hippocrachus
First Post
Warping the Adventurers
“Circle Leader Ali’Shaun, I have a message for you from the honorable Custodian of Apostates,” a Thayan lieutenant greets the Red Wizard with a salute.
“Set it on the table there.” He points to a cherry wood stand without bothering to glance at the soldier. To a Red Wizard, a soldier is nothing more than a slave with a rank. “What time is General Abun going to march tomorrow?” he asks over his book; a tome on the history of a distant time and a distant land.
“General Abun has requested a sitting with the Circle Leaders this afternoon to finalize operations…”
Ali’Shaun groans briefly to interrupt the soldier. “I’ll have one of my apprentices stand-in for me. Tell General Abun to consult with me before scheduling another conference again. Circle Leader Jarad might not have anything better to do than banter on about tactics and maps, but I am not given to wasting my time.” He looks from the book only long enough to give the lieutenant a significant glare. Most generals in Thay are nobles or the sons of nobles, but to a Red Wizard, they are still only better than a slave master. Some slave masters have more money.
The decorated Thayan soldier snaps off another rigid salute and leaves the Circle Leader to his studies.
Ali’Shaun sucks his teeth in agitation at looking at the ancient sketches of the Silver Marches and Spine of the World mountains. Knowing where the tower used to stand isn’t an issue anymore; in fact, most of the surrounding area hasn’t changed too much since its disappearance.
The phylactery should be easy enough for that little ingrate to find; so long as he can survive…
~ Dowkan ~
First watch goes by relatively uneventful. A constant eerie howl sweeps up through the tunnel leading south, brushing past the camp with a sepulchral chill. While the others slowly drift off to sleep, Dowkan busies himself with sharpening his weapons and checking his armor. The time seems to drag by; the candle flame taking what must be hours to reach the mark Hrolf carved out of the wax. Dowkan’s eyes begin to get heavy, well before the flame burns down to the mark. He drifts off to an unnatural sleep haunted by the undead spirits of countless anguished souls.
“Greetings, Dowkan,” the figure of a bent-backed ogre says beside the wooden portal to the ghast’s chamber. The others are nowhere to be seen. “I remember a time when your kind shivered at the mere mention of my name. And now look at me: forced to perform parlor tricks for the unnamable.”
The ogre’s speech flickers between an older Dwarven dialect and something akin to Giant, but the idea is clear in Dowkan’s mind, as clear as the millions of silently screaming faces morphing along the cavern walls.
“It won’t be much longer now, dwarf,” the ogre cackles, rising to his gnarly feet. “Won’t you join me?” He offers a hand that bends and twists, melting into a single tentacle and speeding towards the dwarven warrior. Dowkan steps back into one of the open graves and falls into the void beyond. Skeletal hands grab at the dwarf from the walls of the grave and the tentacle-hand of the ogre streams after him, always only a few feet from his throat as he plummets.
The fall goes on for an eternity, and right before the tentacle has Dowkan in its grasp, the dwarven fighter wakens in a cold sweat. He regains his composure before the others spot him.
Where’s the lass...?
~ Nae’talis ~
“We shouldn’t be here, Master,” Belgal whispers over his shoulder at the young Thayan mage. The great circular doors of adamantine in front of them seem to loom ominously, sparkling purple and red in the torchlight.
Odd… It couldn’t be Belgal; the dwarven slave was probably a bloated carcass at the bottom of that subterranean lake. It must be the new one. Dowkan.
The image in Nae’talis’ dream shifts; the shadowy dwarf in front of him changing to reflect Dowkan’s stature. It was Dowkan all along.
“You shouldn’t be here, wizard,” the dwarf’s voice warns again, this time in a stained and raspy voice. Dowkan seems to warp and flicker around the edges, almost as if he were melting into the shadows. Nae’talis takes a step back and finds his footing precarious on a ledge that wasn’t there before.
“You shouldn’t be here, wizard, but it’s too late to go back now,” the twisting silhouette croaks, slowly ambling over to the cornered Thayan.
Nae’talis starts awake and notices his companions’ rest wasn’t any more pleasant than his. He doesn’t notice the missing aasimar.
~ Hrolf ~
Cloudless blue skies and green and yellow meadows stretch out towards the horizon in all directions. The scent of warm mead and the sound of rowdy guffaws radiates all around from invisible sources. Hrolf gets the feeling that he is apart of a great victory feast, going on with or without him.
“Valhalla,” a familiar voice says from behind him. Hrolf turns to see the glowing image of his uncle, the High Cleric of Tyr, Hroar Kraki. “No; you’re not dead.” He seems sad and the infliction in his voice almost sheds tears. “There isn’t too much time, my brave nephew. The Just Father will not allow Chaos to prevail. You must push forward!”
Hroar holds up a hand to stop Hrolf’s questions. “I will be fine. You must look after yourself now, Hrolf. When the time comes, you must wield Tyr’s faith as you do a blade and strike out against the heart of Evil and Chaos. Not yet. Forward!”
The laughter and smells of cooked meats grows stronger and Hroar looks more worried than before.
“You cannot stay much longer, nephew. Look to Tyr for direction, if you lose your way. May His Justice reign!”
Hrolf shakes himself awake, weeping for his lost uncle on the inside, the former High Cleric’s words stark in his memory.
Sabriel is nowhere in sight.
~ Sabriel ~
The dripping echoes of water slowly dropping from stalactites on the cavern ceiling into the pool below reverberate around the stranded bard. The mushroom stalk raft at Sabriel’s feet rocks gently in the dark water, moving neither forward nor backward nor side to side, but always staying in one spot.
Something splashes off in the distance, making the raft lurch ever so slightly. The dripping stops and the silence that follows leaves the young scholar feeling cold and alone.
How long has it been? Days? Weeks? The others must know she was out there. They couldn’t have given up on her…
It’s just a dream.
Something splashes behind Sabriel, closer this time, making the raft rock wildly.
It always comes from behind in dreams. Wake up and it will all go away.
Sabriel wakes on the mushroom stalk raft, stranded out in the middle of the lake, or what must be the middle. The inky water flows around the fungi craft, well out of the aasimar’s supernatural vision.
Something splashes off in the distance, making the raft lurch ever so slightly. A noise that was on the edge of consciousness makes its sudden absence known with an equal and opposite silence, leaving Sabriel with the feeling of déjà vu.
The others were on their way. It hasn’t been so long…
Just a dream!
Something splashes behind her, closer this time, making the bundled mushroom stalks rock violently.
It always comes from behind - Sabriel turns about quickly to face her would-be assailant and is met with darkness. Darkness forever. Cold and alone.
Sabriel wakes up, angry at her companions for betraying her and leaving her to die. The feeling fades as she realizes she really is alone, in a room she doesn’t recognize.
A torch on the wall provides enough light to make the small chamber glow brightly. The round chamber has a tall, vaulted ceiling. It has been cleared of stalactites and stalagmites with picks and hammers, leaving it much more open than other caves in the area. A crude weapons rack has been carved from stone in the center of the eastern wall. Several longswords and battleaxes, a large wooden shield, and two suits of studded leather armor hang from it.
A tunnel leads north.
“Circle Leader Ali’Shaun, I have a message for you from the honorable Custodian of Apostates,” a Thayan lieutenant greets the Red Wizard with a salute.
“Set it on the table there.” He points to a cherry wood stand without bothering to glance at the soldier. To a Red Wizard, a soldier is nothing more than a slave with a rank. “What time is General Abun going to march tomorrow?” he asks over his book; a tome on the history of a distant time and a distant land.
“General Abun has requested a sitting with the Circle Leaders this afternoon to finalize operations…”
Ali’Shaun groans briefly to interrupt the soldier. “I’ll have one of my apprentices stand-in for me. Tell General Abun to consult with me before scheduling another conference again. Circle Leader Jarad might not have anything better to do than banter on about tactics and maps, but I am not given to wasting my time.” He looks from the book only long enough to give the lieutenant a significant glare. Most generals in Thay are nobles or the sons of nobles, but to a Red Wizard, they are still only better than a slave master. Some slave masters have more money.
The decorated Thayan soldier snaps off another rigid salute and leaves the Circle Leader to his studies.
Ali’Shaun sucks his teeth in agitation at looking at the ancient sketches of the Silver Marches and Spine of the World mountains. Knowing where the tower used to stand isn’t an issue anymore; in fact, most of the surrounding area hasn’t changed too much since its disappearance.
The phylactery should be easy enough for that little ingrate to find; so long as he can survive…
~ Dowkan ~
First watch goes by relatively uneventful. A constant eerie howl sweeps up through the tunnel leading south, brushing past the camp with a sepulchral chill. While the others slowly drift off to sleep, Dowkan busies himself with sharpening his weapons and checking his armor. The time seems to drag by; the candle flame taking what must be hours to reach the mark Hrolf carved out of the wax. Dowkan’s eyes begin to get heavy, well before the flame burns down to the mark. He drifts off to an unnatural sleep haunted by the undead spirits of countless anguished souls.
“Greetings, Dowkan,” the figure of a bent-backed ogre says beside the wooden portal to the ghast’s chamber. The others are nowhere to be seen. “I remember a time when your kind shivered at the mere mention of my name. And now look at me: forced to perform parlor tricks for the unnamable.”
The ogre’s speech flickers between an older Dwarven dialect and something akin to Giant, but the idea is clear in Dowkan’s mind, as clear as the millions of silently screaming faces morphing along the cavern walls.
“It won’t be much longer now, dwarf,” the ogre cackles, rising to his gnarly feet. “Won’t you join me?” He offers a hand that bends and twists, melting into a single tentacle and speeding towards the dwarven warrior. Dowkan steps back into one of the open graves and falls into the void beyond. Skeletal hands grab at the dwarf from the walls of the grave and the tentacle-hand of the ogre streams after him, always only a few feet from his throat as he plummets.
The fall goes on for an eternity, and right before the tentacle has Dowkan in its grasp, the dwarven fighter wakens in a cold sweat. He regains his composure before the others spot him.
Where’s the lass...?
~ Nae’talis ~
“We shouldn’t be here, Master,” Belgal whispers over his shoulder at the young Thayan mage. The great circular doors of adamantine in front of them seem to loom ominously, sparkling purple and red in the torchlight.
Odd… It couldn’t be Belgal; the dwarven slave was probably a bloated carcass at the bottom of that subterranean lake. It must be the new one. Dowkan.
The image in Nae’talis’ dream shifts; the shadowy dwarf in front of him changing to reflect Dowkan’s stature. It was Dowkan all along.
“You shouldn’t be here, wizard,” the dwarf’s voice warns again, this time in a stained and raspy voice. Dowkan seems to warp and flicker around the edges, almost as if he were melting into the shadows. Nae’talis takes a step back and finds his footing precarious on a ledge that wasn’t there before.
“You shouldn’t be here, wizard, but it’s too late to go back now,” the twisting silhouette croaks, slowly ambling over to the cornered Thayan.
Nae’talis starts awake and notices his companions’ rest wasn’t any more pleasant than his. He doesn’t notice the missing aasimar.
~ Hrolf ~
Cloudless blue skies and green and yellow meadows stretch out towards the horizon in all directions. The scent of warm mead and the sound of rowdy guffaws radiates all around from invisible sources. Hrolf gets the feeling that he is apart of a great victory feast, going on with or without him.
“Valhalla,” a familiar voice says from behind him. Hrolf turns to see the glowing image of his uncle, the High Cleric of Tyr, Hroar Kraki. “No; you’re not dead.” He seems sad and the infliction in his voice almost sheds tears. “There isn’t too much time, my brave nephew. The Just Father will not allow Chaos to prevail. You must push forward!”
Hroar holds up a hand to stop Hrolf’s questions. “I will be fine. You must look after yourself now, Hrolf. When the time comes, you must wield Tyr’s faith as you do a blade and strike out against the heart of Evil and Chaos. Not yet. Forward!”
The laughter and smells of cooked meats grows stronger and Hroar looks more worried than before.
“You cannot stay much longer, nephew. Look to Tyr for direction, if you lose your way. May His Justice reign!”
Hrolf shakes himself awake, weeping for his lost uncle on the inside, the former High Cleric’s words stark in his memory.
Sabriel is nowhere in sight.
~ Sabriel ~
The dripping echoes of water slowly dropping from stalactites on the cavern ceiling into the pool below reverberate around the stranded bard. The mushroom stalk raft at Sabriel’s feet rocks gently in the dark water, moving neither forward nor backward nor side to side, but always staying in one spot.
Something splashes off in the distance, making the raft lurch ever so slightly. The dripping stops and the silence that follows leaves the young scholar feeling cold and alone.
How long has it been? Days? Weeks? The others must know she was out there. They couldn’t have given up on her…
It’s just a dream.
Something splashes behind Sabriel, closer this time, making the raft rock wildly.
It always comes from behind in dreams. Wake up and it will all go away.
Sabriel wakes on the mushroom stalk raft, stranded out in the middle of the lake, or what must be the middle. The inky water flows around the fungi craft, well out of the aasimar’s supernatural vision.
Something splashes off in the distance, making the raft lurch ever so slightly. A noise that was on the edge of consciousness makes its sudden absence known with an equal and opposite silence, leaving Sabriel with the feeling of déjà vu.
The others were on their way. It hasn’t been so long…
Just a dream!
Something splashes behind her, closer this time, making the bundled mushroom stalks rock violently.
It always comes from behind - Sabriel turns about quickly to face her would-be assailant and is met with darkness. Darkness forever. Cold and alone.
Sabriel wakes up, angry at her companions for betraying her and leaving her to die. The feeling fades as she realizes she really is alone, in a room she doesn’t recognize.
A torch on the wall provides enough light to make the small chamber glow brightly. The round chamber has a tall, vaulted ceiling. It has been cleared of stalactites and stalagmites with picks and hammers, leaving it much more open than other caves in the area. A crude weapons rack has been carved from stone in the center of the eastern wall. Several longswords and battleaxes, a large wooden shield, and two suits of studded leather armor hang from it.
A tunnel leads north.
