The Realms of Enlightenment: The Grey Companions

[Jon Potter]

[Realms #405a] Repercussions II

"So... " Karak intoned, thunking his waraxe onto the Mellorn artificer's workbench and staring up into the man's eyes - of which he had three. "What'll it take to upgrade my baby, 'ere?" The artificer's hand stretched out to delicately touch the weapon's haft.

"That depends... " he began, and Karak cut him off.

"Right now she is a fine blade. Sharp as an axe and upon command she can brim with frost," the dwarf explained and the artificer arched an eyebrow, unsure of whether Karak was making a joke. "What I am looking for is for her to be extra sharp and not lose 'er edge and... well... umm... " Karak seemed embarrassed then and he looked guiltily at Shamalin as if he regretted asking her to join him on the outing.

"Yes?" the artificer prompted and Karak blurted out, "I need her to be Holy!" The three-eyed man's expression grew guarded and he drew his fingertips away from the weapon, his mouth pressing tight.

"Now I know you can nae make her holy, nae being a cleric, an' all, but I need you to inscribe the rune so after I do the appropriate thingie she becomes holy. Okay?" Karak went on, his cheeks flushed crimson. "And stop looking at me that way!" he snapped at Shamalin, causing the cleric to jump. She held up her hands in surrender.

"I'm not doing anything," she said, prompting a harrumph from the dwarf.

"I think you misunderstand the methods necessary to augment the enchantment on your weapon," the artificer explained once attention had returned to him. "It is within my power to give your axe a magically keen edge, but, as you surmise only a priest can imbue a weapon with holy power. And it is not a simple matter of inscribing a rune and sending you on your way. Any enchantments must be made during the crafting process, while the weapon is open to the magic. We have priests in New Mellorell, but I doubt that you will find one of them capable of invoking the necessary miracle."

Karak scowled, and stole a look at Shamalin from the corner of his eye. "Well, get to work on what ye can an' I'll see what I can do about findin' a priest."



Ayremac winged over New Mellorell, taking in what little he could from above. Most of the city was hidden by the trees, but he could see the archery range set apart in a clearing. He could make out Raf there giving a lesson to some adult humans and a few elf children but he avoided that area. He wasn't quite ready to talk more with his old friend. Instead he banked to the north where he spied the orderly rows of an orchard. A lone elvish figure moved amidst the trees, gathering deadwood into bundles. Ayremac swung around so that his shadow fell across the man as he descended, announcing his presence before he dropped down onto the turf nearby.

"Hello sir, my name is Ayremac," the holy warrior said in elvish as he folded his wings and approached. "I am a guest of your lord." The elf paused long enough to nod before bending to pick up another branch.

"We were told of your presence," the elf said without interest.

"Would you speak with me a spell?" Ayremac asked hopefully and the elf looked up dully.

"I have work to do," he said. "But we were told to make your stay a comfortable one so much as we could. How may I help you?"

"We are here for a short stay before heading off to take the battle to Lord Hofralix's enemies and I am trying to figure how best to use my time," Ayremac explained and the man's face betrayed no interest. "Could you recommend an armorer? Or possibly a holy man who could wash me with some blessings?"

"I have little use for armorers, but there are several of them a ways south of here," the elf answered, gathering his bundle under one arm and pointing with his other. "Near the community stores in the center of town."

"And a holy man?" Ayremac prompted. The elf stooped to pick up another stick and then squinted at him.

"I don't have much use for them either," he replied blandly. "But you can find the temple to the Great Mother near the standing stones on top of Hag's End Bluff."

"Thank you, good sir-" the Officer of Umba paused, grinning sheepishly. "I'm sorry. I forgot to ask your name. Who are you, again?"

"My name is Clelildor Glilmalad Haar," he replied politely. Then politely bent to grab another stick for his bundle.

"How did you come to be here?" Ayremac pressed and the elf looked around, confused.

"Today it is my job to collect fallen branches for the community stores. I collect branches every Anarya." Ayremac smiled thinly.

"Interesting," he lied and the elf shrugged.

"If you say so," Clelildor replied. "It is my job on Anarya."

"Wow. That's... great," Ayremac feigned enthusiasm as Clelildor walked several paces away to gather another stick into his fagot. "So what have you learned under Lord Hofralix?"

Clelildor looked at Ayremac and thrust out his wan chin. "I have learned the value of working together. I have learned how my own selfish and petty desires ultimately undermine the collective desires of New Mellorell. How the works of one directed toward his own scattered purposes amounts to nothing, but the works of many directed toward a singular purpose can accomplish anything."



"Hey, lass remember when we were upgradin' me axe and I mentioned lookin' to make her holy?" Karak asked as they walked back in the direction of the bathhouse.

"Just now?" Shamalin asked, confused since they were only a few dozen paces removed from the smithy.

"Aye!" Karak nodded then asked, "Do you know exactly how to do that?" Before she could answer he pressed on and Shamalin sensed that he had a lot on his mind. She kept her face serene and let him work through it at his own pace. There was little chance of stopping him once he got started anyway.

"My sense is by making the axe holy I will be even better at smiting those that are evil or tainted by the chaos," he went on, his hands tightening into fists. "Now if Malak were 'ere he would know exactly what to do. He seemed always so connected to Shaharizod. But not me! I feel like a fish outta water. I mean, I just be a plain an' simple fighter. Yea it be true that sometimes I lose my cool in a fight, but that is often times to my advantage." He sighed looking down at his calloused and battle-scarred hands. "But these... I do nae know how to really lay hands on people. The few times I had ta, it was really Malak actin' through me, I just know it." He lowered his hands and shook his shaggy head, chortling a little at his admission. "I mean I 'hav 'eard from the Queen, but I really think she just be forgettin' I'm Karak, not Malak."

Shamalin stopped walking and smiled genuinely at the dwarf. For as long as she had known him, Karak's passion had been his axe. And, ironically, she took comfort in the purity of that devotion. But, it seemed, that there were other relationships at work in that as well. "Do you really believe that your queen mistakes your identity?" She spoke thoughtfully. "Could it be that you are uncomfortable following a path so similar to your chalak? Such a choice would not force you to measure yourself against Malak. Or anyone else."

"I do nae know. But alas, I know this, I be wantin' to upgrade me axe by makin' her holy and to do that I have to have something religious," he said. His lips twisted into a sour pucker as if he found the words distasteful. "So, since you be now our resident cleric - who I know Malak would have been proud to call friend - I come askin': what do I do?" Shamalin laid a gentle hand on the dwarf's shoulder.

"I wish I could help you, Karak, but what you request is far beyond my abilities. Once, long ago, I might have had the potential to grow in that direction, but I made different choices." The cleric smiled, remembering. But in a matter of seconds, the smile faded. "The consequences of which have been far different than I could have imagined. Yet it gladdens my heart that you believe me capable of such an act." Karak's shoulders sagged under her words and Shamalin felt painfully how much hope he'd placed on her assistance.

She sighed, glancing resolutely in the direction of their dwellings as a decision manifested in her heart. "Come, Karak. I know who can help you. And I think it will be good for you both."

 

[Hairy Minotaur]

This update reminds me of a part of Goblin Quest, have you read that book?

In that a goblin wants to learn magic, well arcane requires studying so that's out, but divine just requires a belief. So the goblin has the bard tell him stories of forgotten and/or long lost gods and he picks one to put his belief/faith in and.... well I won't spoil it if you haven't read it.

But Karak's "quest" here reminds me of that.

 

[Jon Potter]

This update reminds me of a part of Goblin Quest, have you read that book?

Have not read it, but it sounds interesting.

But Karak's "quest" here reminds me of that.

Well... Karak's "quest" is strictly RP on his player's part. Mechanically speaking, Karak has a level of Cleric whether he wants to admit it or not.

 

[Jon Potter]

[Realms #405b] Repercussions III

Shamalin scanned the sky, shielding her eyes from the bright sun. "I'm sure he's up there somewhere... " After a moment the small dot which was Ayremac became visible, glinting silver against the blue sky. Feeling a little foolish, Shamalin waved her arms attempting to get his attention. The holy warrior, however, did not change his direction or indicate he was aware of their presence. Even Karak's booming voice had no effect. After several frustrating moments, Shamalin resorted to a Sending. "Ayremac, come down here!" As an afterthought she added, "Please?"

"What is it?" his voice spoke into her ear, words tinged with concern. "Are you in danger? I'm on my way."

Belatedly it occurred to her that she might have offered some explanation to the man in her initial contact. It was too late for that now and she couldn't give it to him without casting the spell again, something she couldn't do until the 'morrow. Able to do little else, the Officer of Umba began an immediate descent in their direction. Karak stood solidly and watched the approach with interest. Shamalin, however, had witnessed Ayremac's landings before. Not knowing what effect her spell would have on his relatively new skills, she stepped behind the dwarf and prepared to bolt out of the way if need be.

Her fears were unfounded, and Ayremac landed gracefully. Still, she was relieved to have Karak between them, however, as she noted the look of consternation on Ayremac's face at being summoned without explanation. Windblade was barely visible in the Officer's fist.

"There's no cause for alarm," she assured him quickly. "Karak needs to speak with you about something." Ayremac's face softened and his sword disappeared into its scabbard as he looked expectantly to the dwarf.

"Nice landing," Karak said awkwardly. He turned to look up at Shamalin. 'Go on' she seemed to indicate with a smile.

"Umm... seeing those two numbskulls fightin' made me come to a conclusion" Karak said awkwardly, still looking at the Mercybringer as if the proper words might magically appear written across her forehead. "That I need to be bringin' the fight to Chaos more... and the way to do that I figure is to upgrade me axe."

"That seems like a sound conclusion," Ayremac agreed, his tone somewhat wary. "But what does that have to do with me?"

"Aye. That be the question," the dwarf grunted. "Now normally, I know, to um... ah... bring it to a Dwarven Runesmith or other Runesmith... which is what I done mind ya, but he tells me that... um... I need to bring it to a Cleric for... a religious ceremony or somethin'." Karak's face twisted awkwardly as he forced out the word 'religious' as if it tasted of goblin wine.

"That is true," the holy warrior nodded. "The Justiciars of Umba have made potent weapons to fight Chaos in the past. Some enchantments can only be accomplished through divine providence."

"So I brought her to Shamalin... um... you know... our Cleric," the dwarf indicated Shamalin with a nod of his head. "But she nae able to do it... So... I'm told you can make it holy."



It was quiet in the temple and the elven priest's eyes flickered to Shamalin momentarily as she entered the sanctuary, alerted to her arrival by her footfalls. There was something confrontational in the priest's eyes - hostile even. She had been given permission to observe the local healing rite while Karak attended to business at the smithy, but wasn't sure how she would be received by the actual religious members. And entering the sacred space, she was glad to have taken off her armor. The clanking steel shell seemed to have no place in the darkened interior of the temple. Even the swish of her plain white robes' hem on the stone floor seemed an intrusion to the pregnant hush that filled the place.

Ayremac stepped in behind her, also stripped of armor, looking a bit as Shamalin remembered him from olden days, in a white merchant's shirt and tailored pant. Every crinkle from the soles of his leather slippers made Shamalin wince but Ayremac did not seem as bothered. His order was not so keen on silence as some, and he did not even realize his disturbance.

As Shamalin advanced toward the array of benches, she made a point to push her strawberry blonde locks back behind pointed ears as if asserting her right to be in attendance. It was a curious sensation - accentuating that which Blackheart had sought to mar forever with his knife. With a shiver, she moved silently into place in the back and bowed her head respectfully. Ayremac sat down beside her and in a hushed whisper began, "The architecture is beau-" but Shamalin quickly put a finger to his lips and glared at him in that manner that only a woman ever truly masters. Ayremac closed his mouth and said nothing more, doing his best to retreat into the background.

"Iä! Iä! Shub-Niggurath, c'fhalma fhtagn syha'h-ebumnagl," the high priest cried, so suddenly that Shamalin jolted upright in her seat. His words were a shriek in the silent temple, a plea for divine attention, she assumed. The words made no sense whatever to the mercybringer. "Ya shtunggli!"

"Sll'ha-gn'wgn-ll'ah-sgn'wahl... " the other elves around the altar muttered, their own voices every bit as low and sibilant as the priest's words were strident. The intonations seemed only half-uttered, the suggestions of words rather than words themselves and the litany continued as the priest went on, underscoring whatever it was he was saying. "Sll'ha-gn'wgn-ll'ah-sgn'wahl... "

"Ya sil'ha! Ya stell'bsna sgn'wahl shaggoth! Ng-wk'hmr r'luheeh!" the priest continued his oration, anointing the broken body on the low altar before him. It looked to be that of a young male. The words weren't elvish, of that much Shamalin was certain, but beyond that she could make out nothing; they seemed to be bits of speech divorced from true language. She listened, very intrigued, as he began to place his hand above various places on the unmoving body - close, but never touching. It did not seem to be a spell that the priest evoked. It was as if he spoke an invitation addressing the energy surrounding him, something unseen that listened and watched.

"Hafh'drn uln! Ooboshuyar yagl hai! Ftaghu naflehye! Iä! Iä!" His words were strangely, incongruously melodious - a continuous stream of fragments and syllables that seemed ill-suited to humanoid lips but still managed to suggest a coming harmony.

The air in the temple so dark and still mere moments before seemed alive now, and Shamalin curiously noted the hair on her arm prickling with anticipation. Responding to some cue within the ritual that she could not fathom those around the altar began to chant more loudly, their voices rising with fervor with each alien syllable.

"Sll'ha-gn'wgn-ll'ah-sgn'wahl! Sll'ha-gn'wgn-ll'ah-sgn'wahl!"

She felt an unexpected surge of emotion and realized that her voice was straining to add itself to the chanted mantra. But she knew that would be a terrible intrusion, and instead she clamped her jaw tightly shut and craned her neck to get a better view. There was something curious happening to the air around the altar. It seemed to be drawing back away from the priest as if the entirety of the temple apart from him were merely projected onto a sheet and a hand was tugging that sheet away from the priest. As it peeled away from him, it left him looking... harsher. To Shamalin it seemed that all of the subtleties in his appearance disappeared; every line and crease in his clothing was defined and emphasized, every curve become an angle, every color grown more vibrant, every shadow more impenetrable. He was sharp and clear and harsh and it made her eyes ache to dwell on him too long. All the while he chanted.

"C'fhalma fhtagn syha'h-ebumnagl!" The words of the priest (now just another string of slippery sounds amidst the cacophony) increased in intensity and, at the exact moment the attendant voices peaked in crescendo, he clapped his hands together over the body and the entire room fell silent. The air around the priest snapped back, softening the harsh planes of his form into more natural shapes. An expectant pause followed, and a moment later the figure on the dais stirred ever-so-slightly. Immediately, the robed attendants moved briskly to pick up the elf body, whisking him away through a side archway. The priest knelt in silent meditation, apparently spent by his efforts. There was something haggard and brittle about his face and shoulders and Shamalin realized just then that she was holding her breath.

She let it out quietly and took the opportunity to steal away, excited and mystified by what she had seen. Clearly these elves had healing powers she knew nothing about. And, in spite of the efforts she had made to forge a new bond with her goddess, Shamalin couldn't help but wonder: was there some level of elven magic capable of righting the broken pathways of her own soul? Ayremac followed her out, saying nothing. He sensed that Shamalin had been moved by the experience more then he had and - as he had ever done - gave her the space and time she needed to address whatever inner turmoil she held in her heart.



"Oi, Morier? Morier?" Karak shouted into the Ring of Communication as he leaned against the firepit in the sunken hut he now shared with just Ayremac. He'd left his armor at the smithy and he was dressed in tunic and jerkin, the holy warrior was likewise unencumbered by his mail, but he wore some kind of robe that reminded Karak of something his brother might have worn. The Officer of Umba was kneeling in prayer before his portable altar, his back to the dwarf; he couldn't see the sneer twisting the fighter's lips.

"I'm here, Karak," the eldritch warrior's voice replied, sounding as if he was standing directly behind the dwarf rather than outside the bounds of New Mellorell. "How are you faring in town?"

"Listen, did you get your armor upgraded?" Karak asked, ignoring the question.

"Ah... no," Morier answered, his tone was surprised.

"No?" Karak barked, sitting up and shouting at his fist as if it were the elf's face.

"I was exiled, Karak," the albino said and the dwarf nodded.

"Oh... of course... " Karak shook his head in disgust. "I'd forgot ye wanted to roll around in the mud wi' your boy lover." He harrumphed and Morier sighed over the Ring.

"Look, Karak, was there a point to your contacting me or did you just want to give me another dressing down?" the elf asked. "There's not a lot to do out here, but I'm sure I can find something better than getting yelled at for something I didn't start." The note of annoyance n Morier's voice was plainly evident to Karak.

After a stubborn moment, the dwarf said, "Fine. So what did you decide you needed? Let me know an' I'll make sure to get it." There was a pause on Morier's end, then.

"I don't know," he said finally and the note of annoyance grew even more evident. "It's not like I can just get something off the rack! I've got to worry about spell failure... and if it's too heavy it'll slow me down... " Karak sighed again.

"Like the boy's elf-kissin' mother, I am," he muttered and scratched his beard. "I saw a nice mithril breastplate down there when I dropped off me axe. It'll nae be cheap, but would that suit ye?"

"Yes!" Morier said at once, annoyance turned suddenly to excitement. "Thank you, Karak. I-"

"Listen, I need to talk ta Huzair," the dwarf interrupted and he waited while Morier traded the Ring of Communication with the wizard.

"This is Huzair," the mage's voice said.

"Huzair, it's Karak. I've been doin' an inventory of our magic loot and I noticed when I add it up that you have a nice haul. I think ye need to turn some items into the pot. Me axe is going to be expensive," Karak said bluntly into the Ring.

"I cannot quite make out what you are saying," Huzair replied after only a moment's pause. "You want to buy a pot? What for? Are you going to cook?" Karak's teeth ground together loudly in the chamber, color reddening his cheeks.

"Do nae try them shards wi' me, wizard! I know ye can hear me!" the dwarf shouted into the Ring. "Now ye'll have to part wi' some o' the booty ye've squirreled away, an' that's all there is to it!"

"I did get the fire blade, but I earned it," Huzair said lightly. "I do not see much else. How about those gems? Except the pearls; we should keep those for Identification purposes. Sound good?" Karak thought that it didn't sound very good at all.

"All I know is this: that magic dagger ye've got stuffed away is worth enough all by itself to nearly pay for me axe," Karak answered. He labored to keep his voice even. "I am nae sayin' don't keep it, but if ye're just holdin' onto it because it be magical, then I say throw it in the pot. That alone will buy a lot of supplies." A long pause followed. So long that Karak thought for a heartbeat that Huzair might have taken off the Ring to escape the conversation, but at last the mage returned.

"Oh, all right" he relented. "But get me a less powerful magic dagger if you can."

"Aye!" Karak replied. "I'll see if I can get one of Hofralix's men to head out to ye in the mornin' to retrieve what we're wantin' to sell. Good night to ye!" Without waiting for a reply he took off the Ring of Communication and got to his feet. His pallet of skins looked very inviting and he spared a bitter glance at Ayremac before settling onto them wearily. The holy warrior's devotion reminded Karak painfully of the day he and Malak had left Dwurheim. He remembered watching his brother hunched reverently over a shrine to Shaharizod while he lurked in the corridor feeling unwelcome in the Silver Queen's presence.

He pondered briefly the irony of what he now needed to improve his axe and how easily it would have been had his brother still been at his side.



The next day a Mellorn elf returned from Karak's errand with a sizable bundle of gear from Huzair and Morier. A note was affixed to the bundle that read simply: "You are a pain in my ass, dwarf."

 

[Burningspear]

"You are a pain in my ass, dwarf."

:ROFL:

 

[Jon Potter]

:ROFL:

That was prety much my reaction, as well.

I hope that these little interludes aren't too boring for readers. There's at least one more before the group departs New Mellorell.

 

[Burningspear]

That was prety much my reaction, as well.

I hope that these little interludes aren't too boring for readers. There's at least one more before the group departs New Mellorell.

hehe, and no,
your "interludes" are not boring in the least, it is realistic to me, we read the same "up-and-downs" regarding "action" in books as well, people need "days off" in order to reflect their experience and own life in order to continue being the person they are,
even in real life....

 

[Jon Potter]

[Realms #405c] Repercussions IV

Later, after reuniting with Shamalin and Ixin Karak and Ayremac moved easily along the darkening paths of the forest settlement. It was either that its inhabitants were fully aware of The Order's presence and Hofralix's invitation to avail themselves of the city's services or they simply did not care. The result was the same; the Mellorn were cool and polite but distant, behaving less like individuals than a hive directed towards some singular purpose. It was only when directly confronted that they seemed to manifest individual personalities, and even then it was clear that they preferred being left to their tasks. It was unsettling and served to pointedly drive home the fact that The Order was an outsider here.

The members of the party who remained in town were accomplishing much this day, it seemed. Karak had exchanged many of their excess magical items and a sizable portion of their ready wealth for favors from the craftsmen in town. In addition to securing someone to work on his precious axe, he'd left three suits of armor with the articifers in the smithy for tending - his own, Ayremac's and Shamalin's. Ixin had managed to speak directly to Lord Hofralix himself and extract from him the promise of an enchanted ring from his personal horde. Their next stop was the alchemist's.

"I really have no need of anything here," Shamalin insisted again, eyeing the shop with discomfort. "Perhaps I can meet up with you later... "

Karak harruffed, "Now, now lassie. Do nae be so quick to dismiss the generosities of our host. Are you sure there be nothing you need to aid in the fight against chaos? Why don't ye just come in a bit and have a look around?" He was already forging forward eagerly. Ayremac touched her lightly on the back and leaned in to whisper, "At the very least you could help carry healing potions for Morier." He grinned wide, his teeth blazingly white and his eyes twinkling with mischief. Shamalin hesitated.

She knew that such magics existed, of course, but had never actually purchased any herself. How would it be received by her goddess - that the divine connection which Shamalin had worked tirelessly in her heart to reconcile wasn't enough. That now blessings could be bought? She grappled with these ideas as Ayremac held the door for her. "It's ingenuity, Shamalin, resourcefulness - not lack of faith," he said gently, seeming to read her mind. She dropped her eyes and slid past, ashamed that once more the clarity of his faith had underscored her doubt.

Once inside, however, her mood shifted almost instantaneously. The room was ornate and beautiful, meticulously organized and dry with a slight pungent odor that, while undeniably strange wasn't entirely unpleasant. The walls were lined with beautifully carved wooden shelves arrayed with hundreds of glass vials of every color, each carefully organized so that as the eye moved about the place, the colors subtly shifted from one hue to the next rather than assaulting the eye with a hectic riot. Each flask was corked and arranged neatly with small placards depicting the resultant magic: Cat's Grace, Fox's Cunning, Owl's Wisdom, Magic Fang. She stared, amazed, as Karak's attempts to get the alchemist's attention by banging on the counter set all the little jars and beakers tinkling. She ran her finger along the edge of one shelf which contained dozens of Resist Disease vials, thinking how paradoxical it was that such remedies existed to be purchased when whole towns were suffering from the blight of Ahpyx. It was an impressive collection of magical potential.



After nearly an hour, they left the store under the cover of full darkness, each clutching their respective purchases wrapped in oilcloth.

"See, lass," Karak grunted at Shamalin. "That weren't so bad, now was it?" The air was chill enough to turn each word into a puff of steam. The priestess smiled and shook her head.

"It was actually quite... magical," she admitted as they headed off toward their quarters.



Ixin stood along the bluffside wall, leaning against one of the smooth wooden columns supporting the roof and smiling into the wind blowing off Crater Bay. It cooled the heat beneath her skin and drove away the scents of the city. Wood smoke from too many cooking fires competed with the stench of too many unwashed humans jammed into too tight a space in the streets below. But here, in the aptly named Rooftop Inn on the extreme edge of the Old City, the Western Ocean reigned supreme. With her eyes closed the hiss of wind and the roar of surf 500 feet below competed with the cries of gulls hovering above the fishing boats moored at Sordadon out on the bay. Standing thus, she could with little effort imagine herself back on one of the beaches on Blood Tide, far removed from Highgate and all her responsibilities to-

She paused, her eyes opening slowly as confusion began to tug at her features. She couldn't remember the name of the wyrm who held her here, running the Dragon's Claw from the shadows. That seemed foolish; she'd been forced to stand in front of him practically every day while he and his half-blood sons, Drakes-

Again she paused, but this time her brow knitted not in confusion so much as fear. The names of the three half-dragons weren't there. That part of her memory was blank as if someone had burned it away. She could picture the brothers and their lascivious expressions, smell the musk of oiled scales that choked their subterranean lair, but the names? They were just... gone.

She turned to stare at the empty tables of the tavern, panic bubbling up from her stomach. There were food-covered plates set at them, but it was untouched as if the servers had set the bounty in preparation for a feast that had yet to begin. She threaded her way amongst the tables, moving to the opposite rail and looking down the street toward the center of the district.

It was deserted. Or rather it was deserted of living things. Wagons and barrels and street-side food stands all choked the narrow lane as usual, but there were no drovers or teamsters or grocers to be seen. Everything stood ready for use, existing in a prolonged moment of expectation that clutched Ixin's heart like a glacier.

She stepped back, slamming into a table and upsetting its contents onto the slate floor. Earthenware plates shattered and dvergar ale frothed through the air. The sound of the table hitting the floor was shockingly loud in the empty tavern and the drakeling staggered as she fought to retain her feet, slamming into the seaward rail with almost enough force to send herself somersaulting over the side. Gulping desperately at the air, she clutched a wooden column and looked down at Sordadon. It too seemed lifeless. Ships were moored at the wharves that girded its circumference, but they looked deserted. Crates and barrels sat where they'd been left by whatever hands had touched them last.

And she realized that, while she could quite clearly hear the call of seabirds, her keen eyes could see none.

Turning back, her heart thudding hotly in her breast, she gasped. The Obsidian Tower, half the length of the valley away, stood out darkly against the mountains behind, sunlight catching gold on the minaret and it seemed to occupy all her vision. The accursed tower, near which none of sorcerous blood could stand without being struck down, grew closer and larger, pulling her into its glittering blackness as it came. She pushed back at its approach drawing away from the Tower and the nameless, mind-rending dread that filled her guts with ice water.

She pushed back and over the rail, spinning for a moment in horror before she felt Rhontra's Pull and went plunging down, screaming into fire...

 

[Burningspear]

Nice update yet again, cool, me thinks she is having nightmares...hmmz... o well will see..

the future from the U.K. has touched down again

 

[Jon Potter]

Nice update yet again, cool, me thinks she is having nightmares...hmmz... o well will see..

You're right. That was kind of a misleading place to break, but the rest seemed a little too slim to stand alone...

Let me just go ahead and post the rest.