Greetings, readers! The following few chapters will represent a short interlude that takes place in between the end of “Test of the Smoking Eye” and the beginning of “The Secrets of the Soul Pillars”. There are a few loose ends to be wrapped up, a new character to introduce, and maybe an opportunity for the characters to pick up some experience to make up at least part of the gap between their current level and that recommended for the next module. At the moment there are six more modules waiting; beyond “Secrets of the Soul Pillars” lies “Lords of Oblivion,” “Foundation of Flame,” “Thirteen Cages,” “Strike on Shatterhorn,” and finally “Asylum.” I have a number of ideas already set down in my notes for upcoming plot threads, but I’m sure there will be lots of twists and turns to come out of those boring staff meetings at work. So plenty of adventure is in the pipeline!
LB
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Chapter 233
Jenya Urikas stood on the eastern balcony of the Temple of Helm, and felt the weight of the world heavily upon her shoulders.
She was still young, in her late twenties, but she felt much older. The events of the past months had aged her prematurely, had forced her into a position of responsibility years—decades, perhaps—before she’d expected to ascend to such heights.
The fact that she’d taken such eventual advancement as a given testified to the innate self-confidence that lay deep within the woman, a sentiment reinforced by the strength of her faith. Helm’s favor had been extended to her during these months of crisis, and despite the days of strain she often spent hours alone in seclusion in her private chapel, exulting in the glories bestowed upon her by her divine patron. There was a glow about her, now, and if she could not fully see how others perceived her, she could sense the deference that was given to her. Even if it was reluctant, in some cases.
She sighed. Despite the power she now wielded, the questions that confronted her were becoming more difficult, not easier, to answer. And she had to face those questions largely alone, now. She’d lost good friends, too many good friends, of late. Ruphos Laro... Illewyn Lannertes, Sarcem Delasharn, Morgan Ahlendraal, Alek Tercival. The list was long, and she feared it would get longer before the year was out. She had only a handful of staff left to her, mostly acolytes with little in the way of experience or power.
One of the first things she’d tried when the power was granted to her was to attempt a resurrection of her predecessor as High Priest, Sarcem Delasharn. She hadn’t been surprised, not truly, that his spirit had refused to return from its well-earned place at the side of the Vigilant One. Still, she’d felt a guilty regret, a moment of self-pity, for it meant that she would have to rely on herself to forge ahead, to provide the leadership that both her church and the entire city of Cauldron so sorely needed now.
So many friends lost... At least she had some sense of resolution regarding Alek and Morgan. Morgan had departed in the company of a group of adventurers—friends—to seek the lost paladin, whose sudden disappearance had contributed to a political crisis in the city. As the tendays had passed, turning into months, she’d begun to lose hope. Her attempts at magical detection and divination revealed nothing; it was as if the expedition had simply vanished from the face of Faerûn. She’d accepted the reality of their loss, and shed her tears in private. The tension over Alek’s challenge to the city leadership was defused when the merchant Maavu Arlintal made a public apology, paying a hefty fine for the damage wrought during the riot that his words had helped spawn. Soon the population had moved onto other topics, though a haze of discontent hung over Cauldron, kept under control by the heavily armed guards who now held the city under a state of virtual martial law.
Finally, a little over a tenday ago, she’d received a surprise. A sending from Zenna, one of the adventurers she’d sent with Morgan. Jenya hadn’t even been aware that the tiefling woman had possessed such power, but the short message seemed to imply that much had transpired since their last meeting. Alek was dead, and Morgan... well, Zenna had revealed that he lived, but even though there hadn’t been enough detail in the message to elaborate, Jenya sensed that there was more to it than that. The adventurers were in Saradush (another mystery!) and would be returning to Cauldron as soon as they could make the journey. In her short response to the sending Jenya had urged haste. Things were coming to a head in Cauldron, she could sense it, although the exact form and shape of the threat was still nebulous, buried deep within the city, shielded even from the shining sight that was her gift from Helm.
A sound, a soft clink of metal, drew her attention around.
“I apologize for disturbing your meditations, priestess,” came a deep voice. Its owner, an armored woman, stepped out from the stairwell onto the balcony.
She was a dwarf, a foot shorter than Jenya, although she was probably twice the priestess’s weight. Few would have called her attractive, with plain features, a splayed nose that looked to have been broken a few times, and more than one scar visible on her weathered skin. Her hair was the color of obsidian, cut short against her scalp to better fit under the full helm she carried under the crook of one arm. She was clad from neck to boots in a suit of full plate armor that was of odd manufacture, fashioned out of a dull gray metal that seemed to have hints of violet in it when viewed from the corner of one’s eye. The hilt of a bastard sword, the chosen weapon of Helm, jutted from over her left shoulder, and the end of a small bow was visible over the right.
“Templar,” Jenya said, with a nod. “Welcome to Cauldron. How was your journey?”
“Long,” the dwarf woman said, coming out onto the balcony. She glanced out over the city, absorbing the vista with a grunt, and then dismissing it.
“You have just arrived?” The coating of dust on her armor seemed to prove the question even before she answered.
“Aye. They’d warned me that things had gotten bad here, but it would seem that matters have gotten quite out of hand in Cauldron. I saw a bloody ogre in the street on my way here, and nearly clove the damned thing in twain before I was informed that it was part of the City Watch.”
“I have tried to impart the seriousness of the situation in my reports, Templar,” Jenya said.
“Yes, yes,” she said dismissively, waving her hand. “I read them. You’ve lost a lot of clerics lately, it seems.”
Jenya bristled at the implied critique. “We’ve done the best we can with limited resources. And I’m glad at least that the church in Almraiven has finally elected to send aid. How many priests did you bring with you?”
“Just me,” the dwarf replied. She now turned and walked to the edge of the balcony, her armor clanking softly about her person. She removed her gauntlets and tucked them into her belt, revealing thick, muscular hands that looked as though they could have snapped Jenya in two without exerting much effort.
“Oh, don’t worry,” the dwarf continued. “I’m not here to take your church away from you, priestess. I was sent to find the evil that dwells in this place, and destroy it.”
“That has been my goal as well, Templar,” Jenya said.
The dwarf gave her an appraising stare. “Well, I can see you’re Favored, that’s plain enough. I’ve never been one to second-guess the Vigilant One, blessed be his blade. And I don’t suppose it’s been easy at that, keeping a church together in a place like this.”
“No, it hasn’t,” Jenya said, almost to herself.
The dwarf nodded. “Very well then. I imagine you’ve got some vacant acolyte quarters in the rectory; I’ll just move my gear in there, after I’ve tended to my horse.”
Jenya flushed slightly. “I can make quarters available in the higher orders...”
The dwarf cut her off. “Not necessary. Never did like all that fanciness. In fact, I’d prefer it if you kept my visit as quiet as possible. Never can keep the acolytes from gossiping, of course, but you know what I mean.”
“Of course, Templar.”
“And you may call me Beorna, in private, priestess.”
Jenya nodded. She already knew the woman’s name, knew a fair amount about her, in fact. Most of the higher clergy of Helm in the southlands had heard of her, and more than a few in more distant lands as well. Beorna of Helm—she was an orphan, and if she’d had a surname, she never used it now. The dwarf was a true knight, sanctified to the ranks of the Order Templar within the church within two years of reaching her majority. She’d crafted her life in service to the church that had taken her in, and brought her back from whatever abyss she been tossed into as a child.
“I will, Beorna. And call me Jenya, in private.”
Beorna nodded, and without further farewell, turned and departed, the clank of her armored form fading as she made her way back down the stairs into the temple.
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
