The Realms of Enlightenment: The Grey Companions

[Jon Potter]

[Realms #339] Making Camp, Making Friends

There was an enormous tree near the spot where another, narrower path led off the main road that the group had been following. A weathered, but clearly well-maintained sign reading: "Mistress Feathertouch, healer" pointed down that smaller path, but it was growing dark and the group decided to venture no farther than the tree. It was old with a wide spread of branches and a massive root structure that rose up all around the central trunk. The roots made footing treacherous and the drooping branches offered partial cover to anyone camped near the trunk.

It wasn't a perfect campsite, but it was a far sight better than sleeping out in the open. Karak began barking orders at once, directing everyone to get the job of making a camp done.



Ayremac helped as instructed by the dwarf. He did not mind taking orders and it allowed him to concentrate on something other then Hamelin's face. Hamelin - the name rang in his head. He had not stopped thinking about it once while he lead the group to the campsite. It was a welcome relief to go about the chores of setting up the camp. Placing the stove rocks, walking and learning the perimeter, figuring out where he would attack the camp if he had to. Even the small talk with Karak, Huzair and Lela was nice. Shamalin and Morier were not talking with him, but he understood. Shamalin was uncomfortable with his new calling and Morier still chafed from being shaken by the channelling of Umba's spirit. When the chores were done Ayremac tended once more to Dreyawulf, his horse. He made sure she was fed and brushed, and that her riding gear and splint mail barding was properly oiled. Once she was well tended he took his lamb skin sack and the riding blanket and moved off to one side of the camp were he knew he could have a few moments of peace.

Ayremac sat cross legged on the blanket and ritualistically pulled his spruce altar case from the buttery soft bag and placed it in front of him, saying, "Lord Umba, I sit before you today ready for your judgement."

Again, with a ritualisticly steady hand he opened the case until the fine silver chains caught the lid, holding it open at a wide angle. The mirror in the center of the lid stared back at him, the two eyes painted above it reminding him that Umba was always watching. Even in the gathering gloom of evening, his darkvision clearly revealed the contents of the alter case. Never the less, he removed two small candles from the interior, placing them on the top corners of the lid and lit them with a flint. He then closed his eyes, focusing on the prayers he'd learned at his temple.

"When a life is taken with intent, it is with a heavy heart that we dispense your justice. I seek your righteous mercy and request you lift this burden from me; I cannot carry it," Ayremac said, folding over on himself and laying his head in front of his portable altar. For a full minute he remained in that position, the smoke curling over him, the candle light flickering across him. He then raised himself and sat upright, removing the prayer cloth and laying it across his open palm. He then removed his leather bound prayer book and opened it one handed to a random page, laying the book on his open palm. He read the revealed prayer to himself and then closed his eyes, meditating on it for a few silent moments.

With a cleansing sigh, he closed the book, folded up the prayer cloth, blew out the candles and repacked his altar case. He then placed it back in the soft confines of the lamb skin sack and folded the riding blanket. He returned all of trappings to their appropriate places and started to return to the fireside. A tiny throat being cleared forestalled him.



Lela was uptight.

She had lost so much in such a short period of time: her best friend, a new friend who felt like her protector, her innocence even... She was feeling cold and callous. And, frankly, angry. The fact that she did not feel particularly righteous about her anger didn't help matters either. As she had watched Ayremac dispensing justice, she'd felt a thrill of pleasurable vengeance that made her a little ashamed.

She was still feeling it later at Feln's funeral, when she snapped at Aryemac when he was just trying to be nice. It was as if she no longer felt she understood kindness.

As they walked, the heat of her emotions subsided and when Ayremac went off by himself she followed in order to apologize. She hadn't meant to spy on him, but her curiosity got the better of her when she heard him start to pray. She hid herself and listened intently to his quiet communion. As she listened, her shame increased. Not just because she was spying on a personal moment, but because she had come to thank him in a very superficial way for killing Hamelin.

As he packed his things, Lela cleared her throat and made her presence known. "I am
sorry. I overheard your prayer," she said, looking down at the man from her perch on a low-hanging branch. "I had come to thank you, but having heard your prayer, I am even more grateful." Ayremac smiled, his teeth a gleaming crescent in the darkness.

"Well, the Justiciars in my church would tell me that it is not my place to accept your thanks; as a servent of Umba she alone is to be praised," he told her. "But I am still young in her ways and after today I'll just say 'you're welcome' and leave it at that."

"Anyway, I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier," the faen explained, suppressing the urge to cough. "It has been a difficult period of time recently."

"What is it that ails you?" the holy warrior asked, clearly concerned.

"Aphyx ails me... The bitch!" Lela cursed, spitting a tiny gobbet of blood-tinged phlegm in an unconscious parody of Karak. Ayremac's expression hardened and the sprite wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "Oh, sorry. I guess I shouldn't use profanity in the presence of clergy, but she has really taken a lot from me and I am taking it personally."

"I am sorry that you are not well but I would caution you against speaking in such a way about any of the dods... even Aphyx," he replied and Lela nodded sullenly. "I wish I could help cure you, but in the morning perhaps this Mistress Feathertouch may be of some aid to you."

"I doubt it. Whatever this disease or curse is, it doesn't appear to be cureable by any means known to Flor's followers," Lela explained and sat up defiantly. "It will probably kill me, but I plan to go down fighting." And saying thus, she dropped out of the tree and flew off into the darkness and out of the range of Ayremac's darkvision.

The Officer of Umba sighed and headed toward the firelight where the others were congregated.

"Are you all well?" he asked as he approached and Karak harrumphed.

"Just discerning the worth of our booty," Huzair said, holding up a potion so that his familiar could smell it. "Sparky agrees: another potion of Invisibility," the mage announced, stoppering the vial before returning it to the cluster of small bottles in front of him.

"And we were discussing watch rotations," Morier added, looking at Ayremac. "Are you willing to take a shift?" The newcomer nodded.

"I would like to take first watch with you if I may?" Ayremac said. "Unless you need to rest; I would understand." Morier glowered at the man, unsure if he were being called weak or if it were just his own imagination.

"I do not need to rest," the eldritch warrior said flatly. "Does that suit you, dwarf?"

"Aye," Karak replied through a mouthful of trail bread. Dried crumbs sprayed everywhere as he spoke. "I think you should 'ave the first watch with skull face, 'ere. I need ta check over me armor a bit and rest up after the battle rage."

"Ayremac and I will take first watch, then you and Huzair can relieve us," Morier suggested. "I'll take another shift with Shamalin and then you can sit with Lela after that. It will give the pixie a chance to rest and regain her strength."

"I should like the opportunity to talk with Shamalin if I might," Ayremac told them. "Perhaps she and I could sit watch together?" The man was asking Morier, but he looked appraisingly at Shamalin as he asked. The half-elf looked up from staring at her hands; she hadn't noticed, but they were nervously twisting and pulling at the hem of her cloak. Karak spat into the fire and shook his head.

"I do nae think that be a good idea!" he grumbled, pointing at Ayremac with his crust of bread. "The cleric be a might skittish and ye-"

"No, Karak," Shamalin said, her voice cutting the dwarf off mid-sentence. "I- I want to speak with Ayremac as well." Karak snorted and went back to gnawing on his food.

"In any case, I would be happy to take first watch. Or second," the Officer offered cheerily. "Whatever you all prefer."



"Although I think it began long before, my first knowledge of this group was as a party sent out by the Grey Company from the city of Barnacus," Morier recounted in a hushed whisper once the others had bedded down.

"The Grey Company... I've heard of them," Ayremac interjected. "A mercenary company, aren't they?" The albino shrugged.

"I was never officially a member, but they're more like an adventurers' guild, from what I understand," he countered. "And anyway, it matters not. Any connection this group had with them died back in Miller's Pond."

"Miller's Pond?" Ayremac asked.

"I'm getting ahead of myself," the albino apologized. "This party set out from Barnacus with a Janissary at its head. Her name was Ledare and she was charged by the King to dispatch the growing seeds of evil - I think it was a skaven epidemic in the sewers of the city, if my memory of the stories I've heard is correct. But nobody knew then how great this wave of evil would become."

"Yes. You mentioned Aphyx," Ayremac reminded. "How does the Rot Queen fit into your tale?"

"She is central to it, I am sorry to say," Morier went on. "I joined this group at about the same time as the friend we said our goodbye to today... and numerous others have come and gone before and after me. The Janissary, herself, was slain a fortnight ago by a servant of Aphyx. Those of us who have travelled together have bounced from bad situations to worse, trying to stop it where we could... never really succeeding at much of anything significant."

"All who strive against evil leave their mark upon the world," the Officer suggested and again Morier shrugged.

"Perhaps," he admitted. "But we may now have found a way to fight this thing. But with so much going on around us at every turn, it is difficult to keep our focus." Ayremac nodded.

"The faen suggested that she had been cursed directly by Aphyx," the holy warrior said and Mrier nodded back.

"Yes, Lela's illness is but the latest in a series of distractions," he said. "But she's made us pledge to move toward our ultimate goal rather than hunt for a cure for her disease."

"A noble sentiment," Ayremac replied then looked up at the sign nearby. "Perhaps this Mistress Feathertouch may have some cure. Since we are so nearby, surely a brief visit is in order."

"Sure! Let's spread the disease more," came Huzair's voice from the darkness. Both men on watch jumped to their feet and drew steel. "Might as well give it to the midwife to infect all the new babies." There was no sign of the mage; he'd gone to bed wearing the Ring of Invisibility he'd taken off Feln's dead finger. Morier shook his head and sheathed his bastard sword.

"Go to sleep, Huzair. You're no use without your beauty sleep," he grumbled. "And anyway, I think the midwife is worth visiting come daylight.. even if it's just for supplies before we head out following the pull."

"Pull?" Ayremac asked, still looking around uncertainly.

"Oh, yeah! The pull," Huzair's disembodied voice grumbled. "Make sure Morier tells you all about it. Just wait until I'm asleep. I don't think I can stomach listening to it one more time!"



They had been on watch together for close to an hour before the half-elf had worked up the courage and energy to speak. As he'd always done in the past, the man with her allowed Shamalin to take what time she needed and didn't force conversation where there was none.

"You are much changed," the cleric observed quietly. "How many years has it been?"

"Eleven," Ayremac answered. "Although to look at you it may well have been but a moonsdance. You haven't aged a bit." Shamalin bowed her head. She certainly felt older - as if a century-wide gulf had opened between the girl he remembered and the woman before him. It howled before her, but she couldn't tell him about her ordeal. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"I'm a bit startled by the change in your course," she said instead. "I never suspected..." she gestured toward Umba's symbol worked into the breastplate of his armor. Ayremac smiled disarmingly.

"Yes, I am a late-comer to divine service," he admitted. "Unlike you. You always knew your path."

"Did I?" she asked quietly. It was odd to hear him say that given how uncertain everything seemed these days.

"Yes. But I must say that I preferred your white gowns of old to this drab armor." He gestured at her head to toe and she flinched from the motion as if she thought he would strike her. Ayremac's face darkened and he regarded her with naked concern. "Shamalin? What's wrong? Has something happened that I should know about?"

She hastily shook her head. "The world is not like I once thought it to be," Shamalin answered, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "It is a dark and dangerous place." Ayremac set his mouth in a grim line and stared off into the night.

"None knows that better than I, Shamalin," he sighed and for a few minutes the only sounds between them were the crackling fire and Karak's snoring. At last he asked, "How did you become associated with these people? They're not Florians, are they?"

Shamalin shook her head. "I have only recently joined this group. They are a strange lot. But their hearts are true and their convictions are strong. Even Morier's." She gave Ayremac a sideways glance and found him smirking. Then her demeanor became serious once more as she added, "And I have a life debt to fulfill."

"Perhaps one day you'll trust me as you once did and you'll tell me of this debt," Ayremac said and Shamalin started to open her mouth. "When you're ready, Shamalin. As you may remember, patience is one of my virtues."



Mistress Feathertouch was of no use in curing Lela although she did offer to let the faen convalesce in her care. Lela, of course, declined the invitation and they parted from the healer after exchanging some gold for some some healing salve and two excellently-stocked healer's kits. The next stop was the little town of Mifield where folks were skittish about contact with strangers and they were able to acquire mounts

 

[Jon Potter]

[Realms #340] The Pull

Freeday, the 10th of Harvester, 1269 AE​

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The first few miles of travel after breaking camp didn't reveal anything out of the ordinary and this only served to put everyone more on edge - well, everyone except Ayremac. The holy warrior's paranoia had not been raised by the bandit ambush the day before. The land grew wooded as they went with occasional sections of open moor and the sharp-eyed travelers often caught sight of a cottage or farmhouse in the distance, and saw livestock apparently grazing contentedly in their pastures. A time or two one of them would spot the occasional farmer working around his homestead. It wasn't until they approached the village of Barlyton that they began to see the first indications that things were not right. At least a dozen buildings had burned to the ground, although obviously not from the same fire as they were scattered throughout the town with undamaged buildings betwixt and between. There was no sign of an inn or tavern, although the large pile of charred debris near the center of town could very well have been such an establishment at one time.

Thoughts of Miller's Pond rose unbidden to the minds of many and both Karak and Morier readied their weapons. Ayremac noticed the action and looked down from his mount.

"The village was like this when Rafael and I passed through here yesterday," he explained. "There's a great deal of fear regarding illness throughout the Duchy. It's become common practice to burn the dwellings of those who die from disease."

"Seems a bit extreme," Morier ventured and the officer nodded.

"I agree and told these folk as much, but they'd have none of it," he went on. "I had to shout at them through barred doors, so don't expect much hospitality here. There's a hostler just down this way."

They turned off the main road onto a narrower track of mud. That street, like the main one, was utterly deserted and, in spite of Ayremac's assertion to the contrary, they had begun to think that the village had been abandoned when they saw a man in peasant garb hurry across the road about 40 yards ahead of them carrying a large bundle. When he spotted the Order, his step quickened and he practically ran to a nearby cottage. He quickly slipped inside and shut the door behind him. As they approached, they could see that all the windows on the cottage had been stoutly boarded up.



The man was Asa the Hostler. The cottage he had hurried into was his shop and home where he lived with his wife and two young daughters. They, like most people living within Diliham Duchy had isolated themselves from almost all contact with others, hoping to avoid contracting the dreaded disease. He left the house only occasionally to get fresh water from a nearby stream, and to gather whatever food he could find that seemed safe. Just now he had been returning from his brother-in-law’s farm with some dried ham and cheese. He barred the door to his cottage behind him, so the Order's conversation with him was conducted through the door. Asa refused to open the door, even when presented with Shamalin's holy symbol of Flor. So far, none of his family had become sick and he refused to risk their lives on the word of a stranger - even a Mercybringer.

They were able to negotiate the sale of horses and gear from him none the less. Making both Ayremac and Shamalin swear oaths on their respective gods that they would not cheat or rob him, he slid the key to his shop under the door and bid them take what tack they needed and leave the gold on the counter. They could have their pick of horses from the barn behind the cottage.



Shamalin stared resolutely at her mount. He was a medium sized dapple-gray gelding whose black eyes were, even now, watching her warily. She bit the inside of her cheek, smoothing her hand over the gelding's withers. As if she hadn't been having enough trouble trying to learn to fight in Blackheart's armor. Now the prospect of riding in it was like adding insult to injury.

"I'm sorry about this," she whispered to the horse as she hooked her foot in the stirrup and made her first attempt at hoisting herself into the saddle. Her leg felt like lead as she failed to clear the horse's backside. Instead, her foot landed squarely against his hindquarter, prompting a slight buck and a whinny of disapproval. Shamalin locked her other leg securely and held on for dear life. Luckily, the business of Karak attempting his own mount was commanding everyone's attention for the moment.

She balanced perilously on her left leg, feeling like the village idiot. With a massive heave, and a rather unladylike grunt, she managed to flop her impossibly heavy body across the saddle. Once her center of gravity shifted, she was able to drag the errant leg across. Clutching the reins, she let out a sigh of relief and began almost immediately to worry about her impending dismount.

Looking up, she spotted Ayremac eying her with an amused grin on his face. "Maybe you should try singing to him," he said with a wink as they turned and headed out of town.

Starday, the 11th of Harvester, 1269 AE​

​

As they road along - overland now that the road had curved away from the direction that Morier's head asserted they should go - Karak sidled his horse up to Ayremac. "So, dispatchin' the leader o' them bandits like you did," the dwarf grunted. "I can nae say I agree with it, but on the other hand, it is a form of justice, aye"

"It is not a task that I relished, Karak," Ayremac said gravely. "The path of righteousness is often a difficult one. Did not your friend's spilt blood call out for justice?" Karak harrumphed.

"I felt Feln died unfairly by that lot's thievin' way, but he did die in the heat of battle," the dwarf asserted. "An ambush be not a fair fight, but it be a fight. And you should know lad that the road we travel is a dangerous one. Feln understood that."

"Yes, but dying in battle is one thing, Karak," Ayremac debated. "Being killed almost before you realize that you're under attack is quite another. Feln was murdered and murder requires justice under holy law."

"No, the justice we dealt, was in all those we killed. Killing a bound and restrained prisoner, nae be what I would have done," Karak countered, his mouth screwing up in disgust. "He already yielded."

"So because he had surrendered himself that excuses him from the penalty of judgement?" Ayremac argued with a shake of his head. "No, Karak. That way leads to anarchy. Umba's law is absolute."

"Shaharizod believes in protecting the weak, even if'n it be those that follow the wrong path," Karak told him. "In fair combat, aye, I would have been happy to dispatch Hamelin. But he yielded before I could get to him."

"So again, I ask whether you believe that his timely surrender should excuse him from any penalty for murdering your friend?" Ayremac asked. The holy warrior had had many similar debates with other initiates during his training at the temple in Frothingham. Karak sighed and shook his head.

"It nae be what I would 'ave done, but strangely, I do see the field justice in it," he admitted then turned a skeptical eye on the Officer. "Now why'n you wearing that spooky armor that gave me cleric such a fright?"

Ayremac snorted laughter and replied, "That's a long story. But I don't think it was the armor that frightened Shamalin."

Sunday, the 12th of Harvester, 1269 AE​

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"Ooooff!" Once again the force of Morier's swordthrust sent her careening toward the ground. And for a split-second before she actually made contact with the earth a thought occurred to Shamalin: her only hope in combat was probably that her blundering swordplay might prove a worthwhile distraction. As she buried her face in the dirt she imagined her future - a large tin obstacle thrust out awkwardly in each skirmish in an effort to stun the enemy with her incompetence. It just might work...

Ayremac crossed his arms, watching from a near boulder - one of many that lay strewn about these hills like a titan's marbles. "Are you giving up?" Morier taunted her. Somewhere along the line he had changed his own teaching technique - searching for something to ignite a fire beneath her. He had yet to find it.

"No," Shamalin replied climbing to her feet. Her eyes flickered involuntarily toward Ayremac. Morier took a few perfunctory swings at her, and she struggled to maintain her footing - meeting each with weak resistance.

"I think you are. We're done." And he abruptly stepped out of their practice circle, regarding her critically. Ayremac disappeared quietly away. Watching him go, Morier leaned thoughtfully against the newly vacated rock. Having run out of apologies for her lack of ability, Shamalin did the same. They sat in silence for a moment as Morier carefully considered his next comment.

"So what exactly is your history with Ayremac?" Shamalin stiffened, her eyes narrowing. "You're obviously distracted when he's around." He clearly saw the warning flash in her eyes, but ignored it and pressed on. "Whatever it is, you're letting it stand in the way of your progress."

"It's nothing!" she snapped and glowered at him openly.

"Hmmmm," came his response. Feeling that he was on to something, Morier continued. "You know, whatever Blackheart did to you - I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did. Was your entire party this meek?" That was as far as he got before Shamalin's wooden training sword slammed him hard against the chest. Morier allowed himself a slight smile and rose with his own sword in hand. "It's a good thing you were chained to that tub. You wouldn't have been much help to them even if you had been..." Another crashing blow caught his swordarm. "At last! Now where has this been hiding?"

Shamalin could barely hear him. In a remote corner of her mind she realized that this was just another approach. But the passion of her own response had nearly overwhelmed her. With each comment the rancor welled up from within her, and for the first time she made no effort to contain it. In fact, she embraced it. If the result had been pleasantly shocking to Morier, it was utterly bewildering to Shamalin. The fact that such dark emotions fed her passion seemed strangely and perfectly ironic. Yet if hatred and anger could fuel her ability, well then she certainly had a bottomless reserve of that.

Moonsday, the 13th - Waterday, the 15th of Harvester, 1269 AE​

​

On Moonsday, they crossed a road that curved more or less in the direction that Morier kept urging them and so they took it, making good time south and westward into the thickening forest. Here the trees were sparse and relatively small, but they caught occasional glimpses of the dense woodland that rose up further south; row after row of coniferous trees pointing their spires skyward like upthrust spear heads. This was the Black Forest, precursor to the vast Spiney Wood.

The road curved away from their course by late afternoon and Morier insisted that they head off into the trees. (None of those present had any way of knowing this, but they had skirted to within a few miles of Dannibrae, home to the ranger, Finian Talteppe who had set out from Barnacus with Ledare over half a year ago. None of them had ever met Finian, of course, so the irony was lost on them.)

For not the first time since leaving the more civilized lands to the north, Ayremac wondered what had become of his traveling companion, Rafael. Certainly, the archer's skill with woodcraft would have been a boon to them on this journey.

Earthday, the 16th of Harvester, 1269 AE​

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Shamalin picked her way quietly through the forest, thinking. She should be praying, she knew. But these days the commune with her Goddess didn't come easily as it once had. No, these days it was the thinking that she couldn't stop. Much had happened in the short space of weeks since she had left her temple home. She felt guilty that her thoughts had been so much about herself, and now the sudden appearance of Ayremac - not about the things which should truly have occupied her mind. Like Feln's death. And the fact that the temple in Rhadcliffe had been attacked.

Sighing, she rested on a fallen tree, absently running her fingers over its decaying trunk. She had barely reacted to that knowledge. She had even known a few of the religious members from her previous experiences in that area. What had become of them? Perhaps she should have voiced her concerns loudly enough to convince the party to go there. But the part of her mind which doubted so much these days immediately questioned the sense of such an act. Would she be willingly leading the group into peril? They were small in number - unequipped to deal with something of that magnitude. And this band held no debt to Flor. No, Morier was emphatic that they continue southwest. So she had kept quiet and buried herself in the new troubles that Ayremac's presence within the group presented.

She continued to peel away at the trunk's bark. It came off easily in her hand. She did not like having him around. It wasn't simply because he was a stranger to her now - which he was. His presence was a constant reminder of what had been lost. Of innocence squelched by the disparages of darkness. It reminded her of who she had once been, which stood in such contrast to what she had become. That remembrance was a pinprick of light alone now in a dangerous time. She could not bear to remember it or to shine it, lest it somehow attract the unwanted attention of the gods. Before, there had been beauty and music in her soul which she had poured into the light of her feelings. For Arland once. And for Amaury. But now there was only silence. And darkness.

Shamalin stared down at her hands. Having stripped the tree clean of bark, the heart of the wood beneath was revealed. It was beautiful in it's own dark way, but doomed now to death and decay. She stood up, brushing herself off. No matter; the tree was dead.

Like everything else.

Freeday, the 17th - Godsday, the 21st of Harvester, 1269 AE​

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They'd been traveling for what seemed like moonsdances, through the forest and with time, the group's moods had soured. Huzair, in particular was unhappy with the route Morier was leading them on. Morier, himself had no idea how far off the pull was taking him and by extension the rest of the Order, so he could do little to assure anyone. He was finding his skill at wilderness lore, taught him by the druid, Malcolm to be invaluable so far from civilization.

Lela wasn't too happy with some of the unnatural things her own survival skills revealed to her about the area they traveled through. Twice they spotted the carcasses of elk and wolves - carcasses that had been ripped apart and partially devoured by something with large claws and fangs. The tracks in the soft loam were humanoid but easily twice the size of even the largest man's. They also found strips and sheets of scaly black skin wrapped around trees by the wind or caught in the branches overhead. To Lela and Morier both it looked like the shed skin of an enormous snake or lizard, but no such creature was native to this cold region.

In all, it did little to ease anyone's tension over being out so far from civilization.

Waterday, the 22nd of Harvester, 1269 AE​

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Midday on Waterday, they found it.

A cave led into the side of a ravine and it was to that dark entrance that Morier's head was directing them. they dismounted at the top of the gully and proceeded the rest of the way on foot. It wasn't until they had reached the bottom that anyone noticed the symbol of Aphyx that had been carved into the rock above the cave entrance. It seemed as though another symbol had been there before but that the skull and snake symbol of the Rot Queen had been superimposed atop it; what the previous symbol might have been no one could say.

Not that anyone had enough time to check it too closely before the slavering corpses came lurching out of the cave, their flesh hanging in rotten tatters and their mouths and hands crusted with dried blood.

 

[Jon Potter]

[Realms #341] The Cave of Death

"Shamalin, call on your goddess and help turn these abominations! I will do the same!" Ayremac shouted as soon as he spotted the undead. Brandishing his holy symbol he added, "Warriors, please follow our lead; attack those that are unaffected by our prayers!"

Karak needed no encouragement as he activated the frost rune on his waraxe and slammed into the advancing swell of corpses. Unfortunately, they weren't the shambling zombies he had been expecting and his target dodged his attack with disturbing alacrity. It in turn leapt at him with its arms spread wide and its eyes glittering with an esurient light. He managed to bring his axe up to meet the would-be grappler and the frost rimed edge split the thing from throat to hip. Even as it fell three more were surging forward to take its place and one of those was cleaved nearly in twain by the dwarf before it could close. It didn't fall - like any living thing would have - but its attack was spoiled nonetheless.

The other two clamored for him, their grabbing hands trying desperately to get hold of his arms and bear him down to the ground. Their gore-caked mouths snapped hungrily at Karak's face, living little doubt as to the fate that awaited him if he fell. Somehow he managed to avoid their greedy hands and maintained his footing.

Three more shot passed him, scrambling eagerly over the loose soil in an effort to get to the warm flesh nearby.

Two came at Morier and he swung Ravager in an effort to get keep them at bay. The one he'd targeted avoided the blade with ease and wrapped its arms around the albino's waist - or rather it tried to. Morier was able to grab its wrist and keep it from getting a firm hold on him. His second assailant reached for him as well, but its fellow was in the way and the attempt failed.

Moaning hungrily, the last of the ghoulish things went for Ayremac. Under a mask of determination there was just a hint of fear in the officer's demeanor. The trapped souls of the undead always crawled directly under Ayremac's skin and even with all the training and prayer, he could not look at it coldly as a trained officer should. Of course, that didn't stop him from cleaving in the side of its skull with his morningstar as it tried to bear him down. The thing groaned in frustration but showed no sign of pain from the injury as it glowered up at him.

"Shamalin, I will call on Umba to turn these abominations but I cannot turn them all. Call on your goddess if you can and aid me!" the holy warrior said again.

Shamalin scowled at the command. Of course attempting to turn the undead was what she should do first off, and who was he - so young and cavalier in his faith - to order it? But the truth was, the moment he said it, a thought that she might fail washed over her. Once the possibility of one's soul being trapped in a state of undead was the worst imaginable fate. Now, she was not so sure. She could think of worse things. And how would the White Lady reward such skepticism, she wondered?

But that moment of doubt was immediately lost in the momentum of the attack, and she blinked in surprise as Ayremac took action beside her.

"Umba, hear my prayer," he intoned, holding up his shiny gold holy symbol. "I present myself to you, as a channel from which you may see the ghastly works of the necromantic arts. Please, Umba, show mercy on the souls of these animated corpses. Set them free and aid me in seeking divine retribution on the wielder of this dark magic!"

The words washed over Shamalin like the tide, leaving her tingling in its wake. She felt the tiny hairs beneath her armor ripple with its effect. Arland had always been rather articulate (a necessity when politicking) but she had never heard him weave such poignant emotion into a prayer. And she marveled at it momentarily. Then her lips moved silently as she bid favor of Lady Mercy in her own quiet, but equally fervent way, laying her hand on Ayremac's shoulder.

It was a uniquely foreign sensation to touch the tormented soul of the undead. Theirs was a personal hell of being rent between two plains. While Shamalin ordinarily experienced the healing graces of her goddess in musical contexts, there were no such melodies to be found in the madness which emanated from these creatures. She clenched her teeth against the desire to turn away and reached out to Flor in desperation - whether it be for herself or for the miserable creatures before her, she could not be sure.

In any case, the result was the same.

Positive energy flowed through Shamalin and into Ayremac. The holy warrior seemed almost to glow with power in that shadowy valley and as he directed his arm outward at the zombies, they were knocked back as if by a solid wave of force. It lasted but a moment and then the light passed from the man and the now inanimate corpses slapped wetly to the ground.

There was silence for several seconds and then Karak spat onto one of the lifeless bodies at his feet. "Well, that takes a bit o' the sport out o' the thing, don't it?" he grumbled.

"Thank you, Umba, for granting these poor souls justice," Ayremac said and then looked at Shamalin. "And thank you, too. I could not have done so well without you."

Shamalin said nothing and turned away. She looked at Morier and, gesturing to the forbidding cave mouth asked, "Does your head tell you we have to go in there?"

The albino looked at the dark opening in the earth and then back at the cleric. "Yes," he said without enthusiasm.

"Great..," Huzair sighed as he fished in his spell component pouch. "Time to buff up, I guess, eh Morier?"

"I'll wait," the eldritch warrior said pointing at the cave with his sword. "We don't even know what's in there."

"That's my point; we should try to be prepared," Huzair retorted with a shake of his head. "Gods forbid you should actually focus on magic, for once. If only you knew where real power lay."

The mage's comments touched a raw nerve with Morier and it instantly galvanized him. He whirled on the taller man. "Huzair, as usual your argument is idiotic, but now, given the seriousness of our situation I grow weary of it. If I knew when combat was coming, fool, I would clearly do what I could to prepare myself in advance... or better yet AVOID THE CONFLICT ALTOGETHER, YOU COMPLETE MORON !!! How do you propose I prepare for combat any earlier than the instant I know it's going to happen??? Have you not the common damned sense that Garn-Zanuth gave a maggot??? Or perhaps you are saying that you alone hold the powers to know when we face danger and have been witholding that information? Is that what it is, Huzair? Because that's the only way your idiotic banter makes sense."

Huzair just looked down at him with a slight grin touching the corner of his mouth.

"So that's it, is it? Hey folks, I think I've discovered something about our so-called 'friend'... apparently he is a seer who has been keeping the rest of us in the dark," Morier went on, turning to address the others who were all staring at his tirade in disbelief. "Based on his talk - and BOY OH BOY DOES HE EVER TALK - he seems to know when danger is coming, and yet has never once warned the rest of us about it!!!"

"Little touchy there, sword boy?" Huzair snickered, drawing out a cigar and lighting it off his thumb. "You know I'm no seer. All I'm saying is that if you practiced your spellcasting more then your spells would last long enough for you to do a little prep work. Mine do. It's not my fault that you choose to focus all your effort on swinging around that ugly piece of steel." Morier sighed and looked again at the wizard.

"Huzair, I propose that unless you have the fortitude to stand toe-to-toe with any of the foes that the rest of us have battled by hand, you keep your inscessant-blatter-hole silent," he said, stabbing a finger at the mage's chest. "Stand back and cast your spells from a distance and let those of us with a backbone save your sorry ass time and time again... but for the love of Garn-Zanuth limit your pointless yammerings to 'thank you' and then SHUT THE HELL UP!!!"

"Ahem!" Lela chirped, landing daintily on Karak's helm. "While you two were shouting at one another and alerting half the forest to our presence here, I had Spot take a peek inside the cave and he says it's empty. But I still think you'll all want to come and take a look."



It stank of undeath and was dark inside the cave, but Ayremac's morningstar provided enough glow for everyone to see that it was in fact empty. It clearly had been worked by skilled hands: the floor was flat and the walls showed signs of having been decorated in places by elaborate frescoes. The latter, however had been systematically destroyed and overlaid with chaos symbols such as Karak and Morier had seen before in the goblin caves they'd helped clear for the Great Oak.

"Well, Morier?" Huzair asked, snidely. "We're here. So where's this key to defeating Aphyx?" The albino shot the wizard a scathing glance and then moved forward toward a bare spot on the rear wall of the cave.

"I can feel it," he said. "Pulling me here. There must be a secret-"

That was all the more he got to say before his outstretched hand touched the wall and he vanished.

 

[Jon Potter]

[Realms #341] The Cave of Death

It took them a few startled seconds of staring at the blank wall to realize what had happened. Ayremac looked at the smooth surface in disbelief. "Do we follow him?" he asked.

Huzair pushed passed him muttering, "Of course we follow him... I still want to win this damned argument." He walked straight toward the wall, touched it, and then he was gone. Karak grunted.

"Well, I'll not let the elf an' the dark one beat me to it," the dwarf grumbled. He gestured toward Ayremac and Shamalin as he shouldered past. "Especially not after the two o' you took all the fun out o' everythin' outside."

He paused only to lift his mighty waraxe, gripping the thick haft with both hands. "Oh, an' I'll take the sprite with me, too." Lela had already landed daintily on the dwarf's shoulder. She anchored herself to the coil of his plait with her tiny fists as he added, "She's a might good in a battle. Ha!" So saying, he heaved his weapon at the wall and they both promptly disappeared. Lela's spotted cat let out an immediate and lusty yowl of fear and darted forward toward the spot where the sprite had vanished. It too promptly was gone.

"What about the horses? We can't leave them!" Shamalin called out anxiously. But the others were gone and there was only Ayremac left to hear her. He glanced back toward the opening of the cave. "I do need some things from my horse," he admitted.



"-door," Morier finished as he suddenly found himself standing in a small, square room some 20 ft on a side. Some everburning torches set into decorative iron sconces along the walls shed a ruddy light, lending the place a hellish luster. An arched doorway led out of the room in the far left corner.

Pantherish, the albino glanced around for any sign of danger, sword drawn and ready to strike at the least provocation. But nothing lurched at him from the abyssal darkness and so he crept, cat-footed toward the arched doorway. Peering through it, he could see a grand hallway running off to the left and right as well as another archway directly across from his own. The whole was lit as was the entry room, by sanguine torches set into thorny sconces at regular intervals along the walls - torches whose radiance seemed to fill the very air with blood.

He could no longer feel the pull as he once could; the sensation was diffuse now, more like a generalized pressure than a definite urge to go in one direction or another. Even so, the sensation that he was close to his goal galvanized him. He drew a hand across his damp forehead.

He was sweating, he realized, for it was warm here, especially after the frigid Pellham day he'd just left, and the stench of the grave pressed insistently against his senses. He strained his ears but could hear nought save the thudding of his own heart.

Silent as a shadow, Morier darted across the wide hall and flattened himself against the far wall. He peered furtively through the archway there, his darkvision easily revealing the room's contents. It was filled with weapons set into racks lining the walls. He withdrew his head and glanced up at the everburning torch set beside the archway, deciding quickly to secure it just to have one on hand in case it should prove useful.

As he slipped the brand free, the thorny iron sconce seemed almost to writhe and he narrowly avoided ripping his fingers on the needle-like projections. Breathing heavily, he thrust the ruddy torch into the armory. Slim swords with blades that flashed like quicksilver, shields of wrought iron with deep crimson garnets splashed across them like blood, and narrow-bladed knives with hilts of beasts' skulls and talons wrought in silver were arrayed around the room, but all of that captured his attention for but a moment before he beheld the thing in the center of the place. Set on a pedestal about ten feet from the door hulked a massive suit of articulated armor, its helm shaped like a ram's skull, and its feet-coverings worked like split hooves. From its fingers extended long, razor-sharp knives.

Still standing in the doorway, Morier noted that the design was similar to the armor that Shamalin now sported although it was heavier-looking even than hers and the plates interlocked cunningly. In all Morier decided it was not something he wanted to see animate suddenly so he turned away from the room without entering and headed up the hall.

He hadn't taken more than a few steps when a sharp hissing made him whirl toward the source: the archway through which he'd accessed the hall. The torch fell from his hands, clattering loudly against the fitted stone floor as the eldritch warrior brought Ravager to bear. Its wicked, saw-toothed blade came within a foot of biting through Huzair's neck before Morier arrested his swing, panting with adrenaline.

"What?" the mage said with a mock expression of hurt on his face. "Aren't you happy to see me?"



Wordlessly, Shamalin and Ayremac hustled out as quickly as they could and scrambled back up the steep incline to where they had tethered the mounts. The horses were skittish from the stench of death that was rising from the corpses arrayed on the gully floor - snorting and stammering upon seeing the two armored figures approaching. Shamalin hummed soothing sounds to them as she snatched up some of their belongings - rope, her healing kit, a few provisions- shoving as much as she could into a traveling sack. Clicking her tongue softly, she loosened the horses' tethers.

Ayremac, too, gathered what supplies he could carry. Then, reluctantly, he slapped the reigns affectionately on Dreyawulf's hindquarters. "May peace attend you," he whispered to her in Celestial as the mare ambled off in the direction of the other horses. He stared after her and then turned, sensing Shamalin's presence at his side. A foreboding sense of urgency hung between them as they trudged quickly back toward the cave, laden with their bundles.



The cleric and the holy warrior stepped through the wall and out into the square room that was already crowded with the other members of The Order.

"We're stuck in here, you know?" Huzair said to no one in particular. "The portal... or whatever it is... doesn't work from this side."

 

[Jon Potter]

[Realms #342a] Wandering the Halls

The sight of the weapons room was impressive. But as her gaze locked instantly upon the figure in its center, Shamalin felt her chest constrict.

It was him.

Desperately, she clutched at the nearest thing to her, trying to breathe. Huzair shot her an irritated grimace and roughly dislodged her death-grip from his arm. "Relax!" he hissed. She was frozen, her eyes still riveted upon the figure. Finally, the moment passed - the armor proving to be (for the time being at least) nothing but empty armor. And slowly Shamalin became aware of the subtle differences. The chestplate and design looked quite similar, but the headpiece and the footcoverings were altogether different - bestial even. She drew in a shaky breath and murmured an embarrassed apology, averting her eyes. It wasn't him.

"I'm worried about that armor," Morier said, obliviously echoing the cleric's unvoiced sentiments.

"Reckon it'll animate?" Karak growled. His words had more of the statement in them than question.

"I may be able to determine if that armor will animate, Morier, and provide us some protection," Ayremac offered, but Huzair shouldered his way to the fore and began the moving his left hand through the elaborate gestures of a spell.

"Allow me," the mage said with a dramatic flair as his eyes lit up with dancing flames. "Yeah, there's magic here," he reported as his senses were opened to the Weave. "At least three sources... no, four. The armor, a pair of swords over there and that crazy tower shield right there. The armor's emanation's the strongest of the lot, but that short sword's pretty potent too. I could tell more if I actually went in-"

"No!" Morier and Karak said at the same time and they pushed him back roughly from the doorway, spoiling his concentration on the Detect Magic spell.

"Hey! Watch it, you idiots!" the mage snapped. "You just disrupted my spell, geniuses!" Karak shook his head gravely and cocked a thumb toward the armory.

"We'll nae start mucking about with things until we've gotten an idea o' where we be," the dwarf explained. "What if that armor came to life and started attackin' ye as soon as ye walked into the room? Eh? What then?" Huzair snorted.

"Well then, you big, strong fighters would have to save me, now wouldn't you?" he said fluttering his eyelashes coquettishly and Karak harrumphed and turned away.

"We'll touch nothing!" he advised. "Not until we get our bearings." He looked expectantly at Morier and the albino shrugged.

"I can't tell which way," he admitted. "But the keys are here somewhere. I can feel it."

"But you can't tell us where. Just great!" Huzair groused, patting at his pockets as he spoke. He wanted to light up a cigar, but he was running dangerously low.

"It's no matter," Karak announced. "I think we should buff, then stick together, and explore the hall to the right. An old dwarven trick is to always go right, bein' that eventually it leads ye back 'round to the beginning." Ayremac scowled slightly.

"I only have buffs that last at most four minutes... so my plan is to use them right at the begining of battle," the holy warrior said. "Is that not what you fellows do?"

"All of us except Huzair," Morier said acerbically. "He always buffs at the exact right moment - predicting danger just far enough in advance to be able to prepare himself perfectly in time for the first clash of swords." Huzair snorted derisive laughter and gestured with a bit of cured leather.

"My buffin' lasts for hours," he said with a grin, "just like my lovin'." He followed that up with a verbal incantation, "Magis arma!" and a glowing sheath of force flared briefly around his body before fading away invisibly.

"Perhaps I can offer some words of comfort in these trying times," Ayremac said, clutching his gold holy symbol. "Umba, please cast your gaze upon us and protect us in this time of challenge. Help us dispense justice on those that are in need of it, and accept our gratitude for aiding us in retrieving the souls of those empty corpses."

"While you guys hold your little prayer circle, I'll scout out the hall," Huzair said, following up the Mage Armor up with a scroll of False Life. "Invisibly, of course." The others protested but he sighed expansively. "Are any of you sneakier than me? Do any of you know your way around a trap if you find one? Don't forget, I spent my whole life in the Freeport of Farmin." And when it came to vile nests of scum and villainy, few places in the Realms could top Farmin.

"I was going to have Spot scout a bit," Lela said and Huzair shrugged.

"The hall goes in two directions," he said, already turning. "I will show you how to walk out front, Morier!' Huzair added sticking his long finger into Morier's chest before he went invisible.



Spot returned almost at once from his turn down the left end of the hallway, but not Huzair. And while they waited for him to return the Order nervously discussed possible strategies if they encountered guards and the like here. The general plan seemed to be to act like evil folk on an evil mission looking for a key.

As the suggestion was made, Shamalin felt a shiver of fear. Ever since she joined them, this group had been drawn deeper and deeper into Aphyx's clutches like an arrow bent on a target. And not for the first time she found herself wondering whose hand has loosed that arrow. Looking from one to the next, she began to wonder if the same betraying thoughts had occurred to the others. Her gaze lingered longest on Ayremac, with a barely concealed scowl finding its way to her face as she tried to discern whether or not he, too, was a pawn on the gameboard of the gods.

And if so, whose side they were each on.

 

[Hairy Minotaur]

Almost there. (to the new stuff that is)

 

[Jon Potter]

Almost there. (to the new stuff that is)

Well, would it be better or worse for you to know that I've got 16 or so updates "in the can" and ready to go? I'm doling them out slowly because I've got an outstanding back log that I haven't written and I don't want to reach a point where I have nothing to post.

To look forward to, you've still got: wizards, dead elves, demons, more demons, negative energy eruptions, spell-stitched undead, more demons, more undead, scrolls written on human skin, even more undead, guardian constructs, a half-fiendish orc thaumaturge, riddles, and tests. And then they finally find what they're looking for.

It should be a fun read.

 

[Funeris]

Hey Jon! That's great news (about the 16 or so updates "in the can"). I am looking forward to it.

~Fune

 

[Jon Potter]

[Realms #343] What's Behind Door #1?

Shamalin draped her cloak over the Florian symbols she had etched into her armor, hiding them as much as possible. The silver holy symbol of Flor she'd taken off of the Janissary's charred corpse she tucked inside her breastplate. Thus outfitted and with her great helm fully covering her head, she looked not unlike Blackheart himself.

She could pass for such in dim light, she imagined, and while she hoped it wouldn't be necessary, the way things were going those hopes were fading. Knowing what it would involve, part of Shamalin's mind began rehearsing as the other debated how to properly disguise themselves. It was not an easy thing she asked of herself. So much of her healing had involved desensitizing the very details about Blackheart which she now sought to remember. And in this setting, those pieces came rushing back with frightening clarity: the wild-eyedness of him. His frenzied laughter. The incessant tendency to clear his throat - as if something even more foul was struggling to expel itself from his body. She mentally catalogued his idiosyncrasies, sick with the irony of it all. Not only was she in his armor, but she was piecing him together once more inside her head.

Bringing him back to life.

If they failed, she could only hope someone would dash her head against the stone wall and erase the horrible memories once and for all.

She took a moment to cast a spell to mask her aura of good and she felt herself as ready as she could make herself. The others had seemed to reach an agreement as well and Huzair said, "I'm just going to grab that shortsword if nobody wants it." And he started to step toward the armory.

Once again Morier forestalled him. "Grab the shortsword for what? A souvenir?" he asked, skewering the mage with a discerning eye. "Good gods, you're not actually thinking of using a combat weapon are you? Why don't you leave the fighting to the grown-ups and stand behind so you don't get hurt." The albino chuckled darkly.

Huzair retaliated with a withering gaze of his own. "Don't you worrry, I know my place in combat, Morier." Again the eldritch warrior laughed.

"In all the years I've known you, Huzair, your place was the one thing you've never known," Morier told him and Huzair jerked, ready to say or do something. The holy warrior interrupted the action, however.

"Huzair, it is certainly not my place to tell you what to do but I get the impression from everyone here that no one thinks entering that room is a good idea," Ayremac said diplomatically. He looked at the others for confirmation and all save Karak nodded in agreement. The dwarf merely shrugged.

"I'm thinkin' that there armor's gonna come to life if'n ye go pokin' 'round in there," he said. "I've fought such a guardian statue with me chalak. Course tha' one was made o' stone if'n I be rememberin' right."

"That's my point. It is either a trap or the most trap looking room I have ever seen," the holy warrior went on.

"If I am going to go out front more like Morier thinks I should, I will need a strong weapon. Can't cast spells in hand-to-hand!" the mage spat back, truly bewildered by what he thought to be a gross over-reaction. "At least you did not hear me talking about it for moonsdances like Karak did about his axe."

"You had your pick of weapons from the Manor before we left Floxen!" Shamalin countered. "Why now?!"

"It's just a sword, for Kossuth's sake!" was the wizard's response and Ayremac sighed a little.

"What fortress have you ever gone in where the armory is right next to the front door? It's not... this was placed here so that some one would be lured in to spring the trap," the Officer of Umba told him. "If you choose to go in you may bring ruin on all of us."

"Fine!" Huzair snapped in his best everyone's-against-me tone of voice. Morier nodded.

"Let's not grab anything from anywhere until we have a better idea what we're dealing with," he said. "Let's find what we came for before we start treasure hunting."



The doors were recessed into the walls a bit so that it was difficult to see them until one was right up on them. And by then it was impossible not to look at them. They were disturbing - immense black iron valves embossed with depraved images of grinning skulls and leering eyes amidst a tangle of writhing tentacles. At various places on the door could be seen fragile humanoid figures being violated in the most horrific fashion by those tentacles.

"I'm not that good at detecting traps," Huzair admitted as they stood in front of the first such door. "But I'm probably the best shot we've got." He crouched down and moved his hands gingerly toward the door, trying hard not to be distracted by the degenerate images taunting him from its surface.

"I have a Find Traps spell," Shamalin offered and Huzair's face split with a wide grin.

"Spells... Nice. Not like being in front like big brave Morier, but much more effective than my skills," he said, standing and gesturing for the priestess to approach the door. "I guess magic is useful."

Morier merely shook his head in disgust as Shamalin used her magic to pronounce the door safe. Karak and Morier readied weapons then and as soon as Shamalin stepped back they stepped in and pressed against the door. It slid open on well-oiled and cunningly counter-weighted hinges. The room beyond was was richly appointed with expensive tapestries of lewd dancing girls in explicit poses along three walls.

A heavy curtain concealed the wall to the left and an ornately carved desk of polished black wood was opposite the door. Soiled desert rugs overlaid the floor. In the center of the rugs crouched a small misshapen creature that looked like a flayed humanoid, dripping a bloody slime - which was the apparent source of the stains. It looked up as the group opened the door and hissed at them through bared fangs.

Before either warrior could do anything, the creature scuttled away under the desk.

"What was that?" Karak grunted, pointing in that direction with his frost-rimed axe.

"I think it was a homunculus," Morier told him. "I've never seen one quite like that before though."

"What's a homunco- whate'er ye called it?" the dwarf asked, taking a hesitant step into the room.

"It's like a familiar... sort of," the albino said, scrunching up his eyebrows. "Anyway, a wizard has t make one, so if there's a homunculus here there's got to be a-"

Before he could finish his thought, an inhuman roar sounded from their left and the curtain parted as a shaggy, stoop-shouldered monstrosity burst into the room. Its fur was the bright red of freshly-spilled blood and eyes like two black pits stared out from its strangely humanish face. Its mouth was filled with splayed yellow tusks and it let out a dire wailing as it leaped at Karak.

That was all that the dwarf had time to see, but in the brief moment when the curtain was parted, Morier glimpsed a naked figure lying obesely, half-incumbent on a bed that largely filled the alcove beyond.

 

[Jon Potter]

[Realms #344] Please Ignore the Man Behind the Curtain

Morier shouted a warning, "Behind the curtain!" before turning his attention to the red-furred monster in their midst.

Shamalin tugged on the chain of her holy symbol, drawing the spell focus from its hiding place in the event that she needed to perform any miracles. At her side Ayremac drew forth his morningstar filling the chamber with pure white light before stepping in and slamming the weapon against the broad hairy shoulder of the creature menacing Karak. The beast roared in pain as the weapon smashed against its pelt.

The dwarf answered its cry with a bellow of his own as he brought his waraxe round in a vicious arc... that failed utterly to connect with the beast. He turned the weapon and brought it back, slicing at the thing from the opposite direction and again missed completely.

Morier took a step around to the creature's flank and slashed with Ravager, but the monster managed to twist away and avoid the deadly saw-toothed blade. As it dodged, it came at Ayremac with murderous intent.

The holy warrior was able to deflect its rending claws with a sweep of his shield, but its toothsome maw darted in and clamped down on his weapon hand, drawing blood and a grunt of pain from the man.

When Lela heard Ayremac's cry, she rushed up from Karak's shoulder eager to help her friends. Seeing the shaggy red thing with its back to her, she took aim at it. Shouting behind her, "Huzair, I need your help!" she called on the Green as quickly as she could and summoned a Flaming Sphere at the hairy creature's feet.

Or at least she tried. The thing took an opportunistic swing at the Sprite, back-handing her as she cast. She spun in the air, almost losing the spell along with the blood that flowed freely from her smashed nose, but she managed to hold her concentration and dropped the Sphere on target. The beast tried to dodge out of the way, but was unable.

Even so, the creature didn't seem overly discomfited by the fire licking up its bandy legs.

The next moment the room and the hallway outside the door was filled with bilious green vapors. Both Huzair and Morier immediately recognized the effect as a Stinking Cloud - not that recognition offered Huzair any protection from it. Still it was enough to allow Morier the opportunity to suck in a lungfull of fresh air before the cloud fully formed. Beside him both Karak and his opponent seemed unperturbed by the vapors, Ayremac, however, doubled over suddenly and emptied the contents of his stomach all over his own boots.

Shamalin's ordeal in Miller's Pond had inured her to a great many things, and apparently the nauseating effect of a Stinking Cloud was one of them. As Huzair retched uncontrollably at her side, she called on the power of her goddess to Hold the Person whose braceleted arm was visible sticking out of the curtain along the wall. She felt the spell go off, but it seemed to have no effect whatsoever.

Clutching his heaving stomach, Ayremac withdrew from the fray. The long armed thing tried to take advantage of the Officer's condition, but Karak slashed at it with his waraxe, opening a frost-rimed gash in its side that nearly split it in two. Somehow, it didn't go down, and even managed to duck Morier's attack; Ravager drew blue sparks from the stone floor. In turn the monster reeled on Karak, its claws and fangs clattering ineffectually against the dwarf's armor.

Swallowing back on a mouthful of bile, Lela concentrated on rolling her Flaming Sphere up against the monster venting its impotent rage against Karak. Again the thing failed to get out of the way, but again the ball of fire seemed to have little effect on the creature.

Karak was struck full in the chest by a coruscating beam of magic originating from the curtained alcove and he felt much of his strength draining away as the Ray Enfeebled him.

Had Huzair been watching he would have recognized the spell for what it was, but he knew full well that as long as he remained within the Stinking Cloud effect, he would be of little use to anybody. His gut spasmed unmercifully as he retreated back down the hall until he was outside the cloud.

Ayremac too was making for the hallway, his face ashen and vomit flecked on his lips and chin. He felt something strike him in the back and to his horror saw that the homunculus had landed on him and was seeking some way to bite him through his armor. He tried to strike it away, but found that he was too nauseous to do much of anything.

Shamalin saw the man's predicament but there was little she could do apart from using her longsword and she didn't quite feel ready to try that in actual combat just yet. She cast Detect Evil instead and was little surprised by the results.

Karak, sagging under the sudden weight of his heavy armor, brought his waraxe up into a defensive position. "Now listen up lads, lassies, and faeries. Let the forces of chaos feel OUR wrath. I have confidence in ye all," he bellowed. "Now let us get to it."

Morier felt a swell of Inspiration at Karak's words and swung Ravager with renewed vigor. The jagged black blade slashed upward, splitting the hairy red thing from crotch to chin. It fell back, dissolving into sulfurous smoke even as it dropped. It was completely gone before it hit the ground. The albino merely stepped through the spot where it had stood and made for the curtained alcove and the spellcaster beyond.

Lela beat him to it, however. She moved through the narrow opening between the two heavy curtains and hurled a pinch of Dust of Great Slumber into the face of the first person she saw. The man was naked and bald with gaudy gold hoops decorating his ears. He wore cold and jewel-encrusted bracelets and an amulet that was all but lost in the many folds of blubber at his chin. And that was all although his hanging belly hid anything too objectionable from view.

She hurled the dust and the man dove out of the way moving with a grace that seemed incongruent with his vast bulk. He rolled across the bed, coming up with his naked back against the far side, his hands already moving through the motions of a spell. "Fulgur sagitta!" he roared and lighting shot from his hands.

The Sprite was able to avoid the worst of the bolt, but she still felt the jarring sizzle of electricity course through her tiny body. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably and her hair rose straight up and away from her head like a strange halo.

The homunculus continued to scramble over Ayremac's armor looking for any opening in which to sink its fangs. It was having little luck as the man's movements caused it some consternation even if he couldn't mount any sort of active defense against the tiny invader.

Karak plodded forward behind Morier imploring Shaharizod to let him Strike True as he came. Morier thrust aside the curtain with the blade of his bastard sword, took in with a glance the enormous bed that took up most of the alcove beneath a drift of rich silken sheets and pillows. Then he leapt forward and brought Ravager to bear on the obese wizard. The point of the blade drew a line of blood across the mage's belly and the man ground his teeth together biting back on a scream.

As it turned out, he only needed to worry about it for another few seconds before Lela hurled another pinch of dust into his face. This time he was unable to evade the attack and instead fell onto his side amidst the sheets snoring contentedly.

The homunculus, seeming to somehow realize the danger its master was in, abandoned its attacks on Ayremac and flew back into the room, chattering angrily. Karak cut it from the air with his waraxe as it flew passed him and the two ichorous chunks of homunculus slammed wetly into the wall beside the curtain.

At the same instant, the fat man's body convulsed once, his back arcing impossibly before he fell still on the bed, rivulets of blood pouring from his nose and ears.