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<blockquote data-quote="Jon Potter" data-source="post: 902295" data-attributes="member: 2323"><p><strong>Ixin Makes a Break</strong></p><p></p><p><strong>DM's Note:</strong> This bit is presented out of order and has no real bearing on the current events of the game. It's just some flavor text I wrote about Ixin's departure from Highgate and her life with The Dragon's Claw.</p><p></p><p>---------------------------</p><p></p><p>Alimday, the 23rd of Amarolus of the Year of the 16th House</p><p></p><p>This section of Undercity was well maintained. It wasn't particularly close to the Mining District or the tunnels normally used for the transport of goods up from Sordadon, so Ixin could see little incentive for The Five to keep it so well. It still stank of stale grease and sweating bodies, of course, but it was lit by everburning torches and relatively free of the human dross that skulked elsewhere in these cliffside catacombs. She knew she had little to fear from such living flotsam, though; no one in his right mind would dare attack her for fear of angering Skrazargul. That she was under his organization's protection was well known throughout Highgate and there were very few in the city that would be willing to draw The Claw's attention, much less raise its ire.</p><p></p><p>Ixin hoped that Dwardolin the Hibernian wouldn't realize the risk that helping her presented.</p><p></p><p>Dwardolin was a dracomancer of no small skill, an Outcast Specialist combining the instinctive casting of sorcery with the learned approach of dedicated wizardry. He hailed from a city to which Ixin had never been called Tiambdamyr in Hibernia far to the north. She had heard tales that it was a pirate city much like Freeport... only worse, so it was little wonder that Dwardolin had chosen to leave the place behind. He had told her once that in such a port someone of his skills and appearance could only escape being impressed into the most foul of criminal practices for so long. The irony of the mage's current position as thrall to Ur-Skrazargul wasn't lost on Ixin.</p><p></p><p>Like many of the Atlantean-descended Albions, Dwardolin had the blood of dragons flowing in his veins. His connection to his draconic ancestry was quite obviously distant - his powerful blood thinned by many generations - but the color of the fine scales on the backs of his hands indicated that he and Ixin shared the lineage of red dragons. That much had been plain to her on the occasions that the two had met. Whenever he came to perform some service or other for Skrazargul the Green, Ixin and the mage made a point of talking briefly. He had always treated her with an extra measure of affection because of their draconic bond, but it wasn't his dragon blood that seemed to most influence him. Reputedly the blood of faeries ran through him as well and he was clearly altered in ways that being dragon-blooded could not cause. Twinkling lights, the color of which could be used to predict his mood if you knew what to look for, often surrounded him and his red hair fluttered as if blown by a wind that only it could feel. Why a man related to the nature spirits kept his shop here in these noisome tunnels, she couldn't fathom, but she was glad he did.</p><p></p><p>This area of Undercity was of little strategic value to smuggling or the drug trade and so was not often frequented by any of the Claw's many Hands. The Hibernian was Skrazargul's servant, and as such usually warranted a low-level guard or two at his home. Today, however, Ixin knew most of those low-ranking gang members were off putting down a group of upstart rivals calling themselves the Golden Sabres who were trying to get a foothold down in Sordadon.</p><p></p><p>She found the unguarded door to Dwardolin's shop exactly where she'd been told it would be, carved into the side of a twisting tunnel between a merchant's warehouse and a tavern called the 'Hole in the Wall' that was covered with row after row of carved dvergar runes. One of those bearded folk regarded her from the doorway of the inn with suspicion as she approached and then quickly disappeared within as soon as she used the ornate knocker on Dwardolin's door. When there was still no answer after the third knock, she tried the knob and was surprised to discover the door unlocked. Without hesitation, she thumbed the latch and stepped inside, eager to be away from the smell of 'rat-on-a-stick' wafting up the tunnel from some distant restaurant.</p><p></p><p>She didn't have a true grasp of the fact that it would be the last time she would walk the tunnels beneath Highgate.</p><p></p><p>Dwardolin's shop was long and exceedingly narrow. Thick, smoke-blackened timbers crossed the ceiling at regular intervals, each one hanging with drying herbs, metal tools and bits of fragile glasswork. There were three massive worktables overflowing with scrolls, ledgers, and rack upon rack of vials and flasks. The air was hazy with aromatic, yellow smoke that billowed up from an enormous and ornate water pipe towering beyond the farthest workbench. One sniff told her that is was serpent weed smoke cut with the bitter and slightly metallic odor of something more potent. </p><p></p><p><strong><em>"HOLD!"</em></strong> Dwardolin's scratchy voice cried out from the back of the room. Ixin could tell by the way the air around her momentarily charged with raw manna that the mage was speaking in High Draconic, the language of magic itself. Hanging at her hip, Arivexoth automatically translated the word into her native language, but Dwardolin's intent was obvious. As was the fact that his weed-numbed tongue had mispronounced the power word. Ixin heard the old man cry out in pain as the strain of channeling the raw magic rebounded on him without the buffer of properly pronounced High Draconic. </p><p></p><p>Scowling, Ixin picked her way through the crowded shop. She found Dwardolin sprawled on a couch amidst a drift of colorful silken pillows. He was a gaunt shell of his former self.</p><p></p><p>When they had first met, ten years prior, the Hibernian had been a robust mage in the prime of life, fired with the knowledge of his draconic blood and eager to unlock the secrets of ascendancy hidden within it. He had unraveled some of the intricacies of High Draconic, divined the pronunciation of a handful of power words, and was well on his way to becoming a true dragonchild. Then he met Skrazargul, became addicted to The Dragon's abyss dust and was made his thrall. In the last decade, the dracomancer's mind and body had been broken many times over and he was now wholly Skrazargul's. Ixin shuddered, full of the knowledge that The Dragon would do the same to her if not for the strength of her own blood relatives and their prominent positions on The Council of Wyrms.</p><p></p><p>"Oh, it's you," the Hibernian managed to wheeze between ragged coughs. Where he had once breathed gouts of fire now came only bloody spittle. Motes of brownish-green drifted in the air around him like flecks of ash. "I wasn't told that The Dragon had need of me today."</p><p></p><p>"I'm not here on Ur-Skrazargul's business," Ixin told him. With one clawed hand, she idly picked through a pile of scribed scrolls on the nearest worktable. "I've come seeking transport out of Highgate."</p><p></p><p>"Without alerting The Five, eh?" Dwardolin jumped to the obvious - but incorrect - conclusion, just as Ixin had hoped he would. He chuckled, his laughter rattling around in his clotted chest and the motes that drifted in the air around him moved from dull green to deepest mauve. He lovingly fingered his waterpipe's silver and bone mouthpiece and bemusedly added, "I can teleport you to Byzantium if you wish. I've a place or two there that I can remember passingly well."</p><p></p><p>She knew full well that such a trip was within his power. He had specialized in Transmutation to such a degree that even his sorcery followed that path of magic. It was a most unnatural occurrence and one that had earned him his Outcast status. But still, the farther he teleported her and the lower his familiarity with the target area, the greater the chance for a mishap and his once-powerful mind had become clouded by weed. "I don't think I'll want to go that distance. But I do need to go somewhere that I can't be tracked down," Ixin explained. "I've got to disappear rather completely."</p><p></p><p>Dwardolin paused for a moment, his face gone slack as his gaze turned inward, searching his memory. The purple motes darkened to black and then brightened to a blue the color of a winter sky. "I know of a Fey Crossroads in Lyonesse that leads to the city of Shadow in Between," the dracomancer offered as he took a pull on his pipe. It bubbled and churned like a witch's cauldron. "Once you have gone there, you can cross into the Twilight Lands or use another path to elsewhere. Exceedingly difficult for The Five to track you then."</p><p></p><p>Ixin considered. She didn't relish a trip to FaerieLand. The Sidhe were notoriously difficult to deal with - even those of the Seelie Court - and were often happier with the chance to trick and humiliate a traveler rather than aid them. Fey Crossroads were always guarded and trapped in such a way that journeying via them was often more troublesome than using other means. Any other means.</p><p></p><p>"I can teleport you to the Faerie Stage in Synenzia Woods halfway between Kirkwood and the Barony of Threehills," the Hibernian went on, his words and the motes of magic in the air around him charged with his excitement as the plan took shape. His magic was dizzyingly powerful for a mortal and it hurtled along steadily even under the influence of snake weed and whatever else he had laced his smoke with. "It's a flat rock beside a small lake of great beauty. There you'll most likely meet a nixie I was once friendly with named Kyrielee or a thorn faerie by the name of-"</p><p></p><p>Dwardolin faltered. His eyes took on a slightly panicked look and his mouth opened and closed like a fish's. The colorful motes that swirled around him dimmed and winked out. He looked confused as he turned his face to look at Ixin. "I... I can't seem to remember the thorn faerie's name," he stammered. "I can remember her face as plain as day, but her name..."</p><p></p><p>Ixin felt sorry for him. He had fallen from a great height to end up where he was. "Is her name important?" she asked in an off-handed way, as if the dracomancer's memory loss was nothing but a trifle. "You did say I'd most likely meet the nixie."</p><p></p><p>"Kyrielee," the Hibernian said to reaffirm that he did remember the nixie's name at least. He nodded and bit down reassuringly on the waterpipe's mouthpiece. "Yes, that's true. And you'll need to bring her a gift or she'll never show you how to navigate the fey path that leads to the mountains of Lyonesse and the portal to Shadow." He exhaled a plume of yellow smoke and before it had mingled fully with the fog that blanketed the room his momentary mental stumble was forgotten. He bade her take a double armload of minor scrolls and potions that he had crafted over the years. Some she would use to bribe Kyrielee and the rest Dwardolin insisted she would need to defend herself. They vanished into the various spaces within her Cloak of Many Pockets.</p><p></p><p>The Wand of Wonder she had taken from Irthos' personal horde was hidden there as well.</p><p></p><p>"That should do," the dracomancer grinned from his couch. He laid aside his mouthpiece and hauled himself more or less upright, clutching his blue wrap around his gaunt frame as he did so. "I'll miss our little chats about the Dragon Isles," he told Ixin. "And I'll look forward to your return when The Five have lost interest in your capture."</p><p></p><p>And before she could say anything, he began to cast. "Wait, Dwardolin!" Ixin protested even as he completed the intricate somatics involved in casting a teleportation spell. "I'm not ready to-"</p><p></p><p>And those words were the last that Ixin, daughter of Ventisjir the Red, granddaughter of Lady Dominor Corastrixarosvith of Clan Vermillion spoke in the city of Highgate.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Jon Potter, post: 902295, member: 2323"] [b]Ixin Makes a Break[/b] [b]DM's Note:[/b] This bit is presented out of order and has no real bearing on the current events of the game. It's just some flavor text I wrote about Ixin's departure from Highgate and her life with The Dragon's Claw. --------------------------- Alimday, the 23rd of Amarolus of the Year of the 16th House This section of Undercity was well maintained. It wasn't particularly close to the Mining District or the tunnels normally used for the transport of goods up from Sordadon, so Ixin could see little incentive for The Five to keep it so well. It still stank of stale grease and sweating bodies, of course, but it was lit by everburning torches and relatively free of the human dross that skulked elsewhere in these cliffside catacombs. She knew she had little to fear from such living flotsam, though; no one in his right mind would dare attack her for fear of angering Skrazargul. That she was under his organization's protection was well known throughout Highgate and there were very few in the city that would be willing to draw The Claw's attention, much less raise its ire. Ixin hoped that Dwardolin the Hibernian wouldn't realize the risk that helping her presented. Dwardolin was a dracomancer of no small skill, an Outcast Specialist combining the instinctive casting of sorcery with the learned approach of dedicated wizardry. He hailed from a city to which Ixin had never been called Tiambdamyr in Hibernia far to the north. She had heard tales that it was a pirate city much like Freeport... only worse, so it was little wonder that Dwardolin had chosen to leave the place behind. He had told her once that in such a port someone of his skills and appearance could only escape being impressed into the most foul of criminal practices for so long. The irony of the mage's current position as thrall to Ur-Skrazargul wasn't lost on Ixin. Like many of the Atlantean-descended Albions, Dwardolin had the blood of dragons flowing in his veins. His connection to his draconic ancestry was quite obviously distant - his powerful blood thinned by many generations - but the color of the fine scales on the backs of his hands indicated that he and Ixin shared the lineage of red dragons. That much had been plain to her on the occasions that the two had met. Whenever he came to perform some service or other for Skrazargul the Green, Ixin and the mage made a point of talking briefly. He had always treated her with an extra measure of affection because of their draconic bond, but it wasn't his dragon blood that seemed to most influence him. Reputedly the blood of faeries ran through him as well and he was clearly altered in ways that being dragon-blooded could not cause. Twinkling lights, the color of which could be used to predict his mood if you knew what to look for, often surrounded him and his red hair fluttered as if blown by a wind that only it could feel. Why a man related to the nature spirits kept his shop here in these noisome tunnels, she couldn't fathom, but she was glad he did. This area of Undercity was of little strategic value to smuggling or the drug trade and so was not often frequented by any of the Claw's many Hands. The Hibernian was Skrazargul's servant, and as such usually warranted a low-level guard or two at his home. Today, however, Ixin knew most of those low-ranking gang members were off putting down a group of upstart rivals calling themselves the Golden Sabres who were trying to get a foothold down in Sordadon. She found the unguarded door to Dwardolin's shop exactly where she'd been told it would be, carved into the side of a twisting tunnel between a merchant's warehouse and a tavern called the 'Hole in the Wall' that was covered with row after row of carved dvergar runes. One of those bearded folk regarded her from the doorway of the inn with suspicion as she approached and then quickly disappeared within as soon as she used the ornate knocker on Dwardolin's door. When there was still no answer after the third knock, she tried the knob and was surprised to discover the door unlocked. Without hesitation, she thumbed the latch and stepped inside, eager to be away from the smell of 'rat-on-a-stick' wafting up the tunnel from some distant restaurant. She didn't have a true grasp of the fact that it would be the last time she would walk the tunnels beneath Highgate. Dwardolin's shop was long and exceedingly narrow. Thick, smoke-blackened timbers crossed the ceiling at regular intervals, each one hanging with drying herbs, metal tools and bits of fragile glasswork. There were three massive worktables overflowing with scrolls, ledgers, and rack upon rack of vials and flasks. The air was hazy with aromatic, yellow smoke that billowed up from an enormous and ornate water pipe towering beyond the farthest workbench. One sniff told her that is was serpent weed smoke cut with the bitter and slightly metallic odor of something more potent. [b][i]"HOLD!"[/i][/b][i][/i] Dwardolin's scratchy voice cried out from the back of the room. Ixin could tell by the way the air around her momentarily charged with raw manna that the mage was speaking in High Draconic, the language of magic itself. Hanging at her hip, Arivexoth automatically translated the word into her native language, but Dwardolin's intent was obvious. As was the fact that his weed-numbed tongue had mispronounced the power word. Ixin heard the old man cry out in pain as the strain of channeling the raw magic rebounded on him without the buffer of properly pronounced High Draconic. Scowling, Ixin picked her way through the crowded shop. She found Dwardolin sprawled on a couch amidst a drift of colorful silken pillows. He was a gaunt shell of his former self. When they had first met, ten years prior, the Hibernian had been a robust mage in the prime of life, fired with the knowledge of his draconic blood and eager to unlock the secrets of ascendancy hidden within it. He had unraveled some of the intricacies of High Draconic, divined the pronunciation of a handful of power words, and was well on his way to becoming a true dragonchild. Then he met Skrazargul, became addicted to The Dragon's abyss dust and was made his thrall. In the last decade, the dracomancer's mind and body had been broken many times over and he was now wholly Skrazargul's. Ixin shuddered, full of the knowledge that The Dragon would do the same to her if not for the strength of her own blood relatives and their prominent positions on The Council of Wyrms. "Oh, it's you," the Hibernian managed to wheeze between ragged coughs. Where he had once breathed gouts of fire now came only bloody spittle. Motes of brownish-green drifted in the air around him like flecks of ash. "I wasn't told that The Dragon had need of me today." "I'm not here on Ur-Skrazargul's business," Ixin told him. With one clawed hand, she idly picked through a pile of scribed scrolls on the nearest worktable. "I've come seeking transport out of Highgate." "Without alerting The Five, eh?" Dwardolin jumped to the obvious - but incorrect - conclusion, just as Ixin had hoped he would. He chuckled, his laughter rattling around in his clotted chest and the motes that drifted in the air around him moved from dull green to deepest mauve. He lovingly fingered his waterpipe's silver and bone mouthpiece and bemusedly added, "I can teleport you to Byzantium if you wish. I've a place or two there that I can remember passingly well." She knew full well that such a trip was within his power. He had specialized in Transmutation to such a degree that even his sorcery followed that path of magic. It was a most unnatural occurrence and one that had earned him his Outcast status. But still, the farther he teleported her and the lower his familiarity with the target area, the greater the chance for a mishap and his once-powerful mind had become clouded by weed. "I don't think I'll want to go that distance. But I do need to go somewhere that I can't be tracked down," Ixin explained. "I've got to disappear rather completely." Dwardolin paused for a moment, his face gone slack as his gaze turned inward, searching his memory. The purple motes darkened to black and then brightened to a blue the color of a winter sky. "I know of a Fey Crossroads in Lyonesse that leads to the city of Shadow in Between," the dracomancer offered as he took a pull on his pipe. It bubbled and churned like a witch's cauldron. "Once you have gone there, you can cross into the Twilight Lands or use another path to elsewhere. Exceedingly difficult for The Five to track you then." Ixin considered. She didn't relish a trip to FaerieLand. The Sidhe were notoriously difficult to deal with - even those of the Seelie Court - and were often happier with the chance to trick and humiliate a traveler rather than aid them. Fey Crossroads were always guarded and trapped in such a way that journeying via them was often more troublesome than using other means. Any other means. "I can teleport you to the Faerie Stage in Synenzia Woods halfway between Kirkwood and the Barony of Threehills," the Hibernian went on, his words and the motes of magic in the air around him charged with his excitement as the plan took shape. His magic was dizzyingly powerful for a mortal and it hurtled along steadily even under the influence of snake weed and whatever else he had laced his smoke with. "It's a flat rock beside a small lake of great beauty. There you'll most likely meet a nixie I was once friendly with named Kyrielee or a thorn faerie by the name of-" Dwardolin faltered. His eyes took on a slightly panicked look and his mouth opened and closed like a fish's. The colorful motes that swirled around him dimmed and winked out. He looked confused as he turned his face to look at Ixin. "I... I can't seem to remember the thorn faerie's name," he stammered. "I can remember her face as plain as day, but her name..." Ixin felt sorry for him. He had fallen from a great height to end up where he was. "Is her name important?" she asked in an off-handed way, as if the dracomancer's memory loss was nothing but a trifle. "You did say I'd most likely meet the nixie." "Kyrielee," the Hibernian said to reaffirm that he did remember the nixie's name at least. He nodded and bit down reassuringly on the waterpipe's mouthpiece. "Yes, that's true. And you'll need to bring her a gift or she'll never show you how to navigate the fey path that leads to the mountains of Lyonesse and the portal to Shadow." He exhaled a plume of yellow smoke and before it had mingled fully with the fog that blanketed the room his momentary mental stumble was forgotten. He bade her take a double armload of minor scrolls and potions that he had crafted over the years. Some she would use to bribe Kyrielee and the rest Dwardolin insisted she would need to defend herself. They vanished into the various spaces within her Cloak of Many Pockets. The Wand of Wonder she had taken from Irthos' personal horde was hidden there as well. "That should do," the dracomancer grinned from his couch. He laid aside his mouthpiece and hauled himself more or less upright, clutching his blue wrap around his gaunt frame as he did so. "I'll miss our little chats about the Dragon Isles," he told Ixin. "And I'll look forward to your return when The Five have lost interest in your capture." And before she could say anything, he began to cast. "Wait, Dwardolin!" Ixin protested even as he completed the intricate somatics involved in casting a teleportation spell. "I'm not ready to-" And those words were the last that Ixin, daughter of Ventisjir the Red, granddaughter of Lady Dominor Corastrixarosvith of Clan Vermillion spoke in the city of Highgate. [/QUOTE]
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