It is almost an other-worldly experience, looking down into the waters of Lorica's Well. Crystal clear liquid sits dormant and still, some feet below the dais’ lip, as though reflecting some imagined sky of cloudless blue. Like chaotic stars, tiny flecks of color glitter upon the surface from time to time, a rainbow smashed and it's dust floating atop. White coral encases the captured sea in a shaft of white, which looks to lead down for at least ten yards, though it is hard to say for sure.
At the bottom, one might expect to find sand formed of broken coral and dark seaside cliffs, but the reality is more interesting by orders of magnitude. Red, green, blue, clear, orange and beyond, a full spectrum of color is piled within the depths. Gems! Some rough and pure as though recently dislodged from a miner’s claim. Others are cut, reflecting and refracting, sharing their light within and around one another.
The dwarf’s eyes are wider than a cat’s at midnight, his jaw dropping at the wondrous collection, submerged, so close yet so far from reach.
“Ohhh,” he exhales in nothing but awe.
As you join hands, and Magaw makes his cranium available to touch as part of this respectful ring, Immel begins to speak.
“Dear friends, my people are one with both sea and land, the chaos of endless movement and the solidity of stone. Years ago, a young woman named Lorica was a gifted soul who made the greatest of sacrifices, to plunge her body, skill and power into the sea. It is said that her fate was not as anticipated, that she survived and lived on, becoming a spirit of the ocean for what remains of time. Piece by piece, one treasure after another, she swam upon the bed of our sea collecting and rescuing what you see here today. This, is what remains of the sacrifices of sunwalker’s laws. Magic, tossed like refuse to a place never assumed to meet with the touch of the living... ever again.”
“Here, in her well, one can find all that her magic will allow you to see, if you try. Do not let thoughts of greed or wealth cloud your mind. Think not of your pains, anxiety or misconceptions. She invites you to look, upon the water’s surface, and see what it is that you are chosen to witness, if anything.”
Joined as one you stare atop the waters, your mind drifting slowly as the world retreats, leaving only reflections dancing before you.
Upon the pool’s surface an arm comes into view, strong and chiseled with a well-defined yet strangely feminine musculature. It pushes down with great strength, plunging an oar into lightly rolling waves, as a small boat leans from side to side with the weight of force. She curses, in a Gnollish tongue then, as a current catches the vessel and threatens to drag it far off into the unknown. To the left lie black cliffs, so familiar, and to the right an endless expanse of sea.
The shouts of colleagues fill the air, somewhere to your back and raising the alarm. “There are more!” Yes, Otiroth’s voice. Before you, over some dusty dune, a wall of pincers, stingers and legs rushes ahead to catch you in it's poisonous razored front. The reddened and sun-soaked arm of a ranger draws his sword now half-filled with opalescent blade-carved symbolism. They come. He stabs, slashes and strikes over and over again, until he hears a woman’s scream.
A tiefling ducks beneath hanging branches and pushes through undergrowth of the wildest green. Her feet slosh upon mud, sticky and heavy, as rain begins to once again fall. The darkness of a forest crowds you, forever attempting to trip, grab and entangle as one step at a time, you plow on and on through the thick of a monsoon.
Finally, all becomes darkness in the black shadow of a tear upon the earth. Overhead, a burning sun radiates an ever present searing pain. Dressed in little more than rags, withered and breathing shallowly, the green-skinned priest smiles to you.
“Well, get on with it then.” The voice of Magaw, somewhere to your side, as Carthum lifts a small metal canister and grips a stopper of cork between a half-orcs teeth. He moves to the hole then, and smiling, pours the contents down into the jaws of the earth.
Between grains of burning hot sand at your feet, shoots of grass begin to push forth, as a cool breeze moves to settle upon your face. Turning, you see Jeovanna, Metea, Otiroth, Carthum, Dain and Magaw, all watching in wonder as The Sands gradually fade from view.
You awaken in a small room, walls ribbed in white coral between basalt’s random cracks. It is soft, the seagrass you have slept upon, and at your feet lie all of your possessions, just as they were when you arrived. At the one exit to this space, Immel stands, smiling and pleased to see you all coming around. The aroma of food wafts upon you. A timber tray placed in the center of the room, loaded with edible weeds, berries, and crispy-skinned freshly grilled fish. A rare delicacy in any part of Kalair.
“Please rest as long as you need,” She says quietly. “One could never have known Lorica to speak with such a loud voice. Some hour you have been here now. Eat and do as you must, and as you prepare yourselves for what lies ahead, we will talk. You have many choices to make. All of you.”
Annit sits up and looks upon her fellow explorers. The dwarf snores peacefully. Magaw’s head rests at the end of Metea’s “bed”. Everyone seems well enough. Did they too, dream of a way forwards? The rogue’s was clear. As painful as it shall be, Annit knows now what she must do.
