On the subject of Irrational Games' closing, I don't have much to say that hasn't already been written. I had left almost four years to the day before they shut down, so I don't have any "inside scoop" juicy details about the business. I will say that I wish everyone there the best going forward, and that with the kind of talent the typical Irrational employee had, I doubt many will have trouble finding other industry jobs if they want them.
If you're interested in the topic, I suggest
this excellent Polygon article.
Now, on with the Story!
Sagiro’s Story Hour, Part 373
Leaping
After defeating the Anaxim, annihilating the final peshovar when it finally emerges from Aravis’s
maze is practically an afterthought. Once the beast is dead, Morningstar flies Dranko up so he can retrieve his
immovable rod.
“I was wrong,” says Dranko. “I thought I couldn’t possibly hate Meledien more than I already did, but I was wrong.”
Like the others, he still considers her the most likely candidate for being responsible for the Dranko-obsessed monsters.
“Gods, I hate her,” says Ernie.
Dranko grunts. “And yes, I know it’s probably Seven Dark Words doing the actual summoning, but still.”
Before too long the temple is swarming with stribe, examining and repairing the damage done during the melee. One of them approaches the Company.
“What is the occurrence?”
“A powerful mechanical construct attacked us, in addition to the peshovar,” says Ernie.
“Are you in need of assistable heals?” asks the stribe.
“I need alcohol,” says Dranko wearily.
The stribe clacks its mandibles. “Fungus! We will get you fungus!”
Dranko smiles wanly. “Will it result in me getting inebriated?”
“Yes,” says the stribe. “Fungus for killing the brain.”
“That’s what I need,” says Dranko. “Brain-killing fungus.”
“I hope there’s no mistranslating going on here,” says Aravis.
“Do you still wish leaping? You have successed. The Temple is clean. We will tidy it up. You have tidied, now we will tidy.”
The Company feels like they could do with a rest before Leaping, and it turns out they will have little choice, since the ritual to activate the Leaping Circle will take the stribe shamans four days to complete. They give the stribe the go-ahead to begin.
The Leaping Circle itself is a huge ring of pure adamant, fifty feet across, sunk into the bedrock of a wide cavern. A large flat stone just beyond its perimeter is etched with a large number “8.” It’s the party’s guess that there are at least nine Leaping Circles, each numbered. They’d like to find number “5,” after the Croaking Orcale’s initial proclamation of “hopping, hopping, five, nine, two,” but they have to start somewhere.
The stribe do warn that Leaping Circle #8 does not take one to any other such Circle. Its terminus is the khet forest by which the stribe harvest their wealth. There are ways to go beyond it, though each has its own dangers, and the Company will decided what to do next upon their arrival.
/*/
On the morning of the third day of the ritual, Aravis awakes having had another vision from the surface.
The Greenhouse living room is packed. Salk, Fylnius, Alykeen and Ozilinsh are talking animatedly in a corner. There is Cornelia, the High Priestess of Pikon, and Dalesandro, Stormknight of Werthis, sitting quietly across from King Crunard and his advisor Yale. Royce is there, with Glade and Wellington, examining a map with Anhaya Sunblossom of Yondalla. More come down the stairs from the secret room: the Generals Anabrook and Largent; Duke Nigel; the diviner Belinda. Alone in a corner sits Etria, Duke Nigel’s court wizardess. Eddings hustles about, serving food and drinks.
None of them are smiling.
Salk clears his throat, and the crowd gives him its attention.
“Here is what we know,” he begins without preamble. “Some of this will be redundant for many of you, but I’ll start at the beginning. A little less than a week ago, Naradawk Skewn finally managed to make his escape from Volpos. He initiated something that was heretofore considered impossible – an Astral Tunnel connecting Volpos and Abernia. Prison Primes do not actually border the Astral, which is part of what makes it hard to escape them, but somehow Naradawk figured out a way to make it happen.
“Rosetta and the Silver Shell had some inkling of this plan, and had instigated countermeasures, but those ultimately failed. Rosetta was killed. Etria here was able to escape and warn Duke Nigel, and we immediately sent scouts to the Valding Forest in northern Nahalm. We found that an area of approximately 50 square miles surrounding Naradawk’s entry point had already been enshrouded in an impenetrable fog – a fog shot through with what we’ve come to know as “Essence” – the blood of the Adversary. Needless to say, we have as yet sent no scouting party inside to investigate.
There is a ripple of murmurs through the assemblage at this news. General Anabrook stands up, anger all over her face.
“How is it that Rosetta didn’t see fit to tell us about this threat? Her ridiculous paranoia and bloated self-importance may have doomed the entire kingdom!”
Many heads turn to look at Etria, who holds up her hands, a gesture of frustrated helplessness. The old elf Fylnius stands up. “She had her reasons, and I’m sure they were sound,” he says, glancing at Etria. “But that is not what we are here to discuss. Members of the Spire, Charagan is under attack, or soon will be -- an attack we may not be able to withstand. We are here to talk about our options.”
Royce leans forward in his chair. “What we need are your people, Ozilinsh. Is there no way to recall them?”
“None,” says Ozilinsh flatly. “Whatever defense we can manage, we have to do it without them. And even if I knew a way to call them back, I wouldn’t do it. If they don’t succeed, it won’t matter if Naradawk tomorrow turns into a snail and you step on him.”
“What kind of forces does he have?” asks General Largent. “Hundreds? Thousands? Are they all in the fog?”
“We don’t know,” Salk sighs. “But I can tell you this. An Astral tunnel is inherently unstable, and there are only so many people that can cross through it every second, every minute. It is our opinion that Naradawk would have been lucky to keep his door open more than several hours. But if he had an army staged to come through it, 2 soldiers every second would add up to thousands, even tens of thousands in that time. And he would have chosen his most elite units.”
“Tens of thousands?” Largent is aghast.
“A possibility,” answers Salk. “It’s also possible that his tunnel stayed open for only a few minutes, and it’s less than a thousand. We just don’t know.”
The halfling priestess Anyaha Sunblossom speaks. “Have we contacted allies in Kivia? If we make it known what’s at stake, they will send aid, surely? Maple Sunblade and I have already discussed what we might do for them if Appleseed was attacked by the Anlaki; I know they would commit troops if asked.”
“We have,” says Duke Nigel. “One Supreme Intellect is conferring with his court. Tev and Dir Tolia have already made verbal commitments, but it will take time for them to muster troops. Bederen cannot commit, being tied up with the Delfirians. Anhaya, we have not yet contacted Appleseed; we were hoping you could do that.”
“They could teleport out of the fog, right?”
Everyone turns to regard the young mage, Wellington. He continues. “Naradawk and his allies may simply be consolidating and getting organized in their fog, but they could also be teleporting agents anywhere on Abernia from in there. Is there any reason to think they haven’t?”
“No,” says Anabrook. “The plain fact is, we don’t know what they’re up to, only that in a week, they haven’t mounted any reported offensives.”
“And remember,” Salk adds, “it may not be a ‘they.’ It’s possible that Naradawk Skewn was the only being to make it through the Astral tunnel.”
“What about Parthol Runecarver?” asks Yale with distaste. “Any word from him?”
Fylnius sighs. “We’ve neither seen nor heard from him since our last meeting here. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I’m not relying on his help. Honestly, the best we can hope for there is that he stays in his little hidden bunker and doesn’t get any ideas about allying with Naradawk.”
“It seems to me,” says Largent, “that until we know more, we simply have to be as prepared as possible to send strike teams anywhere in the Kingdom. That means lines of communication, teleports at the ready, and all of our best people mustered and ready at a moment’s notice. That means you…”
He points at Royce, Glade and Wellington.
“…and where are Junaya and Jerzembeck? Why aren’t they here?”
“They’re already in the field,” says Nigel. “Scouting, mostly, in the vicinity of the Valding. And we have… other resources at our command. Some resources and personnel not generally known, even to most of you.”
“What?” The Pikonish Priestess Cornelia looks surprised. “Everyone here is a member of the Spire, and we’re in the most protected sanctuary in the world. How can it hurt to share all possible information about our defenses?”
Nigel flicks a look at Etria. “Remember what we’re dealing with,” he says. “Naradawk is an agent of the Black Circle, infused with the blood of a God whose portfolio focuses on divination. Our best protection against him is to keep specific information on a need-to-know basis. If you were captured, Cornelia, Naradawk could easily learn anything you know.”
“Fine,” she says, though she doesn’t like it one bit.
Salk speaks again. “The plain truth is this. Naradawk could strike anywhere, at any time. His personal power is an unknown, but we should assume he’s the single most dangerous being on Abernia at the moment. If he does have a large force, and plans a conventional military assault, he’ll have to march out of the Valding Forest in some direction, unless he has some way of teleporting thousands of soldiers at once. In the meantime, we simply have to be ready, nimble, and opportunistic.”
They continue to speak, but here the vision fades.
The Company has a brief discussion about this, but can only agree that the Spire will have to weather the storm without them. If nothing else, it makes it all the more imperative that they make haste in their pursuit of Seven Dark Words, Meledien and Tarsos. It will be of little comfort if the Company succeeds, but with a surface world already conquered or destroyed by Naradawk Skewn.
It also seems likely that Duke Nigel, at least, knows there’s a traitor in the Spire. The Company thinks perhaps it is Cornelia, but there’s really no way to know.
/*/
Leaping Circle #8 was already there when the first Stribe settled in the region, and the insect creatures do not know who built it. Instructions for the ritual were helpfully left behind, and for centuries now they have used it to reach their khet forest. Aravis studies the ritual but it’s far beyond even his powers to puzzle through. Somehow it overcomes the Underdark’s inherent stifling of teleportation magic, but he doesn’t know how. It’s a miracle that it works at all.
At last the ritual is nearly complete. Twenty-four stribe shamans are standing around the Leaping Circle’s perimeter, each levitating a heliotrope sphere above its head. The air above the circle is bright; it's either attracting additional light motes, or causing the ones already there to glow more strongly.
A few minutes before departure, a stribe named Ki’iilgin, sort of a foreman in charge of the casting shamans, approaches the waiting Company.
“The Circle goes to our vault,” he says. “Our source of money-khet.”
“We’ve heard that,” says Dranko.
“Yes, the Circle is full of cash.”
“Aren’t you afraid we’ll steal it?” asks Dranko.
“Should we be afraid of stealing?”
Dranko smiles. “No, we won’t steal anything, we promise.”
“You will not,” Ki’iilgin agrees. “There are always stribe stationed there, harvesting, guarding. And we find you very trust.”
“Tell us about khet,” says Ernie. “Where does it come from?”
“Khet crystals grow on trees.”
Ernie laughs. “Mom always said money didn’t grow on trees. She was wrong!”
“If there’s no Leaping Circle at the other end, how do you get back?” asks Morningstar.
“It is a long and difficult journey,” says Ki’iilgan. “The next shipment back is not due for many months.”
“If we wanted to find another Circle, where would we go?”
“We do not know of any other Circle. This is the only Circle of known. Only ours is known.”
“What is near your Khet forest, then?”
“Some ways lead to lava,” says Ki’iilgan. “Other ways lead to something dangerous. Not that lava is not also of danger.”
“We don’t know where we’re going, so anywhere’s okay,” says Dranko.
“And we know that Meledien came through this way,” adds Kibi.
It’s particularly galling that the Evil Trio activated the Leaping Circle in less than a minute, as opposed to the four days it’s taken the stribe. Grey Wolf offers that it’s the Circlet of Yavin that let them activate the Circle so quickly.
With only a minute remaining, a new stribe walks up to them.
“Greetings,” it says. “You are Loo’oofin.”
“I’m what?” asks Dranko.
“I am Loo’oofin.”
“Oh,” says Dranko. “You are Loo’oofin.”
“No, I am Loo’oofin.”
“Right.”
“Nice to meet you,” says Kibi.
“I will be accompanying me on the trip,” says the stribe.
“Parthol needs to fix the pronouns on his translators,” Kibi grumbles.
With a little flash, all of the motes in the circle change from white to deep blue. “You may step into the middle now,” Ki’iilgan,” tells them.
Loo’oofin goes with them. One second they are there, and the next, all of them appear in a smallish non-descript cave. Dranko’s eyes are wide with fear and confusion.
Because for him, the journey was not so instantaneous. Where the others went straight to the arrival cavern, Dranko found himself suspended in a great blackness dotted with unrecognizable stars. Something at the periphery, just beyond where he could see, was something horrible, waiting, watching.
It was the Far Realms, and it was permeated with the nauseating wrongness of Cleaners. His name was whispered by a thousand horrible voices, mixing in a jarring almost-unison of varied tones and timbres, speeds and volumes. One voice spoke louder than the others:
“You are becoming, Dranko. But you must NOT become. Hold it close, hold it close.. And the other voice whispered in agreement.
”(Close…)”
And then he was with the others, staggering in a small circle, clutching his head.
…to be continued…
