Once the Guardian Angels have disposed of the ‘mist dragon’, they are able to meet up with the dragons and the trolls, who had emerged from the Dead-Gray Mist in separate groups a couple of miles away. Once they have are all together, the Angels use their link with Mual-Tar to seek out the Worm, since it is clearly not where they had hoped. They quickly pick up its direction and the distance, realizing that it is at a location some fifteen miles away from their current position.
Once they communicate this to the others, Essirise says thoughtfully, turning to her draconic compatriots, “We should minimize the time we need to spend here. I suggest that we continue allowing the Angels and the trolls to ride us and fly as quickly as we can toward the Worm.”
Though clearly not as comfortable with the idea as the silver dragon is, the others agree. Soon, the few—if any—onlookers in the Mournland are provided with the distinctive sight of six huge dragons of a variety of colors, winging their way some fifty feet off the ground, with a dozen oddly shaped and garbed individuals riding them.
The dragons set up a tremendous pace, causing the Mournland to roll away swiftly beneath them. In barely fifteen minutes, they cover a third of the distance. Though their flight is unimpeded by the odd inhabitants and contents of the Mournland, this is when they spot the first barrier to their travel. Some two or three miles ahead of them, a wall of glowing red light extends from the ground to the Dead-Gray Mist some two hundred feet above. It stretches away to left and right as far as the eye can see in the dim corpse-light of the Mournland, curving slightly as it does so.
“What in the Flame is that?” asks Gareth.
“I … have a theory,” rasps Nameless, studying the distant obstruction, “but I need to be closer to be certain.”
A few minutes later, after the dragons have landed before the wall and given him a chance to examine it more closely, the alienist says, sounding faintly impressed, “As I surmised, it is very similar to a prismatic wall, but only the first color and of overwhelming power. Passing through should be relatively safe, since we can all take the heat damage that it should cause, but it is a little risky, because I cannot be certain that it does not have other effects.”
“Interesting! I wonder how the aberrations created it,” says Korm, prowling back and forth before the wall. “Let me see something.” He drops his robe and falls prone, his shape shifting and growing, while a thick slime appears on his flesh. The ground beneath him dissolves and the Gatekeeper burrows into the soil.
“Bah – that’s too slow!” Luna opines, promptly turning into a huge earth elemental and disappearing into the ground too.
Six, after looking back and forth between the two for a moment, shrugs and sits down. Looking up at the slightly confused expression on the closest dragon’s face, he says, “Don’t ask. That way lies madness.”
After a minute, Korm reappears. Changing back into his usual form and picking up his robe, he says, “I went down a long way and didn’t see an end to it.” Luna returns shortly afterward to confirm what he says.
“This would work on the red layer of a prismatic wall.” Nameless extends his staff and speaks a word, causing a cone of cold to shoot forth from it at the wall. Where it impacts the curved surface, a hundred-foot wide section shimmers and disappears. Through the gap, the watchers can see another wall half a mile away, this one orange in color.
“Orange is the second color in a prismatic wall,” says Nameless. “It looks like we will have to work our way through each of the seven walls.”
The alienist is accurate, with the expedition encountering seven magical walls in succession, each of them placed a half mile from the previous one. The areas between them are unoccupied in the first two cases, but after the third, yellow wall, there are a few aberration camps scattered here and there. These mostly consist of dolgaunts commanded by dolgrims, with a few more powerful aberrations present. Intending to husband their resources as much as possible, the Angels use no spells and deal with them physically. With the dragons and trolls present, it takes little time or effort.
Finally, once they have penetrated the final, violet wall, the Angels find themselves within a circular area that must measure some six miles in diameter. Much of the outer two miles in each direction is occupied by a gigantic force of aberrations, which appear to be watching the central area in rapt attention.
The two mile wide area in the middle is occupied by a large collection of the semi-organic buildings which the Angels have previously seen the aberrations use. They appear to be deserted, with no signs of movement. The only visible motion in this area is atop the huge structure in the center, a giant ziggurat. Bright silver flames are visible at multiple points atop it. The entire structure glows with a green light that Nameless, even at this distance, thinks he recognizes.
“That’s a dimensional lock,” the alienist says quickly. “So no teleporting into or out of that area, nor any summoning. Except for Kha’tvan’ga, of course.”
“What’s that thing above the ziggurat?” asks Luna. “And what’s the Worm doing with it?”
“A planar rift, I believe,” says Nameless, peering across the miles at the dark, glowing rip in space some two hundred feet long, which hangs above the rift. “As for Mual-Tar …,” he shrugs eloquently. “At least it doesn’t seem to have noticed us.” The Worm is coiled around the ziggurat, its gigantic head raised toward the rift above, its gargantuan body glowing brightly with silver flame. As the alienist notes, it shows absolutely no signs of being aware of the Angels’ arrival, remaining utterly motionless.
“Yes, but others have,” points out Six, indicating the aberration horde closer at hand. Misshapen heads turn towards them and cries of alarm and challenge ring out as the forces of Xoriat prepare to charge the intruders.
“We need to get there quick!” says Korm, hurriedly casting a preparatory spell.
“At least we have dragons!” replies Gareth with a pleased laugh, the Endless Blade appearing from his metal fist while he slaps the side of the dragon he is perched on and says, “Let’s go!”
“Excuse me!” A huge draconic head turns to glare at the paladin, before Essirise shouts, “No time to waste! For Argonnessen!” The silver dragon arrows forward and the other dragons follow in her wake.
A hail of weapons and magical spells assail the dragons and their riders as the aberrations below them seek to intervene, but the huge creatures do not slacken their speed at all, not even pausing to strike back. Their riders, too, do not retaliate indiscriminately, instead holding their fire until they see particularly dangerous enemies. A pair of beholders are blasted apart before they get close enough to use their eyebeams and a small collection of mind flayer arcanists are obliterated moments after they hurl theirs spells. Otherwise, the Angels and their allies simply weather the attacks, none of which particularly incommode them*.
Ignoring their wounds, the onrushing dragons propel the Angels far faster than they have ever flown. In less than three minutes they have crossed the two miles occupied by the aberration forces and are soaring through the air above the structures around the ziggurat.
As they approach, they see that the ziggurat consists of four perfectly square steps, each twenty feet high, with a forty-foot wide ramp running up each of the sides. The bottom step is two hundred feet long and wide, with each higher step diminishing by forty feet in length and breadth till one arrives at the highest one, eighty feet across. Eight squat pillars stand in the corners and at the center of each edge on the topmost step, each of them ten feet wide and twice as feet high, all glowing brightly with silver flame.
The entire structure is constructed of interlaced carvings that appear very similar to Mual-Tar, albeit much smaller than the gigantic Chaos Serpent, whose coils now envelop much of the ziggurat. The top of the final step has scores of dragonhards buried in it, forming large runic patterns, which appear to circle inwards in spirals till they culminate in the center in a stylized rendition of what appear to be Mual-Tar’s jaws. One glance at the runes confirms for Nameless what he had already surmised—that the entire structure is a huge dimensional seal.
The rift hanging above the ziggurat is slightly longer and wider than the structure below, bearing somewhat of a resemblance to the planar gates the Angels have encountered in the past, though its jagged edges lack their neatness. Floating a little over a hundred feet above the eighty foot high ziggurat, it is only a few feet below the Dead-Gray Mist that forms an unbroken ceiling above. Once close enough to look up into the rift, one can see that it actually appears to show the sky above Khorvaire, with the stars and moons clearly visible as on an utterly cloudless night. The stars are in constant motion, moving back and forth as they would in the sky over time, covering as much ground as they would if every second was a new day. The moons, however, do not move at all, neither expanding nor contracting. Seven of them are full and bright, aligned in the celestial juxtaposition that allowed the ritual that is occurring.
At the very center of the ziggurat below stands Antaratma, sheathed in a nimbus of silver flame, chanting loudly in the mind-warping tongue of the daelkyr. As he speaks, wisps of silver flame constantly appear on the stone around him, each flowing to one of the pillars to join the flames that cover them. Every few seconds, one of the pillars pulses and a stream of silver flame flows from it to the motionless form of Mual-Tar. The Chaos Serpent displays no signs or noticing this—or anything else, for that matter. It remains statuesque, looming over Antaratma, its open maw raised to the rift above.
“All right,” says Nameless, as the tremendous speed of the dragons brings them steadily closer to the ziggurat. “It’s very simple. Our first priority is to disrupt the ritual. Then we take out Antaratma and Mual-Tar.” Glancing around at the dragons, he says, “Land next to the ziggurat. I don’t think we can risk flying above it.”
As the dragons comply, swooping down toward the structure, Antaratma turns to face them, a vicious and anticipatory smile on his perfect face. He ceases chanting, but the effect of the silver flames appearing and flowing back and forth continues around him. “Fools!” the daelkyr lord calls out, his tone gleeful. “Did you think your paltry powers could slay me?”
“No – not really,” replies Nameless calmly, “but if you’ll stand still, we’ll give it another try.”
Antaratma’s eyes narrow slightly. “Your glibness will not help you. Your Flame is mine. And now we finish this—once and for all!”
Even as the daelkyr is speaking, hundreds of aberrations stream out of the hitherto seemingly deserted buildings. Most are dolgaunts, but there are many of the more powerful species as well, from mind flayers to athachs to nagas to others that the Angels have never encountered. Simultaneously, Nameless realizes that dozens of aberrations are teleporting into the area around them, or at least trying to, since his greater anticipate teleportation dweomer keeps them at bay for a few seconds. The emerging forces seem to be concentrated in four areas, from the center of each of which a mind flayer floats upwards, its body gleaming with multiple magical protections. One glance at their insignia and markings confirms that these are members of the Seven, the supreme leaders of the aberration forces that Antaratma brought here from Xoriat. Luckily, even the closest foes are a good two hundred feet away, since that is where the buildings nearest to the ziggurat are, but within seconds the Angels and their allies will be enveloped by a sea of enemies.
“See?” says Antaratma triumphantly and smiles. Power ripples through the air between him and the group clustered near the ziggurat. Confident as he is, the daelkyr lord knows the capabilities and defenses of the Angels, each of whom is currently warded with a mind blank. So, instead, he strikes at their allies. Five of the six trolls from Sora Maenya’s guard grab at their heads, shrieking in agony for a moment, and then look around blearily, seeming utterly confused. Antaratma smiles more broadly. And Bhirali, the huge gold dragon commander from the Light of Siberys, turns her head and glares at the Angels. Flames play around her nostrils as she takes a deep breath.
“Sh*t!” says Luna, looking around. “You idiots better not die again today!”
* I let Korm’s player roll 2d20 to see how much damage each PC and ally took, so he promptly rolled a 16 and 15. Luckily, at this level, that’s barely a scratch.
