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Story Hour
The Fall of Civilization
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<blockquote data-quote="the Jester" data-source="post: 7465074" data-attributes="member: 1210"><p>The battle is harrowing. The things in the nest are like a cross between a serpent and a bat, and when the light reaches their eyes, it is gathered, intensified, and finally reflected in a beam of destructive power. Even as they face these strange monsters, our heroes are bombarded from above by the false stalactites. </p><p></p><p>Yet they win through, hacking the piercers to bits and blasting the eye killers with pistol and spell. Regrouping, the heroes regain their breaths and resume their exploration, pushing through several more chambers and halls. </p><p></p><p>Yet the strange area with the temporal distortions continues to entice their curiosity. What is beyond the door that leads out the far side of it? The party discusses it. “It's got to be important,” Vann-La says. “Someone had to go to a lot of effort to set up all that temporal magic.” </p><p></p><p>“Manipulating time is never easy,” confirms Iggy. “That would have taken a lot of effort. I can't imagine someone doing all that just for kicks.”</p><p></p><p>Indeed not.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Reaching the door isn't easy. The party has to work together to overcome the traps and obstacles in the way. The circle of runes turns out to unleash a pulse of force that pushes anyone close to it back across the room. But Cook manages to disable it by destroying some of the runes while Vann-La soaks up the power of the moment of agony by embracing it, taking it within herself. Persevering through the slowing storm requires fierce determination and a struggle against it, but finally, they reach the door. </p><p></p><p>The air seems to settle into sudden stillness around them as they push the door open. </p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>It is like falling into a swirling storm of moments from a billion lives. Flashes of a beautiful eladrin woman, an amulet around her neck, casting impossibly powerful spells, destroying entire buildings with a single gesture; a face, fishbelly white, with black, staring eyes and greasy hair, surrounded by a silver-green halo, who seems to spy the party as they rip past him; a man, duplicated over and over again, each version better and more powerful than the one before; a figure in wizards’ robes, human, vanishing from in front of a swinging sword just barely in time... a bald, alien-looking figure of unknown species, with six arms, sinking in some kind of greenish-silver sand... a barren land, with strange lines of vegetation criss-crossing it...</p><p> </p><p>Then the succession of images blurs into incomprehensibility as the party approaches infinity. Feelings, thoughts and images tear through their minds, disorienting, overwhelming. The party seems to be falling through a storm of moments as they swim through the timestream at incredible speed. It is enough to drive men mad... or for a group to find themselves lost for all eternity in the Plane of Time. </p><p></p><p>Hkatha feels the temporal storm threatening to toss them into the depths of the plane. He reaches out with his arcane skills, trying to guide the group through the maelstrom of moments without harm. His arms are scored by the future, furrows of age ripping into him. He groans. </p><p></p><p>“You can do it!” Heimall exhorts, and Hkatha redoubles his efforts. </p><p></p><p>Iggy and Cook add their mental efforts to Hkatha's, and the party members grab each other, holding hands or cloaks so as not to be separated. The buffeting of the winds of time increases, howling, the sands all around the heroes turning black. </p><p></p><p>Time itself is groaning in protest. The din rises; time is <em>screaming.</em></p><p></p><p>Only the tether allows them to travel this path. Though they don't know it is there, they set it to vibrating.</p><p></p><p>And then they arrive, sprawling, cast in a heap, shrouded in silver-green sand, lacerated and fatigued. They are on a flagstoned floor, covered in thick crimson carpeting. Light spills in from one direction, where a pair of great double doors stand open, revealing an apocalyptic, blasted landscape, a range of mountains, some of which burn and give off foul vapors. What little vegetation is visible is mostly blackened and dead. </p><p></p><p>“Where the hell are we?” Summer groans.</p><p></p><p>“Oi, more like when, I think,” Cook replies. </p><p></p><p>“This is some kind of temple.” Torinn looks around, fascinated. Opposite the doors, leading deeper into the building, a short hall leads to a thick scarlet curtain. He brushes himself off as Ligir joins Heimall at the exit, staring out across the land. </p><p></p><p>“I don't see anything alive,” Heimall says quietly. </p><p></p><p>“Guys,” Torinn calls, pushing the curtain aside. “In here.” Globes of ruddy light glow in the short hallway, making his scales look black. The party follows him cautiously. </p><p></p><p>“So,” a voice rasps from beyond, “someone has survived.”</p><p></p><p>The chamber revealed is a great fane, draped in red. At the end are three great statues. Each depicts a copper-skinned, red-eyed entity, humanoid, with elvish features, yet very clearly not elven. They stand behind an altar, on which a still form lies, a dagger still clutched in one hand, throat slit. Blood drips from the sides of the altar. </p><p></p><p>As if the shadows have coalesced, a figure steps from the darkness between the statues. It is one of the people depicted by the statues, the one who is clearly the central figure. His eyes gleam, almost glowing. His face seems set in a perpetual sneer. He wears all gray, with a cloak of black. An amulet hangs around his neck, its plate holding a huge, eye-shaped bloodstone. The hilt of the sword sheathed at his side resembles ropes twining around more bloodstone eyes.</p><p></p><p>“Who are you?” demands Torinn, and the figure draws back as if startled. “Why did you kill that man?”</p><p></p><p>A harsh laugh that sounds of disbelief. “Who am I? Who are you, not to know? Don't you have the Locus?”</p><p></p><p>Vann-La asks, “The what?” </p><p></p><p>The man stares at Torinn, his gaze sliding down to the <em>Silver Rose of Garnet</em> at his neck. “Do you serve the Triple Goddess?”</p><p></p><p>“I serve Lester,” the dragonborn replies, “and adventure.”</p><p></p><p>Peering closer, the red-eyed stranger mutters, “You're not a draconian. What are you?”</p><p></p><p>“I'm a dragonborn.”</p><p></p><p>“I think we're in the past,” Hkatha says. “But who are you? And why did you kill that man?” He gestures at the figure slumped on the altar.</p><p></p><p>“I am Maltar Dead,” the man proclaims, “and that man was my last priest. I did not kill him. He killed himself, to summon me here, I presume to witness the end.” He frowns again, eyes narrowing. “And you cannot be from the future. </p><p></p><p><em>”There is no future.”</em></p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>After this depressing proclamation, the party accompanies Maltar back to the temple doors. The mountains are crumbling visibly, and something ineffable and black is eating the sky. </p><p></p><p>Our heroes tell Maltar an abbreviated and hurried version of their story. When they mention the name “Fray”, he starts, then curses long and hard. “I take it you know her,” Iggy says, and Maltar answers with a snarl. </p><p></p><p>“Don't trust her,” he growls, “not ever.”</p><p></p><p>“There could be more than one Fray,” Heimall suggests. </p><p></p><p>“Like a lich, she will return after being slain. She must have found a way out, to wherever you're all from. But He Who Must Not Be Named is going to devour it all!” He glares at them. “But that explains how you're alive. You weren't here yet when they ended all life.”</p><p></p><p>“What? Who?” exclaims Hkatha. “How?”</p><p></p><p>“Our heroes,” Maltar answers. “Our failed heroes. They were trying to stop the Angels of the Apocalypse. They used the Locus. But even it wasn't enough...” He stares into the distance for a moment, watching as a distant mountain erupts, exploding into magma. “What else did you see on your journey through time?”</p><p></p><p>When they describe the pale, greasy man, Maltar snarls again, but he only says not to trust him, either. </p><p></p><p>“Fray is powerful and smart enough to outwit a god,” he says. “If she's your enemy, you're going to need every bit of help you can get.” His eyes glitter. “I would love to confront her myself, but my battle is in the pool, against He Who Must Not Be Named. But I can give you things that might help you.” The group follows him back into the fane, to the altar. He pushes the body of his last priest aside and it slides lifelessly to the floor. Bending down, Maltar pushes on a corner of the altar, and a secret compartment springs open. He pulls out a wand, an axe, a ring, a cloak, a suit of scale armor, and a suit of leather armor. “Take these,” he commands. “They might be enough to turn the tide for you, though I doubt it. But there is no time to seek out anything more. As long as the door through time remains, He Who Must Not Be Named might find it.” </p><p></p><p>All around them, the temple trembles, and the earth groans. </p><p></p><p>“Regretfully, I cannot come with you and aid you directly,” Maltar continues. “But I can do this.” He unbuckles his sword belt and passes it, along with his blade, to Vann-La. “My weapon will serve you well against Fray. It is called Killing Spree.” Then he draws the amulet he wears over his head and hands it to Hkatha. “And this is called Walpyvmyr.” </p><p></p><p>“Thank you,” says Vann-La gravely. Hkatha pulls the amulet on. </p><p></p><p>“Now you must go,” Maltar snaps. “Ironically- there is no more time.” He makes a gesture, and our heroes find themselves fading back into the maelstrom. And suddenly they are snapping through the silver whirlwind again, ripping through vast gulfs of time as if they were passing through walls of paper. And behind them- if there were any such direction during such a journey- the black jaws of oblivion snap shut. </p><p></p><p><em><strong>Next Time:</strong></em> Our heroes move on toward their final confrontation with Arawn!</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="the Jester, post: 7465074, member: 1210"] The battle is harrowing. The things in the nest are like a cross between a serpent and a bat, and when the light reaches their eyes, it is gathered, intensified, and finally reflected in a beam of destructive power. Even as they face these strange monsters, our heroes are bombarded from above by the false stalactites. Yet they win through, hacking the piercers to bits and blasting the eye killers with pistol and spell. Regrouping, the heroes regain their breaths and resume their exploration, pushing through several more chambers and halls. Yet the strange area with the temporal distortions continues to entice their curiosity. What is beyond the door that leads out the far side of it? The party discusses it. “It's got to be important,” Vann-La says. “Someone had to go to a lot of effort to set up all that temporal magic.” “Manipulating time is never easy,” confirms Iggy. “That would have taken a lot of effort. I can't imagine someone doing all that just for kicks.” Indeed not. *** Reaching the door isn't easy. The party has to work together to overcome the traps and obstacles in the way. The circle of runes turns out to unleash a pulse of force that pushes anyone close to it back across the room. But Cook manages to disable it by destroying some of the runes while Vann-La soaks up the power of the moment of agony by embracing it, taking it within herself. Persevering through the slowing storm requires fierce determination and a struggle against it, but finally, they reach the door. The air seems to settle into sudden stillness around them as they push the door open. *** It is like falling into a swirling storm of moments from a billion lives. Flashes of a beautiful eladrin woman, an amulet around her neck, casting impossibly powerful spells, destroying entire buildings with a single gesture; a face, fishbelly white, with black, staring eyes and greasy hair, surrounded by a silver-green halo, who seems to spy the party as they rip past him; a man, duplicated over and over again, each version better and more powerful than the one before; a figure in wizards’ robes, human, vanishing from in front of a swinging sword just barely in time... a bald, alien-looking figure of unknown species, with six arms, sinking in some kind of greenish-silver sand... a barren land, with strange lines of vegetation criss-crossing it... Then the succession of images blurs into incomprehensibility as the party approaches infinity. Feelings, thoughts and images tear through their minds, disorienting, overwhelming. The party seems to be falling through a storm of moments as they swim through the timestream at incredible speed. It is enough to drive men mad... or for a group to find themselves lost for all eternity in the Plane of Time. Hkatha feels the temporal storm threatening to toss them into the depths of the plane. He reaches out with his arcane skills, trying to guide the group through the maelstrom of moments without harm. His arms are scored by the future, furrows of age ripping into him. He groans. “You can do it!” Heimall exhorts, and Hkatha redoubles his efforts. Iggy and Cook add their mental efforts to Hkatha's, and the party members grab each other, holding hands or cloaks so as not to be separated. The buffeting of the winds of time increases, howling, the sands all around the heroes turning black. Time itself is groaning in protest. The din rises; time is [i]screaming.[/i] Only the tether allows them to travel this path. Though they don't know it is there, they set it to vibrating. And then they arrive, sprawling, cast in a heap, shrouded in silver-green sand, lacerated and fatigued. They are on a flagstoned floor, covered in thick crimson carpeting. Light spills in from one direction, where a pair of great double doors stand open, revealing an apocalyptic, blasted landscape, a range of mountains, some of which burn and give off foul vapors. What little vegetation is visible is mostly blackened and dead. “Where the hell are we?” Summer groans. “Oi, more like when, I think,” Cook replies. “This is some kind of temple.” Torinn looks around, fascinated. Opposite the doors, leading deeper into the building, a short hall leads to a thick scarlet curtain. He brushes himself off as Ligir joins Heimall at the exit, staring out across the land. “I don't see anything alive,” Heimall says quietly. “Guys,” Torinn calls, pushing the curtain aside. “In here.” Globes of ruddy light glow in the short hallway, making his scales look black. The party follows him cautiously. “So,” a voice rasps from beyond, “someone has survived.” The chamber revealed is a great fane, draped in red. At the end are three great statues. Each depicts a copper-skinned, red-eyed entity, humanoid, with elvish features, yet very clearly not elven. They stand behind an altar, on which a still form lies, a dagger still clutched in one hand, throat slit. Blood drips from the sides of the altar. As if the shadows have coalesced, a figure steps from the darkness between the statues. It is one of the people depicted by the statues, the one who is clearly the central figure. His eyes gleam, almost glowing. His face seems set in a perpetual sneer. He wears all gray, with a cloak of black. An amulet hangs around his neck, its plate holding a huge, eye-shaped bloodstone. The hilt of the sword sheathed at his side resembles ropes twining around more bloodstone eyes. “Who are you?” demands Torinn, and the figure draws back as if startled. “Why did you kill that man?” A harsh laugh that sounds of disbelief. “Who am I? Who are you, not to know? Don't you have the Locus?” Vann-La asks, “The what?” The man stares at Torinn, his gaze sliding down to the [i]Silver Rose of Garnet[/i] at his neck. “Do you serve the Triple Goddess?” “I serve Lester,” the dragonborn replies, “and adventure.” Peering closer, the red-eyed stranger mutters, “You're not a draconian. What are you?” “I'm a dragonborn.” “I think we're in the past,” Hkatha says. “But who are you? And why did you kill that man?” He gestures at the figure slumped on the altar. “I am Maltar Dead,” the man proclaims, “and that man was my last priest. I did not kill him. He killed himself, to summon me here, I presume to witness the end.” He frowns again, eyes narrowing. “And you cannot be from the future. [i]”There is no future.”[/i] *** After this depressing proclamation, the party accompanies Maltar back to the temple doors. The mountains are crumbling visibly, and something ineffable and black is eating the sky. Our heroes tell Maltar an abbreviated and hurried version of their story. When they mention the name “Fray”, he starts, then curses long and hard. “I take it you know her,” Iggy says, and Maltar answers with a snarl. “Don't trust her,” he growls, “not ever.” “There could be more than one Fray,” Heimall suggests. “Like a lich, she will return after being slain. She must have found a way out, to wherever you're all from. But He Who Must Not Be Named is going to devour it all!” He glares at them. “But that explains how you're alive. You weren't here yet when they ended all life.” “What? Who?” exclaims Hkatha. “How?” “Our heroes,” Maltar answers. “Our failed heroes. They were trying to stop the Angels of the Apocalypse. They used the Locus. But even it wasn't enough...” He stares into the distance for a moment, watching as a distant mountain erupts, exploding into magma. “What else did you see on your journey through time?” When they describe the pale, greasy man, Maltar snarls again, but he only says not to trust him, either. “Fray is powerful and smart enough to outwit a god,” he says. “If she's your enemy, you're going to need every bit of help you can get.” His eyes glitter. “I would love to confront her myself, but my battle is in the pool, against He Who Must Not Be Named. But I can give you things that might help you.” The group follows him back into the fane, to the altar. He pushes the body of his last priest aside and it slides lifelessly to the floor. Bending down, Maltar pushes on a corner of the altar, and a secret compartment springs open. He pulls out a wand, an axe, a ring, a cloak, a suit of scale armor, and a suit of leather armor. “Take these,” he commands. “They might be enough to turn the tide for you, though I doubt it. But there is no time to seek out anything more. As long as the door through time remains, He Who Must Not Be Named might find it.” All around them, the temple trembles, and the earth groans. “Regretfully, I cannot come with you and aid you directly,” Maltar continues. “But I can do this.” He unbuckles his sword belt and passes it, along with his blade, to Vann-La. “My weapon will serve you well against Fray. It is called Killing Spree.” Then he draws the amulet he wears over his head and hands it to Hkatha. “And this is called Walpyvmyr.” “Thank you,” says Vann-La gravely. Hkatha pulls the amulet on. “Now you must go,” Maltar snaps. “Ironically- there is no more time.” He makes a gesture, and our heroes find themselves fading back into the maelstrom. And suddenly they are snapping through the silver whirlwind again, ripping through vast gulfs of time as if they were passing through walls of paper. And behind them- if there were any such direction during such a journey- the black jaws of oblivion snap shut. [i][b]Next Time:[/b][/i][b][/b] Our heroes move on toward their final confrontation with Arawn! [/QUOTE]
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