DSC-EricPrice
First Post
Ok, Im ignorant. What prestige class is that? and when will the Rogue Gallery be updated? and how is it that Arun is higher level than Mole?
Shackled City Epic: "Vengeance" (story concluded)
- Thread starter Lazybones
- Start date
Lazybones
Adventurer
1) No prestige class, he took on the Chosen template. It's a Forgotten Realms thing. I'll post the details a bit later, but for now I'll say that the Chosen templates I'm using are significantly less powerful than the ones that have been provided "officially" thus far (Mystra, Bane, and Deneir). Chosen of Mystra get +10 CON, for example, and Chosen of Bane can summon Death Tyrant beholders.DSC-EricPrice said:
2) I just updated the Rogues' Gallery for ECL20 but will do so again once everyone has leveled. Updating now would provide spoilers. Perhaps I'll do a partial update of just Lok and Mole later.
3) Mole died in "Thirteen Cages", and lost a level when she was resurrected.
Okay, since the site was down yesterday, here's the Friday update:
* * * * *
Chapter 471
INTERLUDE
Athux stepped through the wide stone arch into the hall, patently ignoring the two towering glabrezus who flanked the entry, peering down at him with their eager red eyes. He likewise took no notice of the succubi who cooed at him as he walked though the foyer and into the hall proper. The demonesses hissed in frustration but did not follow him; only a fool would have missed the prominent shift in the air, the tangible aura that reflected the mood of the large chamber’s most prominent occupant.
Athux’s perfect features did not betray any concern, although he was more sensitive to such things than most of his fiendish kin. Of course, it did not take much knowledge of the Prince to know that his mood of late had been foul, not with all that had happened.
Just over fifty hours of subjective time had passed since the yugoloth assault upon the citadel, and despite the thorough cleaning Athux could still sense the stink of death and corruption in the hall. As his peripheral vision slid over the weathered gray stone and the stark, angular lines of the buttressed ceiling fifty feet above, the contrast with the glories of the Argent Palace could not simply be ignored. Such stray thoughts were dangerous, and distracting, and he quickly schooled his mind to smooth, unrevealing stillness. It was among the first skills he’d mastered, given his upbringing; demons who revealed too much quickly found themselves exploited by their ruthless kin, no matter whose line they rose from.
The sound of the cambion’s tread filled the hall as he walked across the barren stone floor. This was despite his agile stride and soft-soled boots; a trick of the acoustics of the place.
“Son,” Graz’zt said, from the shadows of his throne.
Athux came to a stop in the center of the floor. His sire filled the simple but considerable chair of stone and iron, his upper body wreathed in darkness in the depths of the far alcove opposite the foyer through which Athux had entered. That was artificial; there was no “sun” in this place to cast shadows, and the magical illumination shed by steady ochre globes in the four corners of the ceiling above were well able to brighten every corner of the chamber. But the light did not reach to Graz’zt; it just died as it entered the alcove, simpering into a murky death that absorbed the tenuous rays.
“Father,” Athux said, his voice utterly neutral, compliant. These days it was impossible to predict what would provoke the Prince, but Athux, at least, was fully cognizant of his own importance in the schemes of his sire to cling to the last lingering vestiges of his power.
“You have learned nothing new?” Graz’zt asked.
Athux squelched the urge to raise an eyebrow. Graz’zt knew that he had not left the citadel since the attack. Was the Prince acknowledging his knowledge of his son’s outside sources of information? Or was there some other game at work here? Before the pause could become awkward, the cambion’s intricate mind had already worked through a dozen permutations, and ultimately settled upon a simple approach.
“No, father,” he replied, his manner utterly open.
Graz’zt seemed to sink into himself, and a long silence filled the chamber. Athux finally allowed himself to ask the question that had been on his mind.
“Do we not risk much in remaining here?”
The Prince’s hands tightened on the stone rests of the throne, where deep impressions had already been pressed into the gray surface to match those twelve long fingers. It was just one of the ways that this place had already begun to shape itself to the whims of its master, but to Athux’s eyes those changes only highlighted how far they had fallen.
Finally, Graz’zt regained control, and relaxed. “The attack was merely a random raid,” he said. “If my enemies truly knew I was here, they would not have bothered with such a pathetic assault.”
Athux did not respond, but Graz’zt must have sensed his doubt, for he added, “You can ease your fear. My power, and the potency of the Heart, conceals me from those who would take advantage. And servitors can be replaced. There are always more demons, always more of the weak to serve the strong.” The last words were thick with scorn, but Athux knew they were not truly directed at him—although the subtle message underlying them, of course, was a warning.
Athux bowed deeply.
“You waste your thoughts in nostalgia for what was,” Graz’zt went on. “We must focus on what is, and what will be.”
Athux shook himself inwardly, silently berating himself for allowing his focus to waver even the slightest bit. “I am at your command, father.”
But Graz’zt merely leaned back in his seat, more of him sinking into shadow until only his long legs and his hands upon the stone rests were clearly visible. A rough shape that Athux knew to be his father’s great curved sword was visible in profile against the side of the throne; he hadn’t noticed it there before.
Belatedly Athux became aware of another presence in the room. Turning, he regarded the new arrival.
Like the cambion, his appearance was youthful, his features attractive. But the newcomer was fair in coloration, with a shock of hair the color of fire gathered into a braid that descended into the gap between his shoulders. He was muscular, clad only in a rippling skirt of silver scales that covered him from his waist to just above his ankles. Faint scars covered his torso, but they merely accentuated the smooth proportions of his frame, drawing the eye to the perfect lines of flesh and muscle over laid over bone. He bore no weapons, but there was something in his eyes that gave one pause. Those who had seen such before might have recognized the iron determination of the fiercely committed… or the fanatic.
He strode across the chamber, paying no heed to Athux until he stood adjacent to him, facing the alcove and its occupant. He then fell to his knees, his fist slamming into his chest with a smack that had to have inflicted pain. “I serve.”
“Rise, Malad,” Graz’zt said.
The youth stood, and only then acknowledged the cambion standing beside him with a faint tilt of his head. “Brother,” he said.
“We have a new guest you might be interested in, Malad,” Athux said smoothly. “A friend of your father’s, I believe he was.”
Something flashed in the youth’s eyes, but he did not reply. His armor shifted slightly around his hips, at first appearing to be a simple response to a subtle adjustment in his stance. But that impression was belied a moment later as the silvery scale skirt rippled and flowed up his body, twisting around his torso and muscular chest until it covered his entire body from his neck to his knees. Athux betrayed no reaction at this amazing development, but inwardly he chuckled slightly.
Well, Synesyx is not happy to see me, he thought.
But the subtle exchange between the two men was cut short as Graz’zt emerged from his alcove. Both lowered their eyes, but the Demon Prince barked something, a syllable infused with command, and their entire attention was drawn back to him, a compulsion raw and powerful. At the same order, the demons still attending in the back part of the room retreated hastily, drawing the huge doors of the foyer shut behind them. As he came forward the black haze that had obscured him faded away, revealing the Lord of Shadows in all of his glory.
Graz’zt reputation was of a sensualist, a creature of debauched interests and utter depravity. His charisma, and the alien beauty of his features were renown, and sages in a hundred worlds and realities noted the legendary seductions that he’d completed, and the extreme nature of the rites practiced at his temples across the multiverse. He had been ranked among the six most powerful of the lords of demonkind, with connections and tendrils in extreme locales far removed from his lair, the three layers of the Abyss known collectively as Azzagrat.
But this plain citadel was not the Argent Palace, and the light that filtered from the slits high in the walls was not of the Abyss.
And the Graz’zt that appeared to his two most favored underlings was much removed from the being noted in the accounts.
He wore a half-robe of black cloth with the texture of silk and the sheen of metal, draped loosely over a body that was flawless in proportion and form. One hand was hidden beneath the fabric of one sleeve, while the other was twined into the straps of an intricate belt of gray strands, those threads slipping in and about his six long fingers as though alive. He wore a necklace of golden links, which supported six black gemstones in a weave of adamant that bespoke the potency of the enchantments upon them.
But above that, wreckage.
The Demon Prince’s face was a ruin, a foul landscape of sickening, pocked flesh, wasted and dead. One eye socket was a ruin, the surrounding flesh burned away, leaving only a gaping hole in which a sightless gray orb was fixed. But on closer examination that “eye” was revealed to be something else, as there was a faint gray glow from within.
That was the artifact, the Heart of Axion. While it did not grant Graz’zt sight to replace the eye he had lost, it was possessed of far greater powers, drawn from the trapped soul of a demigod who had fallen millennia before the first human beings had walked upon the surface of Faerûn.
Continuing across the Prince’s twisted visage, at several places hints of white showed were enough of the covering skin had been violated to reveal the ivory skull beneath. A faint smell of rot hung about the Prince, and Athux had to fight the urge to gag, for all that he was familiar—intimately familiar—with the true face of his father.
The cambion managed a covert glance aside at his companion. Malad had not flinched at the revelation of Graz’zt form; if anything, the fanatical devotion in his expression had deepened. Athux could not read his fellow cambion well enough to know if that dedication was real, feigned, or simply the product of the still-considerable aura that Graz’zt projected. Even defaced by wounds that could not be healed, Graz’zt was still what he was, and his lure could not be fully diminished. In some ways, it had been enhanced, for Athux knew that horror could be as powerful an attractor as beauty.
Malad did not react as Graz’zt came before him, overwhelming him with that horror, fixing him with his remaining eye, the one that still perceived things in the mortal realm.
“You have grown in power,” he said, finally. “You approach transcendence, so quickly.” There was the slightest gesture, a flicker of movement that Athux did not miss, and which caused him to seethe inside. Malad had come up fast, very fast, and was now quite near the level of power of Athux himself. The demon lord’s son had been on the cusp of the transition to truly epic status that Graz’zt had referenced for some time. It was no light matter to take that final step, and Athux wondered at how this news boded for the complex relationship between the Prince and his underlings. Demons were very zealous of their power, after all, and too much in one under them was always considered in the context of how much of a threat even the most apparently loyal could provide.
Graz’zt finally released Malad from the power of his attention, and stepped back. “Share your news, my powerful young thrall.”
Malad bowed. “The Blood Legion has experienced schism, as you expected, Great Lord,” he said. “Two companies of vrocks and a host of flying hordelings attempted to defect, but their treachery was detected in time, and your loyal forces tore the would-be-deserters to pieces. We also came under surprise attack from allied forces commanded by… several of your prominent rivals, Great Lord.”
Athux could feel the rage radiating from Graz’zt like a tangible wave, but he controlled it. The devils had to be having a grand celebration right now, Athux thought, as their enemies turned on each other.
“Continue,” Graz’zt said.
“I commanded a withdrawal, sacrificing a unit of hezrous whose loyalty I had reason to question,” Malad went on. “Once I had secured our position I consolidated the remaining forces, weeding out a few more units of doubtful reliability. I can report that you have nine companies under your banner, at your call, ready to kill or die at your command.”
Athux tried to weigh Graz’zt’s response to the news. Nine companies, assuming Malad’s reorganization had not inflated or deflated the total number of forces, meant that about two-thirds of Graz’zt’s armies had been destroyed. That did not include the demons and allied troops that the Prince could call upon from his other outposts and holdings across the planes, but Athux knew all too well that they as well had suffered greatly in the purges, struggles for power, and opportunistic attacks that had followed the Disaster.
Malad simply waited, while Graz’zt regarded him with an unreadable visage. Long minutes passed, but none of those present in the room relaxed in the slightest.
Finally, Graz’zt spoke. “You have done well, Malad. You have preserved what could be kept in the face of catastrophe, and increased your personal prowess in the bargain. It is time for you to complete a final test, one that will install you to the maximum secrets of thralldom, and join your brother on the threshold of transcendence.”
Malad bowed. Graz’zt turned away from them, but did not yet walk back to his throne and the shroud of darkness that would again conceal him.
“And then, then I shall have a final assignment for you, and for the Blood Legion,” he continued.
Athux waited for more, but Graz’zt was still keeping his plans, whatever they were, close. The Prince made a subtle gesture that was a dismissal, and the two cambions, rivals and masters of great power in their own right, bowed and departed the room, leaving their master to his private thoughts.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 472
The air was thick, musty, alive with the odors of life and growing things as Dannel Ardan made his way swiftly on foot deeper into the Wealdath Forest in northwestern Tethyr. It had rained recently, and the thick blanket of leaves were still slick with damp, but the sure-footed elf had no difficulty making his way. There were no tracks or trails in this part of the wood, nothing but an endless expanse of thick wooden shafts that seemed to go one forever as far as one could sense in every direction.
It had been six decades since Dannel had last set foot amidst those ancient giants, but the smells and sounds of the wood had catapulted him back. It was a part of him, he realized, and no matter how long he had spent living in the world outside, working for the causes advanced by the Harpers, he had never really left it behind.
The only detractor from his experience was that someone was following him.
He hadn’t been sure at first, his woodslore a bit rusty despite the two days he’d spent traveling through the woods since his arrival by means of the portal that had transported him hundreds of miles across Faerûn from the Forest of Miir. The druids tending the fey crossroads warding the portal had been welcoming, recognizing something even he hadn’t seen in himself, a sense of belonging to this place.
The forest was not without dangers, but Dannel had advanced in skill and power to the point where he had little to fear from common predators. At one point he’d had to use an alter self spell to grow wings and fly high above a small pack of displacer beasts that had been more than casually interested in his scent. The monsters had followed him for a time, but a few expertly-aimed shafts from his bow had persuaded them toward the task of choosing a new alpha to replace the one that had gone down with an arrow stuck in its brain.
The elf came to a clearing, perhaps twenty paces across, with a cluster of boulders covered in moss gathered at the far end, shaped roughly like a giant who had sat down to rest and then gradually solidified into this permanent formation.
Here’s as good a place as any, he thought, drawing his bow out of his magical quiver and stringing it in a single smooth motion.
He did not have to wait long. There was no sound, no odor to betray the pursuer, but he knew that something was there. Moving slowly, he drew out a long arrow and fitted it to his string.
“You never paid heed to the lessons of woodcraft,” came a voice from the trees.
Dannel lowered his bow, but kept one hand around the arrow, holding it in place against the string. “I remember much,” he said, loud enough to carry to the still-invisible speaker.
An elf appeared and stepped into the clearing. Like many of their kind, his age was indeterminate, but he had a hard look to him, and he wore dark garments of green and brown in a pattern that tended to blend with the surrounding forest. His tunic was bulky enough to suggest at least a chain shirt underneath, and he carried both a sizeable longbow across his back, and a slender longsword that he carried drawn at his side as he faced Dannel.
“A child could have tracked you,” he said.
“It is good to see you, too, Eldren,” Dannel replied, deliberately putting his arrow back into the spare quiver at his hip. The other elf did not reciprocate the gesture. “I appreciate the escort, but I think I can still find my way to Aldair Kelalei without your assistance.”
The other elf frowned. “You do not sense it, do you? Truly you have lost much since you left, cousin.”
“What do you mean?”
“Darkness stirs in the Wealdath. I suppose you would have found out soon enough, but there is still enough loyalty in the Ardan family to let one of its own stagger blindly into it. Come with me—I am going to Korul Ulgor, and you’d be well advised to follow.”
He strode across the clearing and vanished back into the wood, not waiting to see if Dannel would follow. The arcane archer did, after a moment, and he had to hurry to maintain the pace set by the other elf. Eldren did not seem amenable to conversation, and so the two moved swiftly through the woods for a good number of minutes before Dannel got exasperated and asked the obvious question.
“What is the nature of the darkness you spoke of?”
The elf shot him a look. “I would have guessed that the first question would have been about our family.”
“I know that Alindre has taken service at the elven court in Evereska, and that Olondril has… has passed Beyond,” Dannel said. Letting more bitterness into his voice than he’d intended, he added, “I have not been so casual about keeping in touch with the doings of the Ardans.”
“Grandmother might disagree,” Eldren said, but he did not offer further argument.
“And my question?” Dannel asked, impatient.
Eldren darted under a fallen log that offered only about three feet of clearance, leaving Dannel to fall behind as he negotiated the obstacle with more difficulty. When he’d caught up, Eldren said, “Odd creatures have been spotted in the woods, seemingly part undead, part animated plant material. They are very resistant to attack and difficult to destroy, but fortunately there have not been any apparent pattern or consistency to the encounters.”
“Where do these things originate from?”
“The arcanists and clerics are not certain, but some have suggested that they originate in Bryth’an Torgul.”
“The ruins?”
“You remember. Good.”
“I suppose a scouting party has been sent.”
“A pity we did not have your incisive strategic acumen here before. Yes, of course. They have not returned, and attempts to scry the area from afar fail, of course, because of the mythal.”
“Isn’t there supposed to be a guardian there?”
“Have you spent so much time among the humans that you remember nothing of the history of your own people? Yes, there was a guardian—a baelnorn of ancient power from a noble family of the Second Age. No elf living today has communicated with him, however, so we do not know what role, if any, he may have in broader events.”
Dannel digested that, and they pressed on in silence for some time further. When it was broken again, it was Eldren who spoke.
“Why did you decide to come back, Dannel?”
“This is still my home,” the arcane archer said quietly, almost to himself. But Eldren heard what he said, of course.
Even running through the woods, there was a certain stillness around them, so Dannel was able to make out the faint telltales that indicated someone drawing near, from up ahead and slightly to the right of their current course. Eldren had indicated no reaction, so he hissed out a warning, and again drew up his bow, slipping an arrow once more to the string.
Eldren looked at Dannel’s sudden alarm and sneered. “Calm yourself, cousin. It is no enemy that approaches.” But Dannel noticed that as the other elf turned away, a brief flash of concern crept into his features.
The newcomer drew swiftly nearer, speed clearly overruling stealth in the manner of her approach. But even so, by the time the stranger was close enough to clearly discern, she was nearly on top of them, her face slightly flushed with the exertion of hard running. She was an elven woman, clad and equipped much like Eldren, although she wore strands of vegetation woven into her auburn hair, and carried a slender rapier at her hip in lieu of a heavier blade, like the ranger. She was attractive, Dannel thought, and although her elven cloak obscured the sigil on the oak medallion she wore at her throat, he thought that she had the air of a priestess of the Seldarine, the pantheon of elven gods of Faerûn.
“Jannae, this is my cousin, Dannel Arden,” Eldren said. But the priestess barely spared a nod for the archer, worry obvious on her face as she focused upon Eldren.
“The outpost at Korul Ulgor is under heavy attack,” she said. “You are needed, at once!”
The air was thick, musty, alive with the odors of life and growing things as Dannel Ardan made his way swiftly on foot deeper into the Wealdath Forest in northwestern Tethyr. It had rained recently, and the thick blanket of leaves were still slick with damp, but the sure-footed elf had no difficulty making his way. There were no tracks or trails in this part of the wood, nothing but an endless expanse of thick wooden shafts that seemed to go one forever as far as one could sense in every direction.
It had been six decades since Dannel had last set foot amidst those ancient giants, but the smells and sounds of the wood had catapulted him back. It was a part of him, he realized, and no matter how long he had spent living in the world outside, working for the causes advanced by the Harpers, he had never really left it behind.
The only detractor from his experience was that someone was following him.
He hadn’t been sure at first, his woodslore a bit rusty despite the two days he’d spent traveling through the woods since his arrival by means of the portal that had transported him hundreds of miles across Faerûn from the Forest of Miir. The druids tending the fey crossroads warding the portal had been welcoming, recognizing something even he hadn’t seen in himself, a sense of belonging to this place.
The forest was not without dangers, but Dannel had advanced in skill and power to the point where he had little to fear from common predators. At one point he’d had to use an alter self spell to grow wings and fly high above a small pack of displacer beasts that had been more than casually interested in his scent. The monsters had followed him for a time, but a few expertly-aimed shafts from his bow had persuaded them toward the task of choosing a new alpha to replace the one that had gone down with an arrow stuck in its brain.
The elf came to a clearing, perhaps twenty paces across, with a cluster of boulders covered in moss gathered at the far end, shaped roughly like a giant who had sat down to rest and then gradually solidified into this permanent formation.
Here’s as good a place as any, he thought, drawing his bow out of his magical quiver and stringing it in a single smooth motion.
He did not have to wait long. There was no sound, no odor to betray the pursuer, but he knew that something was there. Moving slowly, he drew out a long arrow and fitted it to his string.
“You never paid heed to the lessons of woodcraft,” came a voice from the trees.
Dannel lowered his bow, but kept one hand around the arrow, holding it in place against the string. “I remember much,” he said, loud enough to carry to the still-invisible speaker.
An elf appeared and stepped into the clearing. Like many of their kind, his age was indeterminate, but he had a hard look to him, and he wore dark garments of green and brown in a pattern that tended to blend with the surrounding forest. His tunic was bulky enough to suggest at least a chain shirt underneath, and he carried both a sizeable longbow across his back, and a slender longsword that he carried drawn at his side as he faced Dannel.
“A child could have tracked you,” he said.
“It is good to see you, too, Eldren,” Dannel replied, deliberately putting his arrow back into the spare quiver at his hip. The other elf did not reciprocate the gesture. “I appreciate the escort, but I think I can still find my way to Aldair Kelalei without your assistance.”
The other elf frowned. “You do not sense it, do you? Truly you have lost much since you left, cousin.”
“What do you mean?”
“Darkness stirs in the Wealdath. I suppose you would have found out soon enough, but there is still enough loyalty in the Ardan family to let one of its own stagger blindly into it. Come with me—I am going to Korul Ulgor, and you’d be well advised to follow.”
He strode across the clearing and vanished back into the wood, not waiting to see if Dannel would follow. The arcane archer did, after a moment, and he had to hurry to maintain the pace set by the other elf. Eldren did not seem amenable to conversation, and so the two moved swiftly through the woods for a good number of minutes before Dannel got exasperated and asked the obvious question.
“What is the nature of the darkness you spoke of?”
The elf shot him a look. “I would have guessed that the first question would have been about our family.”
“I know that Alindre has taken service at the elven court in Evereska, and that Olondril has… has passed Beyond,” Dannel said. Letting more bitterness into his voice than he’d intended, he added, “I have not been so casual about keeping in touch with the doings of the Ardans.”
“Grandmother might disagree,” Eldren said, but he did not offer further argument.
“And my question?” Dannel asked, impatient.
Eldren darted under a fallen log that offered only about three feet of clearance, leaving Dannel to fall behind as he negotiated the obstacle with more difficulty. When he’d caught up, Eldren said, “Odd creatures have been spotted in the woods, seemingly part undead, part animated plant material. They are very resistant to attack and difficult to destroy, but fortunately there have not been any apparent pattern or consistency to the encounters.”
“Where do these things originate from?”
“The arcanists and clerics are not certain, but some have suggested that they originate in Bryth’an Torgul.”
“The ruins?”
“You remember. Good.”
“I suppose a scouting party has been sent.”
“A pity we did not have your incisive strategic acumen here before. Yes, of course. They have not returned, and attempts to scry the area from afar fail, of course, because of the mythal.”
“Isn’t there supposed to be a guardian there?”
“Have you spent so much time among the humans that you remember nothing of the history of your own people? Yes, there was a guardian—a baelnorn of ancient power from a noble family of the Second Age. No elf living today has communicated with him, however, so we do not know what role, if any, he may have in broader events.”
Dannel digested that, and they pressed on in silence for some time further. When it was broken again, it was Eldren who spoke.
“Why did you decide to come back, Dannel?”
“This is still my home,” the arcane archer said quietly, almost to himself. But Eldren heard what he said, of course.
Even running through the woods, there was a certain stillness around them, so Dannel was able to make out the faint telltales that indicated someone drawing near, from up ahead and slightly to the right of their current course. Eldren had indicated no reaction, so he hissed out a warning, and again drew up his bow, slipping an arrow once more to the string.
Eldren looked at Dannel’s sudden alarm and sneered. “Calm yourself, cousin. It is no enemy that approaches.” But Dannel noticed that as the other elf turned away, a brief flash of concern crept into his features.
The newcomer drew swiftly nearer, speed clearly overruling stealth in the manner of her approach. But even so, by the time the stranger was close enough to clearly discern, she was nearly on top of them, her face slightly flushed with the exertion of hard running. She was an elven woman, clad and equipped much like Eldren, although she wore strands of vegetation woven into her auburn hair, and carried a slender rapier at her hip in lieu of a heavier blade, like the ranger. She was attractive, Dannel thought, and although her elven cloak obscured the sigil on the oak medallion she wore at her throat, he thought that she had the air of a priestess of the Seldarine, the pantheon of elven gods of Faerûn.
“Jannae, this is my cousin, Dannel Arden,” Eldren said. But the priestess barely spared a nod for the archer, worry obvious on her face as she focused upon Eldren.
“The outpost at Korul Ulgor is under heavy attack,” she said. “You are needed, at once!”
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 473
Dannel felt a bit lightheaded as the trio of elves continued their mad dash through the forest, their soft boots barely touching the dense carpet of fallen leaves as they darted between the maze of thick trunks. At one point they ran through a small clearing where a massive bear was drinking from a small pool; Dannel barely had time to meet the surprised bear’s eyes before they were past, continuing their sprint. He was bringing up the rear, with Eldren at the front and Jannae only a few paces distant, and only by digging deep into reserves of strength he didn’t know he had he’d been able to keep up with them at all. He doubted that they would stop for him, if he did not keep pace; the look on his cousin’s face at Jannae’s news had told him that much.
At the start of the sprint he’d called upon magic to enhance his speed, but clearly the other elves had similar abilities, for even with the longstrider spell in place, he could only just keep up. But the anticipation of battle gave him enough of an edge to dig deeper, to press on. His bow was strung and an arrow fitted to the string at his side, his fist locked around the shaft to keep it in place. He only hoped that when they reached their destination that he still had enough breath left in him to use the weapon effectively.
As if summoned by that thought, he heard sounds from up ahead; all-too-familiar cries of battle, the noises of conflict muted somewhat by the blanket of surrounding vegetation. His cousin and his companion rushed ahead, reenergized by the proximity to their destination, but now finally Dannel put on a burst of speed of his own, energizing himself through the song of power that exploded through his limbs with the power of an expeditious retreat spell. But in this case his objective was attack, and the other elves regarded him with surprise as he shot between them, weaving between the low-hanging branches, clinging bushes, and fallen limbs that posed constant obstacles in the forest undergrowth.
“Dannel!” Eldren’s cry came after him, but whether the call was a warning or a request, the arcane archer never knew. For in the next moment he caught sight of the outpost, and his attention was drawn entirely to the scene of carnage developing before him.
He had never been to Korul Ulgor prior to his departure from the Wealdath so many years ago, but the outpost matched the familiar pattern of other similar bases he’d remembered. The main focus was three platforms perched in sprawling treetops spaced approximately sixty to eighty feet apart, ranging from as low as fifty feet off the ground to just over a hundred. The platforms were normally connected by rope walkways, but those had all been cut now, and Dannel could see that the lowest of the platforms had already been overrun, horrible figures crawling over the wreckage of the defenders, who had been hurled to the forest floor below or torn to pieces where they stood.
The invaders were fearsome undead, skeletal humanoids, perhaps once elves themselves. But unlike the mindless lesser creations that adventurers of all stripes had been destroying for century upon century, these monstrosities were clearly faster, stronger, and possessed of an animating cunning that guided their actions. Plant matter clung to their bones, sinuous vines woven through their skeletal forms, and a packed mass of loam that seemed to pulse with life jammed into the empty hollow of their ribs. They clung like ants to the thick trunks of the two trees that supported the two remaining outposts, and some had already reached the lowest of the struts that formed the foundation of the lower of the two, eighty feet above the forest floor. Dannel could see elves atop both platforms, not more than a dozen in all, fighting desperately to repel the attackers with bows and long spears. Neither, of course, was ideal for combating skeletal undead, he knew, and some had reversed their spears, using the ends as staves to try and dislodge their foes from their ascent.
Even as his mind took in it all he was drawing and firing. His first arrow, a white-fletched holy missile, slammed into the skull of a skeleton as it fought its way onto the lip of the lower platform from below. The impact dislodged it from its precarious hold and it fell, tumbling in midair before impacting hard on a cleared stretch of packed earth. Dannel had already fired two more arrows and scored two more hits by the time that the creation landed, and to his concern he saw that it had not been destroyed by his missile or the long fall, the vegetation clinging to it cushioning the impact and holding it together as it slowly clattered to its feet.
And he also saw that he was not alone. Several of the skeletons were still on the ground, a few also having survived being knocked to ground by the defending elves, and they quickly caught sight of him, heading in his direction.
As worrying as that was, it was nothing compared to the loud crash that drew him around, in time to see a massive, lumbering hill of earth and rotting flesh in the rough shape of a giant crash through the bushes and come surging toward him.
Dannel felt a bit lightheaded as the trio of elves continued their mad dash through the forest, their soft boots barely touching the dense carpet of fallen leaves as they darted between the maze of thick trunks. At one point they ran through a small clearing where a massive bear was drinking from a small pool; Dannel barely had time to meet the surprised bear’s eyes before they were past, continuing their sprint. He was bringing up the rear, with Eldren at the front and Jannae only a few paces distant, and only by digging deep into reserves of strength he didn’t know he had he’d been able to keep up with them at all. He doubted that they would stop for him, if he did not keep pace; the look on his cousin’s face at Jannae’s news had told him that much.
At the start of the sprint he’d called upon magic to enhance his speed, but clearly the other elves had similar abilities, for even with the longstrider spell in place, he could only just keep up. But the anticipation of battle gave him enough of an edge to dig deeper, to press on. His bow was strung and an arrow fitted to the string at his side, his fist locked around the shaft to keep it in place. He only hoped that when they reached their destination that he still had enough breath left in him to use the weapon effectively.
As if summoned by that thought, he heard sounds from up ahead; all-too-familiar cries of battle, the noises of conflict muted somewhat by the blanket of surrounding vegetation. His cousin and his companion rushed ahead, reenergized by the proximity to their destination, but now finally Dannel put on a burst of speed of his own, energizing himself through the song of power that exploded through his limbs with the power of an expeditious retreat spell. But in this case his objective was attack, and the other elves regarded him with surprise as he shot between them, weaving between the low-hanging branches, clinging bushes, and fallen limbs that posed constant obstacles in the forest undergrowth.
“Dannel!” Eldren’s cry came after him, but whether the call was a warning or a request, the arcane archer never knew. For in the next moment he caught sight of the outpost, and his attention was drawn entirely to the scene of carnage developing before him.
He had never been to Korul Ulgor prior to his departure from the Wealdath so many years ago, but the outpost matched the familiar pattern of other similar bases he’d remembered. The main focus was three platforms perched in sprawling treetops spaced approximately sixty to eighty feet apart, ranging from as low as fifty feet off the ground to just over a hundred. The platforms were normally connected by rope walkways, but those had all been cut now, and Dannel could see that the lowest of the platforms had already been overrun, horrible figures crawling over the wreckage of the defenders, who had been hurled to the forest floor below or torn to pieces where they stood.
The invaders were fearsome undead, skeletal humanoids, perhaps once elves themselves. But unlike the mindless lesser creations that adventurers of all stripes had been destroying for century upon century, these monstrosities were clearly faster, stronger, and possessed of an animating cunning that guided their actions. Plant matter clung to their bones, sinuous vines woven through their skeletal forms, and a packed mass of loam that seemed to pulse with life jammed into the empty hollow of their ribs. They clung like ants to the thick trunks of the two trees that supported the two remaining outposts, and some had already reached the lowest of the struts that formed the foundation of the lower of the two, eighty feet above the forest floor. Dannel could see elves atop both platforms, not more than a dozen in all, fighting desperately to repel the attackers with bows and long spears. Neither, of course, was ideal for combating skeletal undead, he knew, and some had reversed their spears, using the ends as staves to try and dislodge their foes from their ascent.
Even as his mind took in it all he was drawing and firing. His first arrow, a white-fletched holy missile, slammed into the skull of a skeleton as it fought its way onto the lip of the lower platform from below. The impact dislodged it from its precarious hold and it fell, tumbling in midair before impacting hard on a cleared stretch of packed earth. Dannel had already fired two more arrows and scored two more hits by the time that the creation landed, and to his concern he saw that it had not been destroyed by his missile or the long fall, the vegetation clinging to it cushioning the impact and holding it together as it slowly clattered to its feet.
And he also saw that he was not alone. Several of the skeletons were still on the ground, a few also having survived being knocked to ground by the defending elves, and they quickly caught sight of him, heading in his direction.
As worrying as that was, it was nothing compared to the loud crash that drew him around, in time to see a massive, lumbering hill of earth and rotting flesh in the rough shape of a giant crash through the bushes and come surging toward him.
Neverwinter Knight
First Post
What a bad time to discover the one's weapon of choice is useless... ![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
Lazybones
Adventurer
Yeah, the elves I created are far from optimal against undead, but hey, sometimes ya gotta fight with what you got. Needless to say, Dannel's going to be going through those holy arrows of his pretty quickly.Neverwinter Knight said:What a bad time to discover the one's weapon of choice is useless...
* * * * *
Chapter 474
The zombie-giant-earth thing was obviously powerful from the way it uprooted bushes as tall as Dannel in its rush, and each massive step forward caused the ground to shake noticeably. But it was slow, and that allowed Dannel just enough time to dodge back as it unleashed a two-handed overhead strike that slammed into the earth where he’d been standing a moment before. He gave ground, the creature lumbering behind.
The skeletons were much faster, and three of them moved to intercept them. As they came lengths of what looked like green vine twisted from their open jaws, and as Dannel recognized them he felt a cold fear grip him in the gut.
Mohrgs! he thought, knowing that if one of those barbed tentacles touched him, he might be in trouble.
“Wealdathanthala!” came a loud cry, announcing the arrival of his two companions to the fray. Eldren appeared and leapt at the giant zombie’s flank, his enchanted sword cleaving deep into the substance of it, sending clods of earth flying from its side. But the unholy force animating the creature was potent, and it quickly turned to face him, sweeping out its massive arms in a powerful but inaccurate attempt to crush him. The ranger dodged to the side, but a jagged length of branch jutting from the limb caught him in the shoulder, tearing his cloak and knocking him off-balance.
Jannae had initially helped Dannel, by firing a blast of searing light into one of the mohrgs threatening him. But seeing Eldren in trouble, she quickly moved to his aid, shifting into position to flank the giant zombie and distract it from the injured ranger. It was an effective tactic against most foes, but the zombie had few weaknesses that could be exploited through tactical advantage.
Dannel, giving ground, still augmented by his earlier spell, was easily able to outdistance the mohrgs while continuing to snap off the occasional shot from his bow. But as Jannae blasted the one with her divine spell it and another broke off and rushed at her, while the last continued to press him, its spiked tendril proving the air ahead of it, eager for the elf’s flesh.
“Damn,” Dannel said, immediately stopping and planting his feet as he spun around. The mohrg, seeing its prey turn to face it, eagerly rushed forward. It was only about fifteen feet away from the elf at that point, but with each step it took forward another white-fletched arrow slammed into it, unleashing a combined blast of divine and electrical energy into the undead abomination. One skeletal arm went flying, sundered by a precise hit, followed by an explosion of shards as half of its skull was shattered by a second. With its next step a rib was destroyed, causing half of the mass trapped inside its chest to crumble into dust, evaporated by the holy power of the missile. And finally, even as it lifted its remaining arm to strike, closing the last gap separating them, the elf drove a final arrow into its torso with enough power to penetrate the foul muck clinging to its ribs and slam into its spine with enough force to shatter the vertebrae. The mohrg expired with a soft sigh, collapsing onto the loam.
The screams of the elves above told him that the second platform was falling, but Dannel could spare them no attention; his two companions were in dire straits. Eldren had unleashed a series of precise but largely ineffective attacks against the zombie. In exchange he’d lingered an instant too long in the same place, and suffered a glancing blow to the head that almost took him to the ground, staggering him for a moment. Jannae, quickly realizing that her sneak attacks were of little effect against the huge undead creature, reached out and laid a bare hand against its flank, unleashing a cure serious wounds into it. The soft blue glow of healing burned it like fire, and large chunks of packed earth and flesh turned to ash and dropped away from its hulking frame. The hulk turned ponderously toward this new threat, giving Eldren the seconds he needed to recover.
But the priestess paid for her action a moment later, as the two mohrgs swarmed on her from behind. She sensed the first and dodged its penetrating tentacle, but the second intercepted her and delivered a punishing blow across the jaw that drove her back almost into the zombie’s hulking mass. And then, before she could recover, the monster’s tongue shot out and stabbed momentarily into her forearm. The contact between them lasted only an instant, but Jannae stiffened, collapsing paralyzed onto the carpet of dead leaves at the feet of her enemies.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 475
“Jannae!” Eldren exclaimed, darting into jeopardy by leaping behind the zombie, coming up into a roll directly in front of the priestess before the mohrgs could take advantage of her helplessness. The zombie, already turning, slammed him in the chest, but the ranger almost immediately leapt back to a defensive position over the incapacitated woman, deflecting the probing tentacle from the second mohrg with his sword as he did so.
Dannel came to their aid with another flurry of arrows that knifed with keen precision into the mohrgs. He focused on the one that looked the most damaged, and scored three hits in rapid succession that left it shattered into inanimate fragments. Without pausing he started in on the last one, hitting it solidly in the back of its skull, sending it forward into Eldren’s sword. There was a moment of tension as it nipped the ranger’s cheek with its tentacle, but the ranger fought off the paralysis and swept his enchanted blade around in a decisive arc that separated its head from its torso.
But even as the mohrg clattered to the ground, the zombie struck Eldren yet again, clouting him solidly across the shoulders and driving him to the ground. Lying across Jannae’s motionless form, he struggled to rise, his breath driven from his lungs by the force of the blow.
The zombie’s massive arms came up to finish him, but Dannel again unleashed a punishing barrage, fitting arrows to his string as fast as his magical quiver could produce them. His first shot went through the zombie, taking a hunk of its form with it, but his later shots vanished into its massive form, sending tendrils of electrical energy out from the points of impact. For a moment it looked like it would shrug off the incredible punishment it was taking, but then a last arrow slammed directly into the center of its head, and it exploded in a shower of clods, corrupted flesh, and shards of bone. The thing just stood there for a few seconds, then it toppled backward into an inert heap.
Eldren struggled to his feet, drawing a healing potion from one of the pouches at his belt and downing its contents. Dannel, meanwhile, looked up at the evolving scene of chaos above them.
In just the few moments since they had entered the clearing, the second platform had been overrun. A few of the defending elves could still be seen at the edges of the platform, held in the grip of mohrgs that tore them to pieces. Even as he fought the rising gorge in his throat, Dannel saw that the last platform was being swarmed by nearly a dozen other mohrgs, most of which had reached the platform and were already fighting with the defenders to gain access to the top.
Once even one or two made it up there, Dannel knew, it was all over.
“Dannel!” Eldren warned. The arcane archer saw that one of the mohrgs that had been knocked from the middle tree in the last rush had noticed them, and was heading toward them.
“Defend Jannae!” Dannel returned, already lost in the growing intensity of the magical song that tied him together with the bow in his hand and his distant targets. Time seemed to slow around him as he called upon his quiver, which disgorged the first of a sequence of white-fletched holy arrows at his command.
Eldren watched in amazement as Dannel erupted into a blur of motion, fitting and firing arrows with a speed even he, who’d considered himself a peerless archer, had never before seen. The ranger was dimly aware of the song of power that his cousin wove around himself as he unleashed a hail of arrows at the mohrgs assaulting the platform. Even as the first arrow slammed into a mohrg’s skull from behind, a stream of others were on their way. When the barrage finally stopped, and the elf archer sagged wearily back, his limbs moving again in real time, ten arrows had been fired, and ten direct hits had been scored. That first mohrg had been destroyed, three others had been knocked free of their perches by the impacts, and six others had suffered damage, the force of the arrows augmented by the electrical damage imparted by Dannel’s bow and the holy energies stored in the blessed arrows. The few surviving elven defenders were quick to take advantage, using their own bows and spears to target the injured undead, knocking another two from their grips on the bottom of the platform.
“Dannel!” Eldren warned again, and he spun to find the damaged mohrg rushing at him. Calmly he stood his ground, reloading and firing, sending two arrows into the mohrg, which collapsed at his feet. By the time its skull crashed against his boot he was already turning and firing again, sending more shafts up to the aid of the elves fighting above. He destroyed another mohrg, but then he had to return his attention to the ground, for several of the mohrgs he’d dislodged before were getting up, and quickly heading his way.
“Behind me, I’ll give you cover to shoot!” Eldren urged, downing another healing potion as he moved into a defensive position in front of Jannae’s limp form. Dannel complied, moving swiftly into position as the mohrgs formed up into a loose cluster, reinforced by several of their fellows who were descending from the second seized platform. Dannel shot one of those for good measure, knocking it free to land on another just below, sending both to the ground in a clatter of bones. But neither was out of the fight, and they quickly joined the rush at the defiant elves.
With a yell Eldren met their charge, deflecting the lunging slam of the first, and narrowly avoiding the stabbing tongue of the second that tried to pierce his neck from behind. He smashed through the rib cage of the first with a powerful swing of his sword, causing it to falter, but then found himself overrun as a third, and then a fourth, came at him, one seizing him from behind while the other dealt a punishing blow to his body with its skeletal fists. The long vine-tendrils plunged at him, and while he fought off the cold paralysis that would have left him helpless, he could not fight free from the strong grasp of the monsters grappling him.
But the ranger’s fierce defense had bought precious moments, and Dannel had not wasted them. The mohrg Eldren had damaged fell as a long arrow punched through its damaged rib cage and sundered its spine, and a moment later the one that had punched him fell back, spun around by the force of one, two, and finally a third arrow that exploded its shoulder and sent an entire arm flying free. Eldren finally was able to plant his feet and spin, knocking one of the mohrgs holding him into the second, disrupting their hold enough for him to pull his swordarm free. Even as they lunged at him again he brought the elvish blade down into the first, smashing its skull, knocking it limply back. The second got a solid hit in that in turn left the ranger’s face bloody, his nose broken, but he met it and cut through the long tongue as it stabbed in to strike, and a moment later two arrows from Dannel finished it.
The ranger spun, looking for another enemy, but the battle was coming to an end. Dannel continued to fire, plucking mohrgs out of the trees above with almost casual grace. Thus far, of all the arrows he’d fired, almost every one had scored a telling hit. The elven warders had secured their platform from immediate threat, and now they had joined in the barrage, targeting mohrgs that still lurked on the middle platform or who were descending the tree in order to engage Dannel and Eldren. None of the undead monsters tried to retreat, but within another minute the grove fell quiet once more as the last undead creature was reduced to inanimate bone fragments and piles of noxious, rotting vegetable matter.
Eldren was helping Jannae up; the priestess groaned as she shook off the last lingering effects of the paralysis. The ranger indicated the rope ladder being lowered by the elves from the last high platform, but Dannel shook his head.
“We have to abandon this outpost, and fall back to Aldair Kelalei.”
“It is not your right to…”
“Eldren. Listen to me. This was not a casual raid, nor were those monsters mere undead. This is an invasion, and all of the residents of the Wealdath are at risk. We must warn the elder lords, if they do not already know, and find out who or what is behind this… before it is too late.”
“Jannae!” Eldren exclaimed, darting into jeopardy by leaping behind the zombie, coming up into a roll directly in front of the priestess before the mohrgs could take advantage of her helplessness. The zombie, already turning, slammed him in the chest, but the ranger almost immediately leapt back to a defensive position over the incapacitated woman, deflecting the probing tentacle from the second mohrg with his sword as he did so.
Dannel came to their aid with another flurry of arrows that knifed with keen precision into the mohrgs. He focused on the one that looked the most damaged, and scored three hits in rapid succession that left it shattered into inanimate fragments. Without pausing he started in on the last one, hitting it solidly in the back of its skull, sending it forward into Eldren’s sword. There was a moment of tension as it nipped the ranger’s cheek with its tentacle, but the ranger fought off the paralysis and swept his enchanted blade around in a decisive arc that separated its head from its torso.
But even as the mohrg clattered to the ground, the zombie struck Eldren yet again, clouting him solidly across the shoulders and driving him to the ground. Lying across Jannae’s motionless form, he struggled to rise, his breath driven from his lungs by the force of the blow.
The zombie’s massive arms came up to finish him, but Dannel again unleashed a punishing barrage, fitting arrows to his string as fast as his magical quiver could produce them. His first shot went through the zombie, taking a hunk of its form with it, but his later shots vanished into its massive form, sending tendrils of electrical energy out from the points of impact. For a moment it looked like it would shrug off the incredible punishment it was taking, but then a last arrow slammed directly into the center of its head, and it exploded in a shower of clods, corrupted flesh, and shards of bone. The thing just stood there for a few seconds, then it toppled backward into an inert heap.
Eldren struggled to his feet, drawing a healing potion from one of the pouches at his belt and downing its contents. Dannel, meanwhile, looked up at the evolving scene of chaos above them.
In just the few moments since they had entered the clearing, the second platform had been overrun. A few of the defending elves could still be seen at the edges of the platform, held in the grip of mohrgs that tore them to pieces. Even as he fought the rising gorge in his throat, Dannel saw that the last platform was being swarmed by nearly a dozen other mohrgs, most of which had reached the platform and were already fighting with the defenders to gain access to the top.
Once even one or two made it up there, Dannel knew, it was all over.
“Dannel!” Eldren warned. The arcane archer saw that one of the mohrgs that had been knocked from the middle tree in the last rush had noticed them, and was heading toward them.
“Defend Jannae!” Dannel returned, already lost in the growing intensity of the magical song that tied him together with the bow in his hand and his distant targets. Time seemed to slow around him as he called upon his quiver, which disgorged the first of a sequence of white-fletched holy arrows at his command.
Eldren watched in amazement as Dannel erupted into a blur of motion, fitting and firing arrows with a speed even he, who’d considered himself a peerless archer, had never before seen. The ranger was dimly aware of the song of power that his cousin wove around himself as he unleashed a hail of arrows at the mohrgs assaulting the platform. Even as the first arrow slammed into a mohrg’s skull from behind, a stream of others were on their way. When the barrage finally stopped, and the elf archer sagged wearily back, his limbs moving again in real time, ten arrows had been fired, and ten direct hits had been scored. That first mohrg had been destroyed, three others had been knocked free of their perches by the impacts, and six others had suffered damage, the force of the arrows augmented by the electrical damage imparted by Dannel’s bow and the holy energies stored in the blessed arrows. The few surviving elven defenders were quick to take advantage, using their own bows and spears to target the injured undead, knocking another two from their grips on the bottom of the platform.
“Dannel!” Eldren warned again, and he spun to find the damaged mohrg rushing at him. Calmly he stood his ground, reloading and firing, sending two arrows into the mohrg, which collapsed at his feet. By the time its skull crashed against his boot he was already turning and firing again, sending more shafts up to the aid of the elves fighting above. He destroyed another mohrg, but then he had to return his attention to the ground, for several of the mohrgs he’d dislodged before were getting up, and quickly heading his way.
“Behind me, I’ll give you cover to shoot!” Eldren urged, downing another healing potion as he moved into a defensive position in front of Jannae’s limp form. Dannel complied, moving swiftly into position as the mohrgs formed up into a loose cluster, reinforced by several of their fellows who were descending from the second seized platform. Dannel shot one of those for good measure, knocking it free to land on another just below, sending both to the ground in a clatter of bones. But neither was out of the fight, and they quickly joined the rush at the defiant elves.
With a yell Eldren met their charge, deflecting the lunging slam of the first, and narrowly avoiding the stabbing tongue of the second that tried to pierce his neck from behind. He smashed through the rib cage of the first with a powerful swing of his sword, causing it to falter, but then found himself overrun as a third, and then a fourth, came at him, one seizing him from behind while the other dealt a punishing blow to his body with its skeletal fists. The long vine-tendrils plunged at him, and while he fought off the cold paralysis that would have left him helpless, he could not fight free from the strong grasp of the monsters grappling him.
But the ranger’s fierce defense had bought precious moments, and Dannel had not wasted them. The mohrg Eldren had damaged fell as a long arrow punched through its damaged rib cage and sundered its spine, and a moment later the one that had punched him fell back, spun around by the force of one, two, and finally a third arrow that exploded its shoulder and sent an entire arm flying free. Eldren finally was able to plant his feet and spin, knocking one of the mohrgs holding him into the second, disrupting their hold enough for him to pull his swordarm free. Even as they lunged at him again he brought the elvish blade down into the first, smashing its skull, knocking it limply back. The second got a solid hit in that in turn left the ranger’s face bloody, his nose broken, but he met it and cut through the long tongue as it stabbed in to strike, and a moment later two arrows from Dannel finished it.
The ranger spun, looking for another enemy, but the battle was coming to an end. Dannel continued to fire, plucking mohrgs out of the trees above with almost casual grace. Thus far, of all the arrows he’d fired, almost every one had scored a telling hit. The elven warders had secured their platform from immediate threat, and now they had joined in the barrage, targeting mohrgs that still lurked on the middle platform or who were descending the tree in order to engage Dannel and Eldren. None of the undead monsters tried to retreat, but within another minute the grove fell quiet once more as the last undead creature was reduced to inanimate bone fragments and piles of noxious, rotting vegetable matter.
Eldren was helping Jannae up; the priestess groaned as she shook off the last lingering effects of the paralysis. The ranger indicated the rope ladder being lowered by the elves from the last high platform, but Dannel shook his head.
“We have to abandon this outpost, and fall back to Aldair Kelalei.”
“It is not your right to…”
“Eldren. Listen to me. This was not a casual raid, nor were those monsters mere undead. This is an invasion, and all of the residents of the Wealdath are at risk. We must warn the elder lords, if they do not already know, and find out who or what is behind this… before it is too late.”
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 476
A soft breeze redolent with the smells of lavender and autumn rustled through the trees, swirling through the open spaces of the ancient grove. The gentle wind tugged at the threadbare, ragged cloak worn by the solitary individual seated upon the throne of cragged gray wood shaped from the remains of a long-dead stump. In the late afternoon light, here in the depths of the old wood, the figure’s face was lost within the shadows of its cowl, for all that the garment was little more than wisps of fabric as ephemeral as moonlight, seemingly kept together by a memory of what it had once been.
The seated figure did not smell the fragrant hints upon the breeze. It did not remember the rich odors of the forest in autumn, or what it felt like to have the afternoon sun filter down through the canopy to strike the face in a forest clearing. It did not remember the joys of running through the wood, or chasing butterflies, or enjoying the soft patter of rain upon the leaves.
It did not even remember its name.
All that it remembered was its mandate, to preserve the forest, to maintain the purity of the Wealdath. Even that name was lost to it, and it remembered only the Wood, always the eternity of the ancient sentinels, the holiness of this place above all others on the surface of the world.
And now, the Wood was in danger.
The figure rose, silent. It turned and walked solemnly toward the nearby ruin. The stone arch rose above it in greeting, although the interior was now little more than cracked foundation beneath its feet, with walls that barely rose to its chest in most places. Age—time—had done to this place what it could not do to the walker, for it too was eternal, ever bound to this holy site and to the Wood.
A pulse of power greeted it as it entered the sacred core. It had not left the ruin, but the Wood was no longer visible. Here, it was both within the Wood and outside of it, the reality here torn by the vast power of the mythal.
The baelnorn regarded the ancient artifact. It knew the currents of power radiating from the crystal better than it knew its own self, recognized them like old friends. To its eyes the black smear of taint upon the crystal, consuming the entire upper half of its surface, seemed a natural part of it, unchanged since forever. That taint spread outward from it in a web that embraced the ancient lich, welcomed it as the undead thing came forward into the uneven glow of the artifact.
As soon as it could sense fully the flows of energy it knew that it had failed in its mandate. The threat to the Wood had grown, its efforts rebuffed. The impurity would swell and undo all that it had fought to preserve…
No. The baelnorn grew calm once more. It reached out toward the mythal; not actually to touch it, but some habits died hard. The gesture drew tendrils of power from within the web, tendrils that coalesced until they had become visible as a black distortion that hung in the air a few feet in front of the undead guardian. The mythal pulsed beyond that growing disruption, drawing more power into itself along the threads that linked it to the worlds beyond this place.
Minutes passed, hours, but what was time to a creature that existed forever? Finally the blackness faded, or seemed to; as the matrix dissolved the faint light from the mythal revealed three larger regions of un-light hovering in the corners of the chamber.
“Go forth, purify,” the baelnorn commanded, its voice sounding like the faint hiss of a candle’s flame consuming the last bit of wick. The dread wraiths, however, heard the command clearly, and bound to obey, merely vanished, passing through the barrier that surrounded the mythal and separated from the world beyond.
The baelnorn remained for a time longer, drawing more power from the ancient but flawed artifact. It would need more power, would need to draw upon all it could to complete its mandate, to save the Wood from the threat posed by the life forms that infested it. Even if it meant its own destruction, it would complete that task, would be the scourge that would finish the final cleansing of the Wealdath.
A soft breeze redolent with the smells of lavender and autumn rustled through the trees, swirling through the open spaces of the ancient grove. The gentle wind tugged at the threadbare, ragged cloak worn by the solitary individual seated upon the throne of cragged gray wood shaped from the remains of a long-dead stump. In the late afternoon light, here in the depths of the old wood, the figure’s face was lost within the shadows of its cowl, for all that the garment was little more than wisps of fabric as ephemeral as moonlight, seemingly kept together by a memory of what it had once been.
The seated figure did not smell the fragrant hints upon the breeze. It did not remember the rich odors of the forest in autumn, or what it felt like to have the afternoon sun filter down through the canopy to strike the face in a forest clearing. It did not remember the joys of running through the wood, or chasing butterflies, or enjoying the soft patter of rain upon the leaves.
It did not even remember its name.
All that it remembered was its mandate, to preserve the forest, to maintain the purity of the Wealdath. Even that name was lost to it, and it remembered only the Wood, always the eternity of the ancient sentinels, the holiness of this place above all others on the surface of the world.
And now, the Wood was in danger.
The figure rose, silent. It turned and walked solemnly toward the nearby ruin. The stone arch rose above it in greeting, although the interior was now little more than cracked foundation beneath its feet, with walls that barely rose to its chest in most places. Age—time—had done to this place what it could not do to the walker, for it too was eternal, ever bound to this holy site and to the Wood.
A pulse of power greeted it as it entered the sacred core. It had not left the ruin, but the Wood was no longer visible. Here, it was both within the Wood and outside of it, the reality here torn by the vast power of the mythal.
The baelnorn regarded the ancient artifact. It knew the currents of power radiating from the crystal better than it knew its own self, recognized them like old friends. To its eyes the black smear of taint upon the crystal, consuming the entire upper half of its surface, seemed a natural part of it, unchanged since forever. That taint spread outward from it in a web that embraced the ancient lich, welcomed it as the undead thing came forward into the uneven glow of the artifact.
As soon as it could sense fully the flows of energy it knew that it had failed in its mandate. The threat to the Wood had grown, its efforts rebuffed. The impurity would swell and undo all that it had fought to preserve…
No. The baelnorn grew calm once more. It reached out toward the mythal; not actually to touch it, but some habits died hard. The gesture drew tendrils of power from within the web, tendrils that coalesced until they had become visible as a black distortion that hung in the air a few feet in front of the undead guardian. The mythal pulsed beyond that growing disruption, drawing more power into itself along the threads that linked it to the worlds beyond this place.
Minutes passed, hours, but what was time to a creature that existed forever? Finally the blackness faded, or seemed to; as the matrix dissolved the faint light from the mythal revealed three larger regions of un-light hovering in the corners of the chamber.
“Go forth, purify,” the baelnorn commanded, its voice sounding like the faint hiss of a candle’s flame consuming the last bit of wick. The dread wraiths, however, heard the command clearly, and bound to obey, merely vanished, passing through the barrier that surrounded the mythal and separated from the world beyond.
The baelnorn remained for a time longer, drawing more power from the ancient but flawed artifact. It would need more power, would need to draw upon all it could to complete its mandate, to save the Wood from the threat posed by the life forms that infested it. Even if it meant its own destruction, it would complete that task, would be the scourge that would finish the final cleansing of the Wealdath.
Neverwinter Knight
First Post
Yeah, those nice, sane, good-aligned undead are not what they used to be... It's so hard to find good guardians, these days.
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