Broccli_Head
Explorer
Lazybones said:
Thanks and thanks for the nice end to Book I!
Shackled City Epic: "Vengeance" (story concluded)
- Thread starter Lazybones
- Start date
Thanks and thanks for the nice end to Book I!
Lazybones
Adventurer
Wow, these new boards are unforgiving... less than a week since my last post, and I'm almost on page 3!
Anyway: welcome, readers, to the second installment in my story hour based upon the Dungeon magazine “Adventure Path” of modules. Our heroes have survived the dangers of Jzadirune and the Malachite Fortress in “Life’s Bazaar,” but not without loss.
“Flood Season” can be found in Dungeon #98.
The first few posts will deal with events that take place between the two modules, an interlude of sorts. I considered starting a new thread, but decided to instead continue the story in the current thread (higher page views tend to bring new readers).
In order to avoid confusion, I will continue numbering chapters from where we left off at the end of “Life’s Bazaar.”
* * * * *
Chapter 44
A faint patter of rain sounded on the roof tiles as Zenna bent over the small desk, the only other sound the faint scritch, scritch, of her pen on the sheet of parchment before her.
It was dark in the cramped confines of the loft where the mage worked, the only light coming from a narrow slit of a window near the peak of the roof a few feet from the plank desk where Zenna sat. Zenna needed no lamp or candle for her work, of course, and in fact preferred the quiet solitude of the loft in the washed-out gray light of the rainy day. She knew it would be louder later, when the inn’s custom picked up, and louder still if Mole returned this evening, filled with stories about her day in the city.
Zenna sighed. She hadn’t been a very good companion of late, she knew. Mole had urged her to go out into the city more, to explore all that Cauldron had to offer, to be social and to have fun. Zenna knew, of course, that Mole was worried about her, that she wasn’t putting behind her the memories of what had happened in the dark places under the city. But she had to deal with her feelings in her own way, and Mole hadn’t pressed the point too heavily, all too eager herself to go out into the city and delve into the mysteries that it had to offer.
She would find plenty of those, the tiefling woman thought. Cauldron had more than its share of secrets.
It had been a quiet tenday, all told. They’d spoken with Jenya once or twice since that night, but the interim leader of the church of Helm had been busy, and Zenna had felt uncomfortable around all of the Helmites, as if their very proximity reminded her of what had happened to Ruphos. Jenya had been as good as her word, granting her the magical hat that she now wore at all times, and adding a few healing potions to their reward as well. Mole had mentioned something about a separate reward for Arun, she recalled, but she hadn’t been listening too intently and she had not seen the dwarf at all since they’d emerged from Kazmojen’s stronghold.
Most of her news of events in the city were filtered through Mole, who was all too ready to chatter on endlessly at the end of each day. For all that they were now quartered in an inn, Zenna spent little time in the common room, preferring to bring her meals up to their little shared attic to eat. The loft wasn’t actually in the main building of the Drunken Morkoth, instead situated above one of the long outbuildings behind the structure that were used as stables, workshops, quarters for staff, and general storage. Zenna liked the privacy, and Mole liked the easy access both to the inn and the adjacent alley that opened onto the street. Plus it was relatively cheap, and although they weren’t quite poor, what with the money they’d found in Jzadirune, that was an important consideration for them as well the longer they remained in the city.
And that was another question that lingered unanswered, of course.
Zenna leaned back from the desk, rubbing at her eyes. She didn’t want to think about it. She felt tired, had felt that way a lot over the last tenday. Mole said that she just needed to get out and do things, but even with the artificial means of disguise provided by the magical hat, she had little interest in mingling with others. Since returning from the tunnels under the city she’d felt increasingly hollow, empty, as if she’d left a part of her down there.
Why did she feel that way? It was not as though she had known Ruphos all that well, after all; they’d barely known each other a few days. And while they’d seen some terrible things down below, they’d also overcome a great evil, and brought most of the captives back up to safety. There was the matter of the boy, Terrem, and the beholder, but that mystery too remained unsolved. The day after their return she and Mole had gone with Jenya to the orphanage, only to find that the boy had been returned safely, just as the beholder had said. Gretchyn, the headmistress of the orphanage, hadn’t been able to provide any answers, reporting only that a dark-clad woman had returned the boy that same night, and Terrem wasn’t able to provide anything more useful.
Zenna frowned. There was something more here, something deeper, more sinister, that none of them could see. Why had the beholder been so interested in the boy? Outwardly, there had been nothing to distinguish him from any of the other stolen children. Jenya hadn’t been able to provide any insight, though she’d been noticeably troubled when they had told her about the beholder. Zenna knew little of such beings, except that they were possessed both of great power and great cunning.
She shook her head. The rain had eased off, and she could now hear the faint sounds from the adjacent inn, the bustle of the afternoon rush picking up. Enough time for idle speculation, she thought, reaching for her pen.
She bit off a curse as she looked down at the parchment. The last two characters she’d written were transposed, completely ruining the spell she’d been working on. Fortunately it hadn’t been in her spellbook; she’d have lost a whole page to such a stupid mistake. Her magical powers had grown since they’d returned from underground; in the last tenday she’d added several new spells to her book, including a dweomer taken from a gnomish scroll that they’d found in the skulk treasure. The second spell on that parchment, however, that of mirror image, continued to vex her, taunting her just beyond her abilities, like a book placed on a shelf just above her reach. She could feel some of the new spells burning in her mind right now, imprinted upon her memory like a melody that lingered long after the minstrel stopped playing. She could call upon any of them right now, she knew, and the spell would be wiped clean from her mind, until she rested and studied its formula once more.
She glanced out the window, trying to judge the hour. Mole wouldn’t likely be back for hours. They still took their evening meals together, though didn’t spend much more time together than that, at least not over the last few days. She rose, careful not to bang her head against the sloping roof above, and reached for her cloak. Her gaze lingered on her pack and crossbow for a moment, but she finally decided to leave them; she was only going out into the city, not on another adventure. And if trouble did find her, she had her spells.
With that decision made, she headed down the narrow stairs and went out into the city.
The streets of Cauldron were slick with the day’s rain, with puddles gathering wherever there was a slight dip in the pavement. The sky above was an unbroken bank of deep gray, promising more rain before nightfall. The air was clean, heavy with dampness, and Zenna’s hair clung to the back of her head as she left the alley behind the Morkoth and started down Obsidian Street in the direction of the city’s northern gate. She left her cowl down; with the magical hat, she no longer needed to hide her features from people. The streets were rather quiet, however, the citizenry of the town muted by a combination of the weather and the difficult times that they had faced over the last month. Zenna passed by a number of townsfolk who seemed primarily interested in minding their own business and hurrying about their errands before the rain started up again. That was fine with her; she was of a like mind.
The scrivener’s shop was only a few blocks from the Drunken Morkoth, nestled into one corner of a large two-story building that also housed a printer, a leather-goods shop, and apartments above. The proprietor was a middle-aged woman named Leira, who knew Zenna from several past visits over the last few tendays. Her prices were fair, but blank scrolls and such were expensive, and Zenna self-consciously felt at her unhappily light purse as she entered the shop.
The front room of the shop was tiny, with only a counter, two chairs barely larger than stools, and a curtained doorway that led back into the workroom. The place smelled like paper, and inkstains decorated the old wood in more than a few places. Zenna could hear Leira whistling in the backroom, and as the tiny bell over the door tinkled she came out to greet her.
“Hello, Leira... I’m afraid I made a mistake on my last scroll, and I need a few more sheets of parchment... what’s wrong?”
The older woman’s smile had faded when she’d gotten a good look at her customer, and now her face grew pale. “Uh, um, nothing, let me get that for you.” She turned and hurriedly retreated back to the workroom, the curtain swaying behind her.
Zenna frowned, wondering what was wrong with the woman. For a moment she felt a sudden twinge of panic and reached up, confirming that the magical hat was still in place. Had its power failed for some reason? She could still feel the stubby horns that jutted from her temples; the magic only concealed them, did not actually change her body in any way. But without a mirror, there was no way to know for sure what Leira had seen.
“You used the calfskin, as I recall,” she said, returning with a small package. “Three sheets, six silver, please.”
On her previous visits Leira had been chatty and friendly, asking questions and making suggestions for other products. But now she was clearly agitated, taking Zenna’s money and waiting there as if eager for her to depart. Distracted, Zenna left, glancing back to see the woman watching her through the front window of the shop.
She walked down the street, staying in the shadow of the buildings. She passed by another shop, this one closed and empty, and paused by its window. The four panes of glass set into the frame were of poor quality, clouded and scratched, but there was just enough light for her to clearly see her own reflection in its surface.
She sucked in a startled breath.
Anyway: welcome, readers, to the second installment in my story hour based upon the Dungeon magazine “Adventure Path” of modules. Our heroes have survived the dangers of Jzadirune and the Malachite Fortress in “Life’s Bazaar,” but not without loss.
“Flood Season” can be found in Dungeon #98.
The first few posts will deal with events that take place between the two modules, an interlude of sorts. I considered starting a new thread, but decided to instead continue the story in the current thread (higher page views tend to bring new readers).
In order to avoid confusion, I will continue numbering chapters from where we left off at the end of “Life’s Bazaar.”
* * * * *
Chapter 44
A faint patter of rain sounded on the roof tiles as Zenna bent over the small desk, the only other sound the faint scritch, scritch, of her pen on the sheet of parchment before her.
It was dark in the cramped confines of the loft where the mage worked, the only light coming from a narrow slit of a window near the peak of the roof a few feet from the plank desk where Zenna sat. Zenna needed no lamp or candle for her work, of course, and in fact preferred the quiet solitude of the loft in the washed-out gray light of the rainy day. She knew it would be louder later, when the inn’s custom picked up, and louder still if Mole returned this evening, filled with stories about her day in the city.
Zenna sighed. She hadn’t been a very good companion of late, she knew. Mole had urged her to go out into the city more, to explore all that Cauldron had to offer, to be social and to have fun. Zenna knew, of course, that Mole was worried about her, that she wasn’t putting behind her the memories of what had happened in the dark places under the city. But she had to deal with her feelings in her own way, and Mole hadn’t pressed the point too heavily, all too eager herself to go out into the city and delve into the mysteries that it had to offer.
She would find plenty of those, the tiefling woman thought. Cauldron had more than its share of secrets.
It had been a quiet tenday, all told. They’d spoken with Jenya once or twice since that night, but the interim leader of the church of Helm had been busy, and Zenna had felt uncomfortable around all of the Helmites, as if their very proximity reminded her of what had happened to Ruphos. Jenya had been as good as her word, granting her the magical hat that she now wore at all times, and adding a few healing potions to their reward as well. Mole had mentioned something about a separate reward for Arun, she recalled, but she hadn’t been listening too intently and she had not seen the dwarf at all since they’d emerged from Kazmojen’s stronghold.
Most of her news of events in the city were filtered through Mole, who was all too ready to chatter on endlessly at the end of each day. For all that they were now quartered in an inn, Zenna spent little time in the common room, preferring to bring her meals up to their little shared attic to eat. The loft wasn’t actually in the main building of the Drunken Morkoth, instead situated above one of the long outbuildings behind the structure that were used as stables, workshops, quarters for staff, and general storage. Zenna liked the privacy, and Mole liked the easy access both to the inn and the adjacent alley that opened onto the street. Plus it was relatively cheap, and although they weren’t quite poor, what with the money they’d found in Jzadirune, that was an important consideration for them as well the longer they remained in the city.
And that was another question that lingered unanswered, of course.
Zenna leaned back from the desk, rubbing at her eyes. She didn’t want to think about it. She felt tired, had felt that way a lot over the last tenday. Mole said that she just needed to get out and do things, but even with the artificial means of disguise provided by the magical hat, she had little interest in mingling with others. Since returning from the tunnels under the city she’d felt increasingly hollow, empty, as if she’d left a part of her down there.
Why did she feel that way? It was not as though she had known Ruphos all that well, after all; they’d barely known each other a few days. And while they’d seen some terrible things down below, they’d also overcome a great evil, and brought most of the captives back up to safety. There was the matter of the boy, Terrem, and the beholder, but that mystery too remained unsolved. The day after their return she and Mole had gone with Jenya to the orphanage, only to find that the boy had been returned safely, just as the beholder had said. Gretchyn, the headmistress of the orphanage, hadn’t been able to provide any answers, reporting only that a dark-clad woman had returned the boy that same night, and Terrem wasn’t able to provide anything more useful.
Zenna frowned. There was something more here, something deeper, more sinister, that none of them could see. Why had the beholder been so interested in the boy? Outwardly, there had been nothing to distinguish him from any of the other stolen children. Jenya hadn’t been able to provide any insight, though she’d been noticeably troubled when they had told her about the beholder. Zenna knew little of such beings, except that they were possessed both of great power and great cunning.
She shook her head. The rain had eased off, and she could now hear the faint sounds from the adjacent inn, the bustle of the afternoon rush picking up. Enough time for idle speculation, she thought, reaching for her pen.
She bit off a curse as she looked down at the parchment. The last two characters she’d written were transposed, completely ruining the spell she’d been working on. Fortunately it hadn’t been in her spellbook; she’d have lost a whole page to such a stupid mistake. Her magical powers had grown since they’d returned from underground; in the last tenday she’d added several new spells to her book, including a dweomer taken from a gnomish scroll that they’d found in the skulk treasure. The second spell on that parchment, however, that of mirror image, continued to vex her, taunting her just beyond her abilities, like a book placed on a shelf just above her reach. She could feel some of the new spells burning in her mind right now, imprinted upon her memory like a melody that lingered long after the minstrel stopped playing. She could call upon any of them right now, she knew, and the spell would be wiped clean from her mind, until she rested and studied its formula once more.
She glanced out the window, trying to judge the hour. Mole wouldn’t likely be back for hours. They still took their evening meals together, though didn’t spend much more time together than that, at least not over the last few days. She rose, careful not to bang her head against the sloping roof above, and reached for her cloak. Her gaze lingered on her pack and crossbow for a moment, but she finally decided to leave them; she was only going out into the city, not on another adventure. And if trouble did find her, she had her spells.
With that decision made, she headed down the narrow stairs and went out into the city.
The streets of Cauldron were slick with the day’s rain, with puddles gathering wherever there was a slight dip in the pavement. The sky above was an unbroken bank of deep gray, promising more rain before nightfall. The air was clean, heavy with dampness, and Zenna’s hair clung to the back of her head as she left the alley behind the Morkoth and started down Obsidian Street in the direction of the city’s northern gate. She left her cowl down; with the magical hat, she no longer needed to hide her features from people. The streets were rather quiet, however, the citizenry of the town muted by a combination of the weather and the difficult times that they had faced over the last month. Zenna passed by a number of townsfolk who seemed primarily interested in minding their own business and hurrying about their errands before the rain started up again. That was fine with her; she was of a like mind.
The scrivener’s shop was only a few blocks from the Drunken Morkoth, nestled into one corner of a large two-story building that also housed a printer, a leather-goods shop, and apartments above. The proprietor was a middle-aged woman named Leira, who knew Zenna from several past visits over the last few tendays. Her prices were fair, but blank scrolls and such were expensive, and Zenna self-consciously felt at her unhappily light purse as she entered the shop.
The front room of the shop was tiny, with only a counter, two chairs barely larger than stools, and a curtained doorway that led back into the workroom. The place smelled like paper, and inkstains decorated the old wood in more than a few places. Zenna could hear Leira whistling in the backroom, and as the tiny bell over the door tinkled she came out to greet her.
“Hello, Leira... I’m afraid I made a mistake on my last scroll, and I need a few more sheets of parchment... what’s wrong?”
The older woman’s smile had faded when she’d gotten a good look at her customer, and now her face grew pale. “Uh, um, nothing, let me get that for you.” She turned and hurriedly retreated back to the workroom, the curtain swaying behind her.
Zenna frowned, wondering what was wrong with the woman. For a moment she felt a sudden twinge of panic and reached up, confirming that the magical hat was still in place. Had its power failed for some reason? She could still feel the stubby horns that jutted from her temples; the magic only concealed them, did not actually change her body in any way. But without a mirror, there was no way to know for sure what Leira had seen.
“You used the calfskin, as I recall,” she said, returning with a small package. “Three sheets, six silver, please.”
On her previous visits Leira had been chatty and friendly, asking questions and making suggestions for other products. But now she was clearly agitated, taking Zenna’s money and waiting there as if eager for her to depart. Distracted, Zenna left, glancing back to see the woman watching her through the front window of the shop.
She walked down the street, staying in the shadow of the buildings. She passed by another shop, this one closed and empty, and paused by its window. The four panes of glass set into the frame were of poor quality, clouded and scratched, but there was just enough light for her to clearly see her own reflection in its surface.
She sucked in a startled breath.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Thanks, Mojo Jojo.
* * * * *
Chapter 45
Zenna stared into a face that was her own, yet at the same time...
At first she thought it was just the way that the shadowy reflection showed in the bad glass. But then she saw that her cloak and the rest of her body was clearly outlined in the impromptu mirror, it was only her face that was... wrong.
The magic of the hat was still working, at least she could not see the horns that were nonetheless still there. But her skin... not just pale, it was somehow... faded, as if formed of a thin parchment that had been scraped once too many times. She touched her face; the skin was firm, solid, but to her eyes it looked almost insubstantial.
A sickening feeling caught her gut and squeezed. What was happening to her?
She looked down at her hands, and tugged off one of her thin leather gloves. Immediately she saw that the skin looked the same, worse even when looked at directly, rather than in the reflection of the glass. Her flesh was pale, and as she moved it she thought that she could almost see the ground below through the delicate fingers.
“No,” she said, feeling a rush of anxiety come over her. She’d felt sick, hollow, it was true, over the last few days, but this... It was as if she was slowly vanishing, fading until there would be nothing left of her at all, as if she’d never existed...
“What the...”
Zenna looked up, and saw that a man dressed in the simple clothes of a laborer had approached along the walk, drawing back in surprise as he got a good look at her. With a reflex born of long practice Zenna turned away, darting out into the street and rushing away from the man, pulling up her cowl to hide her features. The man shouted something after her, but she could not tell what it was over the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. As long as she could hear that sound, she thought, she was still alive. She stabbed her hand back into her glove, running down the street, dodging the occasional horse or wagon, avoiding the pedestrians along the walk to either side that looked out at her in surprise as she ran past.
She wasn’t really sure where she was running to, at first, but her course was taking her farther away from the Morkoth. Past the North Gate, she knew, further down Obsidian Street, was the Temple of Helm. She felt uncomfortable at the thought of returning there, but she remembered the way that her hand had looked just a few moments ago, and rushed on. Perhaps Jenya could do something to help her...
Something cold touched her face. It was starting to rain again.
“Watch it, woman!”
The teamster yelled out his warning as Zenna rushed blindly across an intersection, her cowl limiting her field of view. A two-horse team was drawing a wagon up one of the sloping streets that formed the spokes connecting the main boulevards that ringed the town. One of the horses reared as she shot past, startled by her sudden appearance. She narrowly avoided a hoof that lashed out at the air before her, and then she was past, curses from the driver following her. She turned to look back over her shoulder...
“Arg!”
One boot caught on an uneven flagstone in the street, and the other slid out from under her as it landed awkwardly on the slick stone. She was falling, her momentum carrying her forward, and then pain exploded through her body as she landed hard on the wet street. She felt a shocking cold as water seeped through her clothes, then a warm haze that fell over her like a blanket. For a moment the world seemed to spin out of control around her, then it started to fade, everything melding into a soft grayness that filled her senses.
No, I don’t want to fade away! she screamed, but the sound only echoed hollowly in her own thoughts.
The last thing she was aware of was voices, distant and jumbled. One voice seemed to separate from that mass, its tone soft and comforting, but although she strained to make out the words, they slipped through her thoughts like water through her fingers.
Then she faded, and everything disappeared.
* * * * *
Chapter 45
Zenna stared into a face that was her own, yet at the same time...
At first she thought it was just the way that the shadowy reflection showed in the bad glass. But then she saw that her cloak and the rest of her body was clearly outlined in the impromptu mirror, it was only her face that was... wrong.
The magic of the hat was still working, at least she could not see the horns that were nonetheless still there. But her skin... not just pale, it was somehow... faded, as if formed of a thin parchment that had been scraped once too many times. She touched her face; the skin was firm, solid, but to her eyes it looked almost insubstantial.
A sickening feeling caught her gut and squeezed. What was happening to her?
She looked down at her hands, and tugged off one of her thin leather gloves. Immediately she saw that the skin looked the same, worse even when looked at directly, rather than in the reflection of the glass. Her flesh was pale, and as she moved it she thought that she could almost see the ground below through the delicate fingers.
“No,” she said, feeling a rush of anxiety come over her. She’d felt sick, hollow, it was true, over the last few days, but this... It was as if she was slowly vanishing, fading until there would be nothing left of her at all, as if she’d never existed...
“What the...”
Zenna looked up, and saw that a man dressed in the simple clothes of a laborer had approached along the walk, drawing back in surprise as he got a good look at her. With a reflex born of long practice Zenna turned away, darting out into the street and rushing away from the man, pulling up her cowl to hide her features. The man shouted something after her, but she could not tell what it was over the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. As long as she could hear that sound, she thought, she was still alive. She stabbed her hand back into her glove, running down the street, dodging the occasional horse or wagon, avoiding the pedestrians along the walk to either side that looked out at her in surprise as she ran past.
She wasn’t really sure where she was running to, at first, but her course was taking her farther away from the Morkoth. Past the North Gate, she knew, further down Obsidian Street, was the Temple of Helm. She felt uncomfortable at the thought of returning there, but she remembered the way that her hand had looked just a few moments ago, and rushed on. Perhaps Jenya could do something to help her...
Something cold touched her face. It was starting to rain again.
“Watch it, woman!”
The teamster yelled out his warning as Zenna rushed blindly across an intersection, her cowl limiting her field of view. A two-horse team was drawing a wagon up one of the sloping streets that formed the spokes connecting the main boulevards that ringed the town. One of the horses reared as she shot past, startled by her sudden appearance. She narrowly avoided a hoof that lashed out at the air before her, and then she was past, curses from the driver following her. She turned to look back over her shoulder...
“Arg!”
One boot caught on an uneven flagstone in the street, and the other slid out from under her as it landed awkwardly on the slick stone. She was falling, her momentum carrying her forward, and then pain exploded through her body as she landed hard on the wet street. She felt a shocking cold as water seeped through her clothes, then a warm haze that fell over her like a blanket. For a moment the world seemed to spin out of control around her, then it started to fade, everything melding into a soft grayness that filled her senses.
No, I don’t want to fade away! she screamed, but the sound only echoed hollowly in her own thoughts.
The last thing she was aware of was voices, distant and jumbled. One voice seemed to separate from that mass, its tone soft and comforting, but although she strained to make out the words, they slipped through her thoughts like water through her fingers.
Then she faded, and everything disappeared.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Thanks for the bump, it's darned hard to stay on page 1 on these new boards 
* * * * *
Chapter 46
Consciousness game gradually, the layers of gray that enfolded her falling away in stages. Around her the world took focus, with light, sound, smell, and sensation each returning slowly.
Zenna blinked, and looked around her. She was in a small but comfortable chamber that was crowded with an unusual array of furnishings and decorative enhancements. Plush carpets woven with complex patterns covered almost the entirety of the wooden floor, the colors blending well with the tapestries that hung from the walls intermittently between the many tall bookshelves crammed with volumes. That alone was remarkable—a collection of several hundred books was worth a small fortune—but Zenna’s attention was further drawn to the odd knickknacks scattered on the bookshelves, the small end tables situated throughout the room, or even hanging from the ceiling from slender lengths of chain. These curios ranged from weapons of unusual make, carvings and statuettes fashioned from wood, clay, or metal, a small collection of odd skulls of various sizes, some colored glassware, small pots and vases, and a few other items that even Zenna could not readily identify at first glance. A stream of incense wafted up into the air from a small brass censer atop one of the small tables, filling the room with a faint smell of vanilla and lavender.
She was lying on a couch heavily decorated with embroidered pillows. Her body felt light, a little numb, but she felt a surge of relief that she could feel it at all. She lifted her arm—a motion that cost a fair amount of effort—and was relieved when her sleeve fell away to reveal solid, substantial flesh underneath.
A slight sound drew her attention around, behind her. There, sitting on a gilded perch before the room’s only window, was a white owl. The bird was watching her with its wide golden eyes, but it gave no sign that it was disconcerted by her proximity or her movements.
Zenna rose, slowly, to a sitting position. She felt weak, but there were no other lingering effects of the sickness she’d had. Using the end of the couch as a prop, she rose, waiting to see if her legs would support her. She looked at the owl, who was preening itself, apparently bored with her already. Behind it she could see through the window that it was still raining, the city a washed-out haze through the rain-streaked window. The window faced toward the center of the city, and was fairly high up, a few stories above ground level at least. She could see the roofs of buildings that dropped in huge steps toward the lake beyond.
“A fine view, is it not? Even on a dreary day like this one, I find it refreshing.”
The voice drew her around so suddenly that her legs nearly gave out under her. The speaker was a man in his later years, perhaps sixty, though still hale. He stood in one of the doorways that exited the room, clad in a simple robe of soft white cloth belted at the waist. His close-cropped hair and beard were a slate gray, a stark contrast to eyes that were the deep green of emeralds. He wore a pendant or amulet of some sort on a silver chain about his neck, but Zenna couldn’t quite make out the sigil from where she was standing.
“The weakness will pass, in time,” he told her. “Your body experienced quite a shock.... and if you’d come to me an hour later, it might have been too late to restore you to this world.”
Zenna forced herself to remaining standing as she faced him, even though her legs seemed to want to take advantage of the adjacent couch. “Who are you, if I may ask, and what is this place?”
The man nodded. “I am Esbar Tolerathkas, and you are in my current domecile. Like you, Izandra, I am not a native of Cauldron, but I have been pleased to call it my home for the last year, and doubly fortunate that a friend was willing to rent me this fine apartment.”
“How did you know my name?” she asked.
Esbar came into the room, though he kept his distance from Zenna. “You said it, repeatedly, while you were ill,” he said. “I am Izandra,” you kept saying. “I’m afraid there wasn’t much else, at least nothing coherent. You were quite sick.”
She didn’t sense any duplicity from the man, but was still leery, her spells tingling in her mind as if anticipating being released. “I go by Zenna,” she told him.
Esbar nodded. “Zenna, then.”
“How did I get here?”
“A young man of my acquaintance found you, and brought you to me.”
“You... you healed me?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. I... I am sorry that I was a bother. I was heading for the Temple of Helm, when I fell. I...” she trailed off, as something occurred to her. She’d noticed that her cloak and belt—along with her dagger and spell components pouch—were piled neatly atop one of the nearby tables. Not quite within easy reach, but closer to her than to Esbar. But then she saw something else, jutting out from under the cloak...
“My friend has some... issues... with the clergy of Helm, or I am sure he would have taken you there. I believe it is fortunate that he brought you to me instead, though; I suspect even Jenya Urikas might have had some difficulties with the sickness you had... what’s wrong?”
Zenna had grown pale, as she realized that what she’d seen on the table was her hat of disguise, that her benefactor knew what she was, that he could see the betraying marks of her heritage right now. There was no way to conceal it, now, and she resisted the urge to turn away, to hide her face.
“I... I’d better go, my friends, they must be worried about me...”
His gaze was penetrating, but not harsh, as he regarded her intently. “I understand. But you are still weak, and it’s still raining. Let me call a coach. While we are waiting, we can enjoy a small meal, before you depart.”
Zenna swallowed, but nodded. Esbar watched her as she walked—gingerly—to the table and recovered her gear. The hat she simply tucked into a pocket of her cloak; no need to betray its function now, since it was too late to hide herself from this man.
“Come,” he said. “There’s hot soup and cider in the tea room.”
* * * * *
Esbar was a gracious host, though it became immediately clear that there was more to him than met the eye. The cider and soup was served by what Zenna recognized was an unseen servant, and when she finally got closer to him she saw that the amulet that he wore bore the design of a raised index finger surrounded by sparkles of light.
He noticed her attention and said, “Yes, I am a follower of the High One, Azuth. And I did recognize that you as well are a practitioner of the magic arts.” He made a gesture, and the pitcher of cider drifted off of the nearby trundle to refill both of their cups. Wisps of steam rose from the brown liquid, and Esbar blew on his before taking a sip. Zenna watched him warily, but she could not resist digging into the hot soup. She still felt empty inside, but now it was the familiar pangs of hunger, and not the shadowy emptiness that she’d felt before.
“Is that why you helped me?” she asked.
“Partly,” he said. He leaned back in his chair, cupping his mug in a wrinkled hand, letting its warmth seep into him. “I admit, I am not the philanthropic sort; I leave such things to the cult of Helm, and to the other gods of benevolent sort. Tell me, what do you know of Azuth?”
Zenna blinked at the unexpected question, then reluctantly put her spoon down into the empty bowl before her. “I know he’s the god of magic,” she said. “Or at least a god of magic; there’s Mystara, after all. I haven’t actually seen a temple dedicated to him, or even met one of his priests.”
“You have now,” the man said, with a hint of a smile. “Or rather a ‘devotee’; we don’t play the games of title and rank that many of the other churches of Faerûn play.”
“Azuth was one of those gods who began existence as a mortal, walking this very world that we now share. Those who follow him venerate magic, of course, but do not seek power for its own sake. Rather, we study magic to understand it, to better understand reality, this world and others, and our place in the larger scheme of existence. An Azuthite practices the Art with calm and caution, placing each step with deliberation, lest he unleash destruction that even magic, for all its potential, cannot undo.”
“But you’re a priest, or devotee, or what have you,” Zenna said. “You healed me with divine power; isn’t that different from the power of the Weave?”
“Yes. And no. All magic is interrelated, Zenna. Just as all life is related. Perhaps, in time, you may come to understand that for yourself.”
A small bell sounded from somewhere below. Esbar waved a hand, and his invisible helper began clearing the dishes from the table. He rose, and after a moment Zenna did as well, feeling rather better than she had when she’d first woken.
“The carriage will take you to where you are staying,” he told her. “I hope that you will come and speak with me again, if you have the time.”
“I’d like that,” she said. He escorted her to the staircase that led down to the ground floor, three stories below. She hesitated there, and looked up at him.
“Can I ask you another question?”
He nodded. She could see that he knew what it was that she wanted to ask, but she had to anyway.
“When you took off my hat, you saw what... what I am. And yet you helped me anyway. And you haven’t mentioned it at all during our conversation...”
“I wish I could say that I possessed a deeper understanding that allowed me to look beyond the narrow stereotypes of our culture,” Esbar said. “But in all honesty, one of the first things that I did was to delve your aura.”
“Oh,” she said.
“You are an interesting person, Zenna, more so than I think you yourself realize. I do hope that we can continue our conversation at a later date.”
She nodded, and left.
It wasn’t until she reached the bottom of the stairs—a difficult journey in itself, in her still-weakened state—as she was reaching into the pocket of her cloak for her magical hat, that she found something there. She drew it out, revealing a silver disk a half-span across.
Thoughtfully, she placed the sigil of Azuth back into her pocket.
* * * * *
Chapter 46
Consciousness game gradually, the layers of gray that enfolded her falling away in stages. Around her the world took focus, with light, sound, smell, and sensation each returning slowly.
Zenna blinked, and looked around her. She was in a small but comfortable chamber that was crowded with an unusual array of furnishings and decorative enhancements. Plush carpets woven with complex patterns covered almost the entirety of the wooden floor, the colors blending well with the tapestries that hung from the walls intermittently between the many tall bookshelves crammed with volumes. That alone was remarkable—a collection of several hundred books was worth a small fortune—but Zenna’s attention was further drawn to the odd knickknacks scattered on the bookshelves, the small end tables situated throughout the room, or even hanging from the ceiling from slender lengths of chain. These curios ranged from weapons of unusual make, carvings and statuettes fashioned from wood, clay, or metal, a small collection of odd skulls of various sizes, some colored glassware, small pots and vases, and a few other items that even Zenna could not readily identify at first glance. A stream of incense wafted up into the air from a small brass censer atop one of the small tables, filling the room with a faint smell of vanilla and lavender.
She was lying on a couch heavily decorated with embroidered pillows. Her body felt light, a little numb, but she felt a surge of relief that she could feel it at all. She lifted her arm—a motion that cost a fair amount of effort—and was relieved when her sleeve fell away to reveal solid, substantial flesh underneath.
A slight sound drew her attention around, behind her. There, sitting on a gilded perch before the room’s only window, was a white owl. The bird was watching her with its wide golden eyes, but it gave no sign that it was disconcerted by her proximity or her movements.
Zenna rose, slowly, to a sitting position. She felt weak, but there were no other lingering effects of the sickness she’d had. Using the end of the couch as a prop, she rose, waiting to see if her legs would support her. She looked at the owl, who was preening itself, apparently bored with her already. Behind it she could see through the window that it was still raining, the city a washed-out haze through the rain-streaked window. The window faced toward the center of the city, and was fairly high up, a few stories above ground level at least. She could see the roofs of buildings that dropped in huge steps toward the lake beyond.
“A fine view, is it not? Even on a dreary day like this one, I find it refreshing.”
The voice drew her around so suddenly that her legs nearly gave out under her. The speaker was a man in his later years, perhaps sixty, though still hale. He stood in one of the doorways that exited the room, clad in a simple robe of soft white cloth belted at the waist. His close-cropped hair and beard were a slate gray, a stark contrast to eyes that were the deep green of emeralds. He wore a pendant or amulet of some sort on a silver chain about his neck, but Zenna couldn’t quite make out the sigil from where she was standing.
“The weakness will pass, in time,” he told her. “Your body experienced quite a shock.... and if you’d come to me an hour later, it might have been too late to restore you to this world.”
Zenna forced herself to remaining standing as she faced him, even though her legs seemed to want to take advantage of the adjacent couch. “Who are you, if I may ask, and what is this place?”
The man nodded. “I am Esbar Tolerathkas, and you are in my current domecile. Like you, Izandra, I am not a native of Cauldron, but I have been pleased to call it my home for the last year, and doubly fortunate that a friend was willing to rent me this fine apartment.”
“How did you know my name?” she asked.
Esbar came into the room, though he kept his distance from Zenna. “You said it, repeatedly, while you were ill,” he said. “I am Izandra,” you kept saying. “I’m afraid there wasn’t much else, at least nothing coherent. You were quite sick.”
She didn’t sense any duplicity from the man, but was still leery, her spells tingling in her mind as if anticipating being released. “I go by Zenna,” she told him.
Esbar nodded. “Zenna, then.”
“How did I get here?”
“A young man of my acquaintance found you, and brought you to me.”
“You... you healed me?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. I... I am sorry that I was a bother. I was heading for the Temple of Helm, when I fell. I...” she trailed off, as something occurred to her. She’d noticed that her cloak and belt—along with her dagger and spell components pouch—were piled neatly atop one of the nearby tables. Not quite within easy reach, but closer to her than to Esbar. But then she saw something else, jutting out from under the cloak...
“My friend has some... issues... with the clergy of Helm, or I am sure he would have taken you there. I believe it is fortunate that he brought you to me instead, though; I suspect even Jenya Urikas might have had some difficulties with the sickness you had... what’s wrong?”
Zenna had grown pale, as she realized that what she’d seen on the table was her hat of disguise, that her benefactor knew what she was, that he could see the betraying marks of her heritage right now. There was no way to conceal it, now, and she resisted the urge to turn away, to hide her face.
“I... I’d better go, my friends, they must be worried about me...”
His gaze was penetrating, but not harsh, as he regarded her intently. “I understand. But you are still weak, and it’s still raining. Let me call a coach. While we are waiting, we can enjoy a small meal, before you depart.”
Zenna swallowed, but nodded. Esbar watched her as she walked—gingerly—to the table and recovered her gear. The hat she simply tucked into a pocket of her cloak; no need to betray its function now, since it was too late to hide herself from this man.
“Come,” he said. “There’s hot soup and cider in the tea room.”
* * * * *
Esbar was a gracious host, though it became immediately clear that there was more to him than met the eye. The cider and soup was served by what Zenna recognized was an unseen servant, and when she finally got closer to him she saw that the amulet that he wore bore the design of a raised index finger surrounded by sparkles of light.
He noticed her attention and said, “Yes, I am a follower of the High One, Azuth. And I did recognize that you as well are a practitioner of the magic arts.” He made a gesture, and the pitcher of cider drifted off of the nearby trundle to refill both of their cups. Wisps of steam rose from the brown liquid, and Esbar blew on his before taking a sip. Zenna watched him warily, but she could not resist digging into the hot soup. She still felt empty inside, but now it was the familiar pangs of hunger, and not the shadowy emptiness that she’d felt before.
“Is that why you helped me?” she asked.
“Partly,” he said. He leaned back in his chair, cupping his mug in a wrinkled hand, letting its warmth seep into him. “I admit, I am not the philanthropic sort; I leave such things to the cult of Helm, and to the other gods of benevolent sort. Tell me, what do you know of Azuth?”
Zenna blinked at the unexpected question, then reluctantly put her spoon down into the empty bowl before her. “I know he’s the god of magic,” she said. “Or at least a god of magic; there’s Mystara, after all. I haven’t actually seen a temple dedicated to him, or even met one of his priests.”
“You have now,” the man said, with a hint of a smile. “Or rather a ‘devotee’; we don’t play the games of title and rank that many of the other churches of Faerûn play.”
“Azuth was one of those gods who began existence as a mortal, walking this very world that we now share. Those who follow him venerate magic, of course, but do not seek power for its own sake. Rather, we study magic to understand it, to better understand reality, this world and others, and our place in the larger scheme of existence. An Azuthite practices the Art with calm and caution, placing each step with deliberation, lest he unleash destruction that even magic, for all its potential, cannot undo.”
“But you’re a priest, or devotee, or what have you,” Zenna said. “You healed me with divine power; isn’t that different from the power of the Weave?”
“Yes. And no. All magic is interrelated, Zenna. Just as all life is related. Perhaps, in time, you may come to understand that for yourself.”
A small bell sounded from somewhere below. Esbar waved a hand, and his invisible helper began clearing the dishes from the table. He rose, and after a moment Zenna did as well, feeling rather better than she had when she’d first woken.
“The carriage will take you to where you are staying,” he told her. “I hope that you will come and speak with me again, if you have the time.”
“I’d like that,” she said. He escorted her to the staircase that led down to the ground floor, three stories below. She hesitated there, and looked up at him.
“Can I ask you another question?”
He nodded. She could see that he knew what it was that she wanted to ask, but she had to anyway.
“When you took off my hat, you saw what... what I am. And yet you helped me anyway. And you haven’t mentioned it at all during our conversation...”
“I wish I could say that I possessed a deeper understanding that allowed me to look beyond the narrow stereotypes of our culture,” Esbar said. “But in all honesty, one of the first things that I did was to delve your aura.”
“Oh,” she said.
“You are an interesting person, Zenna, more so than I think you yourself realize. I do hope that we can continue our conversation at a later date.”
She nodded, and left.
It wasn’t until she reached the bottom of the stairs—a difficult journey in itself, in her still-weakened state—as she was reaching into the pocket of her cloak for her magical hat, that she found something there. She drew it out, revealing a silver disk a half-span across.
Thoughtfully, she placed the sigil of Azuth back into her pocket.
Nice update, LB.
It's quite cool to see the further adventures in Cauldron; we went off in a totally different direction after finishing the first adventure and I've never read these. So it's totally new material to me -- almost like reading the Travellers again.
Keep up the great work -- I love your characterizations.
It's quite cool to see the further adventures in Cauldron; we went off in a totally different direction after finishing the first adventure and I've never read these. So it's totally new material to me -- almost like reading the Travellers again.
Keep up the great work -- I love your characterizations.
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