Shackled City Epic: "Vengeance" (story concluded)
- Thread starter Lazybones
- Start date
Neverwinter Knight
First Post
Me neither - this character sounds interesting! Nice update, Lazy. Dana has become a lot cooler since Benzan was...taken captive. 
Lazybones
Adventurer
Dungannon said:I can't wait to see the stats on her companion.
I didn't stat him out completely (I'm getting lazier as the levels get higher and the blocks get longer), but I'll post an abbreviated block in the Rogues' Gallery.
Neverwinter Knight said:
Heh, I've noticed a strong constituency for the "bad" good guys. Well, Dana's going to be making her own little journey to the Dark Side, stay tuned...
* * * * *
Chapter 514
A thick, cloying heat hung over the city of Suldolphor, dry and clinging despite the presence of the adjacent straits that connected the Shining Sea with the Lake of Steam. Not even the slightest promise of a breeze offered relief to the residents of the city this day. From the distance a wavering haze hung over the blocky tan expanses of the city’s wards, crowded upon the slender peninsula upon which the city perched. The sea of brown was broken only where the sunshine glittered brilliantly off of a bulb-shaped tower covered in leaf of precious metals, in the wealthier districts where temples or rich estates overlooked the more humble neighborhoods of the urban poor. Above all in terms of grandeur and brilliance was the spacious palace of the city’s governor, subject to the Syl-Pasha of Calimshan in name, but obligated to his nobles and merchant lords in practice. The city’s position on the wild frontier that was the lands upon the great lake, and its strategic location, ensured that its fortifications were not neglected. Iron-faced men clad in hauberks of bronze rings, despite the heat of the day, stood vigilant upon massive walls thick enough for wagons to pass each other upon the battlements.
But despite the glories of the city’s temples and palaces, most of the city of Suldolphor was characterized by narrow, twisting streets that wound unpredictable paths between rows of tan multistory structures stacked atop each other like crates jumbled in a warehouse. The Old City nearest the bluff overlooking the straits was fashioned mostly out of weathered granite, buildings hundreds of years old, but the sprawling districts outside the inner wall were built mostly of mud brick. In the humid climate those structures had to be rebuilt frequently, giving the city the look of a patchwork of old and new in constant juxtaposition. One hundred and forty thousand people were crowded into the space within the outer walls, a tidepool of teeming life.
The smells of the city core were likewise layered, with the sizzles of meats mixed with the stench of animals and people crowded into too small a place. In these crowded alleys the sea breezes rarely penetrated, and when the autumn rains came they often created short-lived but violent floods that purged the streets of the gathered filth and detritus of the long, hot summer. On many streets the buildings on either side, stacked with floors piled tentatively one upon the other, leaned inward until they almost touched, leaving only a sliver of blue sky above that was almost tantalizingly distant. Within those warrens the noises of the poor neighborhoods could be almost deafening, the words, cries, and screams of its residents overlaid with the barking of dogs, the lowing of cattle, and above all the constant buzz of insects—the one race that outnumbered all others by a considerable magnitude.
Suldolphor was a unique city in that its rich and poor were often juxtaposed in an odd medley; it was possible to leave a richly appointed temple of Deneir, make a wrong turn, and end up in a dead end alley where urchins in tattered linen tunics swarmed like hungry rats. Few could claim to know fully the maze of the city’s streets, and fewer still knew all of the hidey-holes and arcane mysteries tucked here and there, offering opportunity and danger for those seeking either.
In the back room of a small, nondescript shop, one of the most dangerous men in Faerûn sat in a small chair behind an ancient desk cluttered with a miscellany of unusual objects. A thin thread of white incense rose into the air from a censer placed on one of the dozen or so shelves that lined the wall behind him, filling the air with an odor strong enough to make the head swim. The place was uncomfortably hot, but the man appeared to be unaffected by the heat, and in fact wore a heavy linen tunic that was bulky enough to have hidden almost anything within its layered folds. His face was lined with the folds and crags of a difficult life, the flesh a rich olive brown, but he could have been fifty years or eighty, the specifics of him difficult to discern in the dim interior.
The man sat watching keenly the only other occupant of the chamber. His guest was a tall, lean man, clad in a voluminous robe in the style of a Calimshite nobleman or wealthy man of business. The scimitar at his waist looked to be more for show than for use, with the rich ivory inlay of the hilt unworn by experience. But he looked no less dangerous for that, especially when one took the time to look into his cold, hard eyes. Those gray orbs weighed the smaller man much as he himself was being weighed, and for a moment there was a quiet détente between the two in the silence of the crowded chamber.
“You have come a long way,” the older man finally said.
“I have,” the rich lord said. “Your organization comes highly recommended as the best at what it does. I have need of the best.”
The older man nodded, taking up a tiny cup from its perch on the edge of his desk, and lifting it to his lips. When it became clear that he was not going to immediately respond, the man in the noble garb continued. “It is my understanding that you are not limited by distance, so long as the target is upon Faerûn. You have access to powerful magic, and are accustomed to dealing with powerful foes with unique talents.”
The older man took another sip of his beverage and put down the cup. “You are well informed.”
The rich man inclined his head slightly. “The price, of course, would be commensurate with the difficulty of the task,” he said. He produced a small bag from an inside pocket of his robe, and leaned over to place it upon the desk. He shook it slightly, so that some of the contents spilled out onto the table. They were small cubes, maybe an inch on a side, and even in the limited illumination were instantly obvious as platinum.
The man glanced at them. “The runes, on the sides?”
“The cubes are enchanted with a magic that keeps them at this size. When the trigger word is spoken, each cube becomes a block of the metal ten inches on a side. One thousand times the current volume, solid platinum. There are fifteen within the bag. I could demonstrate with one, if you wish.”
The old man shook his head casually, as if the fact of such wealth—if the rich man’s terms were accurate, the sum value of the offer was not much less than a full year’s assessment of taxes of the entire kingdom of Calimshan—was just a small curiosity in the course of his daily business. “And the target?”
The rich man spoke a series of names. He produced a scroll from the same pocket where the bag had originated. “I have here descriptions and a list of the locations frequented by…”
He’d started to place the scroll beside the bag, but was forestalled by a negative shake of the man’s head. “I am sorry. We cannot accept this commission.”
The rich man’s expression betrayed more than a hint of anger. “If the offer is insufficient—“
“Not at all. The price is extremely generous.” He rose, the movement so fluid despite his casual stance and bulk that he seemed to organically flow from one state to the next. He turned to one of the shelves and its crowded collection of items, and from a hidden space drew out a small book bound in leather so dark as to be almost black. He offered it to the man, who opened it. The inside of the book was a single page of parchment, meticulously rich, carefully scraped so that no stray mark or remainder of past writing remained upon the page.
The rich man’s look betrayed his recognition of the words scribed upon the page. Twenty names, penned in a neat script, organized into a numbered list.
“That list is updated twice a year,” the old man said, settling back into his chair. “A considerable portion of my organization’s efforts is dedicated to ensuring that it is current and accurate. As you can see, three of the names that you mentioned are on the list.”
“I see. So these are individuals that your group will not interfere with.”
The old man inclined his head slightly. “I am glad that you understand my meaning. I make no judgment about your interest in this matter, or offer evaluation upon the ability of my association or any other to complete the assignment. However, there are certain individuals, whether through personal power, organizational affiliation, or favor with the more powerful of the gods of Faerûn, who simply provide too much risk for an organization such as mine to countenance involvement. If you like, I can suggest a few alternative groups who may be willing, perhaps.”
“Perhaps a partial commission, for the names not on the list?”
The old man shook his head. “In this case, it is a matter of association. All of those individuals you cited are closely involved, as no doubt you yourself know. And I suspect that at the next revision of the list, all of the individuals you cited will ultimately end up upon the page. Assuming their rise does not meet a premature interruption,” he added, with a slight nod to the visitor.
The rich man nodded. “Very well then. I thank you for your time.”
The old man smiled and sat quietly while the other stood, placing the black book upon the desk, recovering his bag and the rune-marked cubes that had spilled out. Neither made an effort at further communication as the richly robed man turned and left. He did not even bother to fully depart through the beaded curtain that led out into the front of the shop before he shimmered and vanished, teleporting away.
The old man sat there for a few long moments, looking at the contents of the black book, sipping his drink. Despite his deferral of the rich man’s commission, he knew that his organization would have to conduct some follow-up on this matter. Even though the Society of Stealth was not going to be directly involved, when a greater demon showed up looking for assassins to take out some of the most powerful individuals currently alive upon Faerûn, it was a matter to be noted.
* * * * *
Author's note: don't bother looking up the Society of Stealth; it's my own invention. And don't feel too bad for ol' Zev, he'll come up with a suitably nasty Plan B by Monday.
CrusadeDave
First Post
Lazybones said:
<sarcasm> Yippie-I-Chi-A! All that means is that the party is headed to the Abyss. Whoop-dee-doo. </sarcasm>
Good installation today. I always love it when story hours give me direct ideas to yoink into my campaign.
What an awesome exchange.
Neverwinter Knight
First Post
I love this installment, Lazybones! If I was still an active DM, I would have incorporated the SoS into my campaign...for some nice effects! ![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 515
The chant sounded off of the thick stone walls of the vault, amplifying the sound and adding a sonorous echo reminiscent of a dirge. Flickering flames atop a half-dozen candles set in sconces along the perimeter of the room dimly illuminated the six figures that were the source of the chant. The dark forms, clad in body-concealing black robes with heavy cowls, were arranged in a circle around a rune-inscripted ring etched into the ancient stone blocks of the floor. A dank mustiness filled the place, and lichens grew in the cracks of the walls, hinting that this subterranean vault was linked to the sewers that kept the city above clean and orderly. The very place seemed suited to mysterious and secret activities, such as the ritual underway here.
From deep in the shadows, Zev’vat observed the ritual. His eyes hovered briefly over Grendalla, her back to him at her position at the “head” of the circle. His lips tightened briefly in some unfathomable emotion. It certainly wasn’t affection, despite the fact that the leader of this cult cell had welcomed him and gladly professed her loyalty to Graz’zt with the offering of her body. Her depravity had been… well, after experiencing the dark orgies held within the Argent Palace, back before the Disaster, anything that these mere mortal followers could come up with seemed pathetic by comparison.
The chant intensified, and in response a green aura began to coalesce within the ritual. Zev’vat watched closely. The kelvezu had almost immediately gauged that Grendalla was not up to the task that he required of her. Her little coven was weak and craven, scuttling around in the foul pits beneath this prosperous western city. But to be truthful, the demon was forced to admit that he had few choices left with which to work. Graz’zt’s followers had suffered along with the calamitous decline of their sponsor, and most of the once-potent cells had long since been overrun or turned by the demon lord’s powerful rivals. A few had even fallen to non-demonic cults, absorbed by the followers of this Prime’s gods of evil. Those that had remained loyal, like Grendalla’s little company, had been forced to lie low, crawling into the dark places under rocks where they could linger unseen.
The chant broke up as a flare of silver energy passed through the circle and into the growing green nimbus within. Screams erupted from the cultists as the silver fire intensified, binding them to the swelling disruption that now began to take on a distinct form, bridging the barrier between worlds.
Zev’vat watched the final stages of the ritual intently. It had been he who had modified the ceremony, drawing the power lacking in the cultists by using their very life forces as a power source. Grendalla, of course, he had not informed of the consequence of the change, and she had trusted him, much to her misfortune.
The ritual concluded, the silver light, green field, and cultists all snuffed out at the same moment. The summoning circle had been broken, but the five individuals now standing within made no move to exit. Zev’vat came forward, and addressed the leader.
He was easily discernable. His—if it was in fact a he—companions were all naked, the candlelight glistening off their hides, skin as black as the darkest night. Their bodies were perfectly smooth, bearing no hair or obvious genitalia, no hint at all in fact as to their gender, if they even had such. Each stood just over eight feet in height but was incredibly broad, almost like Faerûnian dwarves in the construction of their forms. Their muscles suggested great strength, and no bit of flesh appeared to be wasted upon them. Their faces were alien, noseless, with narrow slits for eyes and wide mouths that stretched across the full expanse of their faces. Each of the four escorts bore a single weapon, a bar of black metal resembling a sword but without a cutting edge on either side, the whole nearly five feet long.
The leader was clad in a simple one-piece garment, a violet drape that covered his torso, fastened around his waist with a piece of thick brown rope. He carried a gnarled staff of gray wood, carved with tiny symbols that seemed to shift slightly when the eye passed over them, creating new meaning. He watched Zev’vat intently, waiting. Neither he nor his escorts paid any heed to the corpses scattered around them.
“I greet you, Shaman of the M’butu,” the kelvezu finally said, offering a short bow.
The Shaman made a clicking sound that seemed to originate deep within his chest. “We have come to the call.” He looked around at his surroundings. “This place is most unpleasant.” His escorts were in fact shivering, although by the way they carried themselves, it seemed as though they would simply stand there and freeze to death before they admitted discomfort.
“You need not remain long. Once the service for which I have summoned you is complete, you may return to your world.” The kelvezu did not mention the means for that return, given the death of those who had facilitated the initial transition, but the Shaman did not seem troubled by that detail.
“We have come in service to the Six Fingered Man. If we complete this service, our obligation to the Six Fingered Man is complete, per the terms of our bargain.”
The kelvezu nodded. “Agreed.”
The Shaman’s mouth opened slightly in a nasty parody of a smile; a whole lot of jagged teeth the color of old bones were visible within. “Speak then, what must be done.”
The chant sounded off of the thick stone walls of the vault, amplifying the sound and adding a sonorous echo reminiscent of a dirge. Flickering flames atop a half-dozen candles set in sconces along the perimeter of the room dimly illuminated the six figures that were the source of the chant. The dark forms, clad in body-concealing black robes with heavy cowls, were arranged in a circle around a rune-inscripted ring etched into the ancient stone blocks of the floor. A dank mustiness filled the place, and lichens grew in the cracks of the walls, hinting that this subterranean vault was linked to the sewers that kept the city above clean and orderly. The very place seemed suited to mysterious and secret activities, such as the ritual underway here.
From deep in the shadows, Zev’vat observed the ritual. His eyes hovered briefly over Grendalla, her back to him at her position at the “head” of the circle. His lips tightened briefly in some unfathomable emotion. It certainly wasn’t affection, despite the fact that the leader of this cult cell had welcomed him and gladly professed her loyalty to Graz’zt with the offering of her body. Her depravity had been… well, after experiencing the dark orgies held within the Argent Palace, back before the Disaster, anything that these mere mortal followers could come up with seemed pathetic by comparison.
The chant intensified, and in response a green aura began to coalesce within the ritual. Zev’vat watched closely. The kelvezu had almost immediately gauged that Grendalla was not up to the task that he required of her. Her little coven was weak and craven, scuttling around in the foul pits beneath this prosperous western city. But to be truthful, the demon was forced to admit that he had few choices left with which to work. Graz’zt’s followers had suffered along with the calamitous decline of their sponsor, and most of the once-potent cells had long since been overrun or turned by the demon lord’s powerful rivals. A few had even fallen to non-demonic cults, absorbed by the followers of this Prime’s gods of evil. Those that had remained loyal, like Grendalla’s little company, had been forced to lie low, crawling into the dark places under rocks where they could linger unseen.
The chant broke up as a flare of silver energy passed through the circle and into the growing green nimbus within. Screams erupted from the cultists as the silver fire intensified, binding them to the swelling disruption that now began to take on a distinct form, bridging the barrier between worlds.
Zev’vat watched the final stages of the ritual intently. It had been he who had modified the ceremony, drawing the power lacking in the cultists by using their very life forces as a power source. Grendalla, of course, he had not informed of the consequence of the change, and she had trusted him, much to her misfortune.
The ritual concluded, the silver light, green field, and cultists all snuffed out at the same moment. The summoning circle had been broken, but the five individuals now standing within made no move to exit. Zev’vat came forward, and addressed the leader.
He was easily discernable. His—if it was in fact a he—companions were all naked, the candlelight glistening off their hides, skin as black as the darkest night. Their bodies were perfectly smooth, bearing no hair or obvious genitalia, no hint at all in fact as to their gender, if they even had such. Each stood just over eight feet in height but was incredibly broad, almost like Faerûnian dwarves in the construction of their forms. Their muscles suggested great strength, and no bit of flesh appeared to be wasted upon them. Their faces were alien, noseless, with narrow slits for eyes and wide mouths that stretched across the full expanse of their faces. Each of the four escorts bore a single weapon, a bar of black metal resembling a sword but without a cutting edge on either side, the whole nearly five feet long.
The leader was clad in a simple one-piece garment, a violet drape that covered his torso, fastened around his waist with a piece of thick brown rope. He carried a gnarled staff of gray wood, carved with tiny symbols that seemed to shift slightly when the eye passed over them, creating new meaning. He watched Zev’vat intently, waiting. Neither he nor his escorts paid any heed to the corpses scattered around them.
“I greet you, Shaman of the M’butu,” the kelvezu finally said, offering a short bow.
The Shaman made a clicking sound that seemed to originate deep within his chest. “We have come to the call.” He looked around at his surroundings. “This place is most unpleasant.” His escorts were in fact shivering, although by the way they carried themselves, it seemed as though they would simply stand there and freeze to death before they admitted discomfort.
“You need not remain long. Once the service for which I have summoned you is complete, you may return to your world.” The kelvezu did not mention the means for that return, given the death of those who had facilitated the initial transition, but the Shaman did not seem troubled by that detail.
“We have come in service to the Six Fingered Man. If we complete this service, our obligation to the Six Fingered Man is complete, per the terms of our bargain.”
The kelvezu nodded. “Agreed.”
The Shaman’s mouth opened slightly in a nasty parody of a smile; a whole lot of jagged teeth the color of old bones were visible within. “Speak then, what must be done.”
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 516
Cal spent his tenday in a much quieter fashion than his companions; he faced no fantastic monsters or dire plagues. But nevertheless, the gnome archmage was incredibly busy, and in that relatively short period of time he covered more ground than some merchants crossed in their entire lifetimes.
His interview with the Blackstaff was brief but fruitful. Khelben Arunsun, the Archmage of Waterdeep, was sympathetic to his situation, and was able to provide the gnome with access to several tomes and other sources of at least reasonably reliable information about the Abyss and its lords. There was a lot of misinformation about the Prince of Shadows, the master of Azzagrat, but Arunsun promised that he would dedicate more resources to the topic and forward any information he uncovered to Cal at the Traveler’s Rest.
The Blackstaff was also able to help Cal in another way, granting him a recommendation that got him free access to the extensive library and laboratory facilities of the city’s renown Mages’ Guild. That was particularly useful, for while the Traveler’s Rest had a decent study, Cal’s resources were scant indeed in comparison to the rich amenities offered by the Guild to its inner circle of arcanists. Arunsun also gave Cal a reference to a contact at the Guild who was able to provide the gnome with a pair of items of great use to one in his position; a blessed book to augment his bulging, overfull spellbooks, and a small magical container akin to Dannel’s efficient quiver, only designed to hold magical staves, rods, and wands. The ornate leather sleeve held up to twenty such devices, and produced the proper one upon a simple voice command. Given the recent growth in Cal’s collection of such devices, the compact cylinder found a ready home at the gnome’s belt.
Cal already had a good number of scrolls he wanted to scribe, and with the library of the Guild at his disposal he was set to make a good start at filling the magically-enhanced capacity of his blessed book. But first, he had other errands to complete. He still had a good quantity of treasure in his magical haversack, mostly specialized magical items left over from their errand at Skullrot, or from Hookface’s horde. Those items required unique buyers, so he spent the better part of three days making contacts, collecting references from the other Guild mages, and even delving briefly into Skullport, the corrupt outpost situated deep beneath the city.
He had mastered the ability of magical teleportation, and almost every day he used the power at least twice, transporting himself to distant cities and returning later, worn out by full days of activity. With his greater teleport ability, honed to full potency by his archmage abilities, he could travel to destinations he’d never even visited, needing only a detailed description of the place upon which he could focus the energies of the spell. In that tenday he traveled to seven cities scattered all over the Realms, seeking out buyers for his remaining treasures, collecting more spells, or digging up small threads of information that each fit into the puzzle that he was constructing. That last, in particular, was especially troubling. Few knew much about Graz’zt, and even fewer were willing to speak of the demon prince openly. But what was odd was a pattern he was beginning to sense. Faerûn already had plenty of evil gods; the demon princes acted within a crowded field. But the hints that he learned suggested that Graz’zt’s power had, of late, been in decline upon the Prime Material Plane. There were no hard facts to clarify this suspicion, and nothing at all about events upon the Outer Planes, and especially the Abyss. Cal actually knew more than most about Graz’zt’s own realm, having traveled there personally, almost twenty years ago.
It was not a journey he was eager to make again.
Another errand he’d attended to shortly after his meeting with the Blackstaff. While in Waterdeep, he traveled to the busy crafts district situated along the broad avenue that led up from the city’s docks. It had been decades since he’d lived in the city, but a few probing questions and well-placed gold pieces led him to the shop of a craftsman who could fulfill the unusual commission that he had in mind. A much larger quantity of gold set his request in motion. Toward the end of the tenday, he returned, and accepted a fairly large bundle wrapped in cloth that barely fit into the extradimensional space within his haversack.
The rest of his time he spent in a private cubby deep within the Guild library, scribing spells into his book. Even here he was forced to choose among the new spells he’d collected, and while he would have liked to scribe a few scrolls as well, there was no time. The lazy pace of magical item creation he’d followed over the last decade, while the Rest had been constructed, and Ember Vale grew from a waystop into a community, seemed a lost luxury.
Finally, on the last day of the tenday since he’d left Lok and Mole at that distant outpost so far away in the North, he returned home. He materialized in the small secure chamber beneath the Rest, and despite his exhaustion carefully disabled each of the wards that were designed to ensure a most unwelcome reception to those who arrived uninvited. After securing the heavy iron door behind him, he headed up the stairs, crossed directly to his room, and without even bothering to undress collapsed into his bed, instantly falling asleep. Outside, the last glimmers of the sun were already vanishing over distant western horizon, but the gnome was oblivious to the coming of the night.
Cal spent his tenday in a much quieter fashion than his companions; he faced no fantastic monsters or dire plagues. But nevertheless, the gnome archmage was incredibly busy, and in that relatively short period of time he covered more ground than some merchants crossed in their entire lifetimes.
His interview with the Blackstaff was brief but fruitful. Khelben Arunsun, the Archmage of Waterdeep, was sympathetic to his situation, and was able to provide the gnome with access to several tomes and other sources of at least reasonably reliable information about the Abyss and its lords. There was a lot of misinformation about the Prince of Shadows, the master of Azzagrat, but Arunsun promised that he would dedicate more resources to the topic and forward any information he uncovered to Cal at the Traveler’s Rest.
The Blackstaff was also able to help Cal in another way, granting him a recommendation that got him free access to the extensive library and laboratory facilities of the city’s renown Mages’ Guild. That was particularly useful, for while the Traveler’s Rest had a decent study, Cal’s resources were scant indeed in comparison to the rich amenities offered by the Guild to its inner circle of arcanists. Arunsun also gave Cal a reference to a contact at the Guild who was able to provide the gnome with a pair of items of great use to one in his position; a blessed book to augment his bulging, overfull spellbooks, and a small magical container akin to Dannel’s efficient quiver, only designed to hold magical staves, rods, and wands. The ornate leather sleeve held up to twenty such devices, and produced the proper one upon a simple voice command. Given the recent growth in Cal’s collection of such devices, the compact cylinder found a ready home at the gnome’s belt.
Cal already had a good number of scrolls he wanted to scribe, and with the library of the Guild at his disposal he was set to make a good start at filling the magically-enhanced capacity of his blessed book. But first, he had other errands to complete. He still had a good quantity of treasure in his magical haversack, mostly specialized magical items left over from their errand at Skullrot, or from Hookface’s horde. Those items required unique buyers, so he spent the better part of three days making contacts, collecting references from the other Guild mages, and even delving briefly into Skullport, the corrupt outpost situated deep beneath the city.
He had mastered the ability of magical teleportation, and almost every day he used the power at least twice, transporting himself to distant cities and returning later, worn out by full days of activity. With his greater teleport ability, honed to full potency by his archmage abilities, he could travel to destinations he’d never even visited, needing only a detailed description of the place upon which he could focus the energies of the spell. In that tenday he traveled to seven cities scattered all over the Realms, seeking out buyers for his remaining treasures, collecting more spells, or digging up small threads of information that each fit into the puzzle that he was constructing. That last, in particular, was especially troubling. Few knew much about Graz’zt, and even fewer were willing to speak of the demon prince openly. But what was odd was a pattern he was beginning to sense. Faerûn already had plenty of evil gods; the demon princes acted within a crowded field. But the hints that he learned suggested that Graz’zt’s power had, of late, been in decline upon the Prime Material Plane. There were no hard facts to clarify this suspicion, and nothing at all about events upon the Outer Planes, and especially the Abyss. Cal actually knew more than most about Graz’zt’s own realm, having traveled there personally, almost twenty years ago.
It was not a journey he was eager to make again.
Another errand he’d attended to shortly after his meeting with the Blackstaff. While in Waterdeep, he traveled to the busy crafts district situated along the broad avenue that led up from the city’s docks. It had been decades since he’d lived in the city, but a few probing questions and well-placed gold pieces led him to the shop of a craftsman who could fulfill the unusual commission that he had in mind. A much larger quantity of gold set his request in motion. Toward the end of the tenday, he returned, and accepted a fairly large bundle wrapped in cloth that barely fit into the extradimensional space within his haversack.
The rest of his time he spent in a private cubby deep within the Guild library, scribing spells into his book. Even here he was forced to choose among the new spells he’d collected, and while he would have liked to scribe a few scrolls as well, there was no time. The lazy pace of magical item creation he’d followed over the last decade, while the Rest had been constructed, and Ember Vale grew from a waystop into a community, seemed a lost luxury.
Finally, on the last day of the tenday since he’d left Lok and Mole at that distant outpost so far away in the North, he returned home. He materialized in the small secure chamber beneath the Rest, and despite his exhaustion carefully disabled each of the wards that were designed to ensure a most unwelcome reception to those who arrived uninvited. After securing the heavy iron door behind him, he headed up the stairs, crossed directly to his room, and without even bothering to undress collapsed into his bed, instantly falling asleep. Outside, the last glimmers of the sun were already vanishing over distant western horizon, but the gnome was oblivious to the coming of the night.
CrusadeDave
First Post
Nice Serene Interlude...
Without the quiet installments, we can't appreciate the loud ones. And this was extremely well written.
I could have sword I read:
Keep up the great work.
Without the quiet installments, we can't appreciate the loud ones. And this was extremely well written.
Lazybones said:
I could have sword I read:
Lazybones said:
Keep up the great work.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Shaman = nasty. But you guys already knew that.... 
* * * * *
Chapter 517
Although Cal missed the sunset, there was another watching that evening, the fading rays of the setting sun glistening off the gray orbs of his eyes. Below, spread out before the low, lightly wooded ridge upon which he perched, the watcher looked intently upon the community of Ember Vale as the cluster of buildings snug within the walls became indistinct in the deep shadows of twilight. A few lights appeared within the community as the night deepened, flickering points like the glitter of the fey-ra insect, back in his own Reality.
The Shaman of the M’butu lingered until the village was all but invisible in the gathering dark. He rose and departed, moving back into the scattered trees that spotted the ridge. His destination was a copse of scraggly trees that had grown together in a small dip in the ridge, forming a rocky dell where enough soil had settled to support their efforts.
The ground was treacherous, but the Shaman had no difficulty making his way down the uneven descent. As he reached the bottom of the dell his four guards materialized around him out of the dark, making no noise with their movements despite their size and bulk. They were clad now in plain gray robes of heavy wool that could not fully disguise the alien cast of their features, a necessary adjustment to what was for them a bitterly cold Reality. The garments did not fit well, but they served the Soldiers of the M’butu more than their former owners, the late cultists of Graz’zt whose bones were currently being gnawed by vermin in the sewers beneath the city of Scornubel.
The Shaman did not feel any such concerns; for him such minor considerations as temperature and climate were far beneath his notice. This Reality was alien, hostile, but his link to the Spirit World was still potent, his bond pulsing in a beat that was both different and familiar at the same time. He could feel the life that filled this place, tiny beads of heat in the cold surroundings of this place. Those creatures sufficiently aware of their Reality could sense what he was, and they had fled before him, knowing only that an intruder had come among them, and that he was foreign, threatening, Danger. The Shaman could have masked his coming, or compelled them to him, but thus far he had not bothered with either.
The Soldiers spread out, taking up defensive positions around the perimeter of the dell. He ignored them, kneeling beside a small mound of earth formed against the tangled root mass of one of the trees. Making a deep-pitched clicking sound in his chest, he used his staff to draw crude markings in the packed dirt. Then he reached into the ground, his powerful fingers breaking through the hard surface and turning the softer soil beneath. His fingers felt the fibrous length of a root, and he drew his hand back, pulling away the ground from the mass of the tree.
Tiny things squirmed in the ground. The Shaman clucked in approval, watching the insects, sensing their dim awareness of their Reality. A small form crawled over the exposed root—a beetle, perhaps an inch long. The Shaman extended his hand and captured it. The beetle, displeased at the rough treatment, bit his finger.
The Shaman’s mouth twisted in that grim smile.
* * * * *
Chapter 517
Although Cal missed the sunset, there was another watching that evening, the fading rays of the setting sun glistening off the gray orbs of his eyes. Below, spread out before the low, lightly wooded ridge upon which he perched, the watcher looked intently upon the community of Ember Vale as the cluster of buildings snug within the walls became indistinct in the deep shadows of twilight. A few lights appeared within the community as the night deepened, flickering points like the glitter of the fey-ra insect, back in his own Reality.
The Shaman of the M’butu lingered until the village was all but invisible in the gathering dark. He rose and departed, moving back into the scattered trees that spotted the ridge. His destination was a copse of scraggly trees that had grown together in a small dip in the ridge, forming a rocky dell where enough soil had settled to support their efforts.
The ground was treacherous, but the Shaman had no difficulty making his way down the uneven descent. As he reached the bottom of the dell his four guards materialized around him out of the dark, making no noise with their movements despite their size and bulk. They were clad now in plain gray robes of heavy wool that could not fully disguise the alien cast of their features, a necessary adjustment to what was for them a bitterly cold Reality. The garments did not fit well, but they served the Soldiers of the M’butu more than their former owners, the late cultists of Graz’zt whose bones were currently being gnawed by vermin in the sewers beneath the city of Scornubel.
The Shaman did not feel any such concerns; for him such minor considerations as temperature and climate were far beneath his notice. This Reality was alien, hostile, but his link to the Spirit World was still potent, his bond pulsing in a beat that was both different and familiar at the same time. He could feel the life that filled this place, tiny beads of heat in the cold surroundings of this place. Those creatures sufficiently aware of their Reality could sense what he was, and they had fled before him, knowing only that an intruder had come among them, and that he was foreign, threatening, Danger. The Shaman could have masked his coming, or compelled them to him, but thus far he had not bothered with either.
The Soldiers spread out, taking up defensive positions around the perimeter of the dell. He ignored them, kneeling beside a small mound of earth formed against the tangled root mass of one of the trees. Making a deep-pitched clicking sound in his chest, he used his staff to draw crude markings in the packed dirt. Then he reached into the ground, his powerful fingers breaking through the hard surface and turning the softer soil beneath. His fingers felt the fibrous length of a root, and he drew his hand back, pulling away the ground from the mass of the tree.
Tiny things squirmed in the ground. The Shaman clucked in approval, watching the insects, sensing their dim awareness of their Reality. A small form crawled over the exposed root—a beetle, perhaps an inch long. The Shaman extended his hand and captured it. The beetle, displeased at the rough treatment, bit his finger.
The Shaman’s mouth twisted in that grim smile.
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