half-dozen tree-houses, all abandoned and rotting.
“They must have fled ages ago,” says Dranko.
“Or died off,” adds Grey Wolf.
“But they wouldn’t have aged to death, right?” says Kibi.
“Why is that when we find abandoned houses, they’re not full of gold and jewels left behind by treasure-loving monsters?” complains Dranko.
“I don’t have an answer for that,” says Grey Wolf. “I’m sorry.”
* *
They keep going, keeping their previous course even though the find the path has expired. It’s only twenty minutes later that Dranko hears a very strange noise coming from behind a large mossy boulder still fifty feet away. He motions for everyone else to stop, and the rest of the Company hears it too.
It sounds like a repeating rhythmic buzzing sound, alternating with a weird beep. Had anyone in the Company known what it meant, they might have used the word “hydraulic” to describe the sound.
“Sounds mechanical,” says Aravis.
“Sounds like something we’ll have to attack,” says Grey Wolf.
“We shouldn’t, unless it provokes us,” says Dranko.
“Like I said,” says Grey Wolf.
The Company moves closer to the boulder to investigate. The sound continues, but now they hear something new – a sound like an automatic saw-blade spinning up, followed by a noise of splintering wood. Grey Wolf lifts his eyebrows.
“Maybe it’s chopping down trees,” says Dranko nervously.
“I’ve got an idea,” says Flicker brightly. “Whatever it is, we’ll capture it, take it back to the coliseum, and Dranko can fight it to the death!”
They reach the boulder, a round hunk of rock over twenty feet in diameter, and the strange sounds are still coming from the other side of it. Now that they’re closer, they can hear that it’s actually two sets of sounds, nearly identical. Click, buzz, whir, beep. Dranko scrambles up the boulder, crouches down when he nears the top, and peers over.
He sees right away that they’re intact versions of the smashed machine the Company found in the coliseum. There are two of them, each about six feet in diameter, trundling slowly along. They look like hodgepodge collections of machine parts and metal plates, rolling on wheels when possible and scooting on feet when necessary. Each has four strangely-jointed metal arms ending in sharp spikes, and assorted other moving parts – spinning tops, rotating gears, belts, tubes and the like. Dranko is reminded of the Apparatus of Aristus that the gnome was working on back at the Eye of the Storm.
As Dranko looks at them, one of them notices him, stops moving, and “looks” back. Something inside spins quickly, and a bright light shines in Dranko’s eyes. He instinctively shields himself with a hand and turns away.
“What are you things?” demands Dranko, calling down to them.
One of them makes some inscrutable semi-vocal sounds – clicks and buzzes interspersed. It sounds sort of like language, so Dranko casts comprehend languages just in time to hear the word “...engaged.”
From a spout somewhere inside the thing’s body, a wide jet of flames shoots out at Dranko. He just manages to duck out of the way, crouching behind the boulder as moss is burned from its top. Dranko smells the burning tips of his own hair.
“I think it’s hostile,” he announces to his friends, as he clings to the side of the boulder away from the strange machines. He can hear their strange voices, which repeat over and over again: “Bzzzz. Self-defense protocols engaged. Bzzzz. Self-defense protocols engaged...”
Craning his neck, he shouts over the boulder at them: “I AM NOT ATTACKING YOU! I AM A FRIEND!”
They just repeat themselves, one right after the other, like an echo. Then, yet another new sound. Chop-chop-chop-chop-chop. It quickly gets louder, until Dranko sees one of the creatures rising up above the boulder on the other side.
“Holy crap!” shouts Dranko, who sees it first. “It’s levitating upward and swinging swords around its head!”
When it crests the boulder it announces once more: “Bzzzz. Self-defense protocols engaged,” and sprays the entire area around the waiting Company with flames. Smoke rises from burned vegetation and various party members.
“What the hell is that?” shouts Flicker. He fishes out his sling and lets fly two bullets, but they just bounce off some of the metal plates.
Wisely, the party starts to scatter as well as they can while they return fire. Grey Wolf pegs it with an acid orb, setting the thing’s metal bits to hissing and smoking. Snokas fires off an arrow that’s deflected like the sling stone. Kibi uncorks a lightning bolt, and for a split-second electricity plays around the whole “body” of the machine. But almost instantly the electricity rushes down a thin cord dangling from the machine-creature and dissipates harmlessly into the ground.
“It’s immune to lightning!” calls Dranko from the boulder. “It’s got some magic cord hanging down that nullified the electricity!”
“It’s grounded,” calls back Aravis, understanding.
“No, it’s flying!” returns Dranko. Can’t they see it? “We’re the ones grounded!”
Aravis sighs. It’s just not worth the explanation.
The grounding wire seems to have no effect on Morningstar’s flame strike, which brings down dark flames on both the metal beasts.
A wonderful idea comes into Dranko’s head as he watches the “whirling swords” of the machine. On his first trip to the provisioners, the day after being summoned to Abernathy’s tower, Dranko had purchased himself a fishing net. Having carried it around all these years, here’s finally a chance to put it to use.
“Net,” he calls, and it comes into his hand from his magic widemouth pouch. He grips one of its weighted edges, hefts it in his hands, and flings it at the flying machine. It’s not a perfect throw, but the leading edge goes just far enough, and the whole net gets twirled into the thing’s propeller. A horrible wrenching sound comes from the machine, right before it drops from the sky and lands with a metallic thud.
“Self-defense protocols engaged,” comes its emotionless voice.
“That was good,” says Grey Wolf. “That was very, very good.”
Step, closest to the second machine, charges toward it. The machine has the same idea; it extends its own propeller and shoots toward step, hovering a few feet off the ground. As it flies it unfolds its four spike-tipped arms and drives three of them right through Step’s armor. Blood pours from the holes. With careful and practiced placement, Aravis and Ernie pound the machines with a fireball and flame strike respectively.
Dranko hears a whirring saw-blade sound from the one he netted, and in several places the net pops away, cut. From a nozzle it spews flame over half the party. Roots, rocks and clothing are blackened.
“Self-defense my ass!” Dranko exclaims.
Grey Wolf pegs the netted machine with another acid orb. He’s rewarded with even more hissing and smoke, and then the propeller droops down, melted, while a jet of steam shoots out the machine’s back. “Defense protoccccclllllllpffffff...” it says, before shutting down at last.
The other machine is soon overwhelmed. Snokas drives a pick into its gears, Kibi nails it with a coldfire, and Step, emboldened by a popular healing circle from Morningstar, hacks it with his keen broadsword. He severs enough important tubes and wires that it abruptly stops talking, falls five feet to the ground, and lies still.
...to be continued...
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Graywolf-ELM
Explorer
All right. I expected to wait days after your last post. That is a cute baby, and New Zealand is pleasing to the eye as well.
GW
GW
Plane Sailing
Astral Admin - Mwahahaha!
Sagiro said:
Brilliant description of a helicopter!
Sagiro
Rodent of Uncertain Parentage
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...
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...
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Plane Sailing
Astral Admin - Mwahahaha!
Sagiro said:
Ooooo....
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