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Explorer
61—Into the heart of unquiet.
Taran returns to the group and sits brooding until Thelbar and Kyreel have finished their morning preparations. He then relates the events of the night before. Kyreel enters into a communion with Palatin Eremath.
“Mother, pull the future from our eyes and instruct us. Is Irae T’ssarion in the castle?”
No.
“Can Irae T’ssarion’s current location be reached through the castle?”
Yes.
“Is Sharlequanan with her?”
Sharlequanan awaits you.
“Are we in any danger from Sharlequanan?”
That is unclear.
“Does Irae T’ssarion have powerful servants that Taran did not see?”
Yes.
“Are these powerful servants undead?”
Yes.
“Is Irae T’ssarion on this plane?”
No.
“Is Irae T’ssarion on a border plane?”
Yes.
“Is this border plane a demi-plane?”
No.
“Is this border plane the etheric?”
Yes.
“Other than wraiths and ghosts, does Irae have allies that exist in the etheric plane?”
Yes.
“Does Irae T’ssarion have a permanent gate to the etheric plane within her stronghold.”
Yes.
Kyreel ends her commune and relates the answers she received.
“Okay,” Taran says, “If she is in the ethereal plane, we can get to her via teleport assuming you can make us etheric, Ky.”
“I can, but not for long. Ten minutes, maybe more.”
“If any of us’re still fighting in ten minutes, we’ll be glad to come back to the prime.” Taran looks at Thelbar and Kyreel. “Are you ready? Today is a good day to die.”
-----
Kyreel invokes Palatin Eremath, and the goddess shepherds the heroes instantly and safely into the ethereal plane. The atmosphere is colorless and gray, and they can see a wispy, insubstantial representation of the physical world all around them, although they cannot interact with it.
Thelbar prepares the group with protection from spells—a new abjuration that he assures them will ward them from dire spell effects. “We will need this if we are to tame this beast in its lair,” he says. “Make yourselves ready, and I will scry our target.”
After an hour has passed, Thelbar looks up from his scrying pool, and places a hand on each of his companions shoulders, looking squarely into their eyes. He smiles to himself, liking the focus and dedication he sees, and after favoring his closest friends with a warm smile, he teleports them to Irae T’ssarion’s most sacrosanct haven. Taran and Kyreel have no warning of what they are to face, and spend a few crucial seconds readying spells and trying to orient themselves in their new environment.
They find themselves inside a large circular chamber, entirely real and solid in the etheric plane, the walls of which are lined with the rotting corpses of several male drow, animated and consigned to an ignominious eternity serving the White Death as hideous candelabra. The light from the candles clutched in their rotting hands illuminates a massive giant’s skull set into an alcove, blackened by fire, and covered with suspicious stains. Upon the skull rests a cradle woven from an unidentifiable fibrous matter, and decorated with disagreeable twining symbols.
Directly behind the skull and cradle, and flanked by the zombies is a mural depicting Kiransalee herself. The vile drow goddess of undeath is depicted as a six-armed beautiful vampiric drow woman. Her image extends down to the floor, and well into the room itself. The illusion is convincing enough that for a moment Taran thinks that the mural is somehow actually reaching for the cradle.
In the center of this scene is a ghastly pale elven woman, of drowish feature, but entirely bleached of color. She is naked from the waist up, her lower half covered only by a wispy translucent fabric that dances about her as if it is blowing in some unfelt breeze. Standing protectively in front of her are a pair of drow males, dressed in elven armor and clutching cruel-looking polearms. Their glassy skin and un-blinking eyes betraying their undead state as well. They appear to be ready and expecting trouble.
“What is this?” the drow woman asks casually, a bemused and distant tone to her voice. She sneers at Kyreel, and hisses the drow word for “race traitor”.
Kyreel responds by chanting the most holy of Ishlokain invocations, the Truth of Making. “No Light, no Darkness, no Dawn, no Dusk,” she begins.
Irae T’ssarion reels back from the prayer, and screams, “Lolth protects you not!” as she raises her hands in a symbolic plea to Kiransalee. “I crush them with your will, my goddess,” she murmurs, with a sensual purr. Thelbar feels a sudden tremendous pressure compressing his body from every direction, bearing down into the center of him. He gasps, and says a silent prayer of his own in thanks for his protection from spells as the pressure lessens, then dissipates.
Just as Irae T’sarrion relinquishes her implosion spell, Thelbar feels a new sense of unease that rapidly peaks into a buzzing pain, and just as rapidly fades. No caster is immediately obvious; Irae T’ssarion’s bodyguards are leveling their weapons, and the zombies give no notice that they are even aware of the presence of the characters.
“From the Beyond, came One. From this One sprouted the Many. And this Many brought us Creation.”
Thelbar responds to this spell assault with an barrage of his own: He fills the room with a sunburst, obliterating the zombies, and searing away chunks of flesh from the three drow in the center of the room. He follows this with a prismatic spray, its multi-colored bands leaping and twining across the chamber. Streams of acid and electricity strike one of the drow bodyguards, and rip it to shreds. Irae T’ssarion is burned, and while her wispy garments catch fire and flash away, she seems to avoid the worst.
Irae T’sarrion backs away from the trio of adventurers, and heals herself. As she does so, her revenant ally raises its weapon and calls down an ice storm onto the heads of its opponents, then touches Irae T’ssarion, hasting her.
Taran determines to level the killing field, and uses his wand of haste to place the spell upon himself and Kyreel as well, so that all the combatants move and attack with a preternatural speed. Kyreel, still chanting to herself, closes the distance to Irae T’ssarion, and cleaves into the ghost with her holy flaming sword. “. . . Our goddess brought the Many to the Beyond, and closed the circle of Making.”
A lone vrock is summoned by an unseen opponent directly behind Kyreel—it leaps upon her back, tearing at her shoulders with its claws, and blinding her with its filthy wings.
Thelbar, glaring at Irae T’ssarion with his arcane sight yells, “She is mortal!” Satisfied, he invokes a feeblemind, but the spell cannot penetrate her drowish spell resistance. Discouraged, he disintegrates the vrock assaulting Kyreel, turning it to a wisp of dust in an instant.
Taran leaps into the fray, and after booting the revenant out of his way, cuts into Irae T’sarrion once, then twice, opening wicked-looking wounds along her arms and chest.
The ghost-woman only laughs at this development. “Kiransalee will not be foiled by the likes of you!” she sneers.
Taran regards her with a cold stare then glances down at his two swords. “Your daughter was,” he says, raising his eyebrows and stepping forward.
Kyreel moves to a position where she can look into the cradle; whatever she sees there holds her for a moment, and she bows her head, despite the presence of two armed enemies at her back. They lash out at her, taking advantage of their attacks of opportunity to score wounds along her shoulder. Kyreel gasps, although whether it is from the wounds, or something she sees in the cradle, none can tell.
Once again, Irae T’ssarion is forced to step back and heal herself, but this time she follows the spell with a fire storm that sweeps the room with a sheet of intense flame, singing her foes despite their protections. Immediately afterwards, a familiar thin crackling sound is heard, and the sickening sensation of a horrid wilting pervades the room.
“The witch did not cast that spell!” Thelbar yells.
“The baby!” Taran says. “They horrid wiltinged the baby! You bitch!” He stumbles forward then, severely dehydrated and wounded badly from the rain of spells.
At that moment, two suits of full plate armor, animated without any apparent occupants, rise through an opening in the floor at one end of the circular chamber. Sartre wheels past them, and dives toward Taran, curing him with an imbued spell. As the owl lends aid, Taran feels a tug at his mind—a mental compulsion that he manages to throw off.
Thelbar rises up to his full height, and levels his finger at Irae T’ssarion, speaking a power word stun. The ghost-drow staggers back and a sigh escapes her lips as her eyes glaze over. Taran seizes this opportunity, and strikes with a snake-like quickness, burying Black Lisa into her skull, splitting her head in two through to the lower jaw. He releases Black Lisa, and as Irae T’ssarion begins to fall backwards, he whirls around, pulls a wand from his belt, fireballs the armored specters, drops the wand and completes his circle by grasping his sword hilt again. With a whip-like contraction of his heavily muscled arm, he frees his sword, shattering Irae T’ssarion’s skull into red, gelatinous pieces.
“Bitch.”
Kyreel lays her hands on Taran and uses her own curing magics to complete the task Sartre began. As she does so, Thelbar rips a chain lighting into the spectral knights, destroying them, and disintegrates the skull, causing the crib to fall roughly to the ground. “Demi-lich,” he says by way of explanation.
Taran returns to the group and sits brooding until Thelbar and Kyreel have finished their morning preparations. He then relates the events of the night before. Kyreel enters into a communion with Palatin Eremath.
“Mother, pull the future from our eyes and instruct us. Is Irae T’ssarion in the castle?”
No.
“Can Irae T’ssarion’s current location be reached through the castle?”
Yes.
“Is Sharlequanan with her?”
Sharlequanan awaits you.
“Are we in any danger from Sharlequanan?”
That is unclear.
“Does Irae T’ssarion have powerful servants that Taran did not see?”
Yes.
“Are these powerful servants undead?”
Yes.
“Is Irae T’ssarion on this plane?”
No.
“Is Irae T’ssarion on a border plane?”
Yes.
“Is this border plane a demi-plane?”
No.
“Is this border plane the etheric?”
Yes.
“Other than wraiths and ghosts, does Irae have allies that exist in the etheric plane?”
Yes.
“Does Irae T’ssarion have a permanent gate to the etheric plane within her stronghold.”
Yes.
Kyreel ends her commune and relates the answers she received.
“Okay,” Taran says, “If she is in the ethereal plane, we can get to her via teleport assuming you can make us etheric, Ky.”
“I can, but not for long. Ten minutes, maybe more.”
“If any of us’re still fighting in ten minutes, we’ll be glad to come back to the prime.” Taran looks at Thelbar and Kyreel. “Are you ready? Today is a good day to die.”
-----
Kyreel invokes Palatin Eremath, and the goddess shepherds the heroes instantly and safely into the ethereal plane. The atmosphere is colorless and gray, and they can see a wispy, insubstantial representation of the physical world all around them, although they cannot interact with it.
Thelbar prepares the group with protection from spells—a new abjuration that he assures them will ward them from dire spell effects. “We will need this if we are to tame this beast in its lair,” he says. “Make yourselves ready, and I will scry our target.”
After an hour has passed, Thelbar looks up from his scrying pool, and places a hand on each of his companions shoulders, looking squarely into their eyes. He smiles to himself, liking the focus and dedication he sees, and after favoring his closest friends with a warm smile, he teleports them to Irae T’ssarion’s most sacrosanct haven. Taran and Kyreel have no warning of what they are to face, and spend a few crucial seconds readying spells and trying to orient themselves in their new environment.
They find themselves inside a large circular chamber, entirely real and solid in the etheric plane, the walls of which are lined with the rotting corpses of several male drow, animated and consigned to an ignominious eternity serving the White Death as hideous candelabra. The light from the candles clutched in their rotting hands illuminates a massive giant’s skull set into an alcove, blackened by fire, and covered with suspicious stains. Upon the skull rests a cradle woven from an unidentifiable fibrous matter, and decorated with disagreeable twining symbols.
Directly behind the skull and cradle, and flanked by the zombies is a mural depicting Kiransalee herself. The vile drow goddess of undeath is depicted as a six-armed beautiful vampiric drow woman. Her image extends down to the floor, and well into the room itself. The illusion is convincing enough that for a moment Taran thinks that the mural is somehow actually reaching for the cradle.
In the center of this scene is a ghastly pale elven woman, of drowish feature, but entirely bleached of color. She is naked from the waist up, her lower half covered only by a wispy translucent fabric that dances about her as if it is blowing in some unfelt breeze. Standing protectively in front of her are a pair of drow males, dressed in elven armor and clutching cruel-looking polearms. Their glassy skin and un-blinking eyes betraying their undead state as well. They appear to be ready and expecting trouble.
“What is this?” the drow woman asks casually, a bemused and distant tone to her voice. She sneers at Kyreel, and hisses the drow word for “race traitor”.
Kyreel responds by chanting the most holy of Ishlokain invocations, the Truth of Making. “No Light, no Darkness, no Dawn, no Dusk,” she begins.
Irae T’ssarion reels back from the prayer, and screams, “Lolth protects you not!” as she raises her hands in a symbolic plea to Kiransalee. “I crush them with your will, my goddess,” she murmurs, with a sensual purr. Thelbar feels a sudden tremendous pressure compressing his body from every direction, bearing down into the center of him. He gasps, and says a silent prayer of his own in thanks for his protection from spells as the pressure lessens, then dissipates.
Just as Irae T’sarrion relinquishes her implosion spell, Thelbar feels a new sense of unease that rapidly peaks into a buzzing pain, and just as rapidly fades. No caster is immediately obvious; Irae T’ssarion’s bodyguards are leveling their weapons, and the zombies give no notice that they are even aware of the presence of the characters.
“From the Beyond, came One. From this One sprouted the Many. And this Many brought us Creation.”
Thelbar responds to this spell assault with an barrage of his own: He fills the room with a sunburst, obliterating the zombies, and searing away chunks of flesh from the three drow in the center of the room. He follows this with a prismatic spray, its multi-colored bands leaping and twining across the chamber. Streams of acid and electricity strike one of the drow bodyguards, and rip it to shreds. Irae T’ssarion is burned, and while her wispy garments catch fire and flash away, she seems to avoid the worst.
Irae T’sarrion backs away from the trio of adventurers, and heals herself. As she does so, her revenant ally raises its weapon and calls down an ice storm onto the heads of its opponents, then touches Irae T’ssarion, hasting her.
Taran determines to level the killing field, and uses his wand of haste to place the spell upon himself and Kyreel as well, so that all the combatants move and attack with a preternatural speed. Kyreel, still chanting to herself, closes the distance to Irae T’ssarion, and cleaves into the ghost with her holy flaming sword. “. . . Our goddess brought the Many to the Beyond, and closed the circle of Making.”
A lone vrock is summoned by an unseen opponent directly behind Kyreel—it leaps upon her back, tearing at her shoulders with its claws, and blinding her with its filthy wings.
Thelbar, glaring at Irae T’ssarion with his arcane sight yells, “She is mortal!” Satisfied, he invokes a feeblemind, but the spell cannot penetrate her drowish spell resistance. Discouraged, he disintegrates the vrock assaulting Kyreel, turning it to a wisp of dust in an instant.
Taran leaps into the fray, and after booting the revenant out of his way, cuts into Irae T’sarrion once, then twice, opening wicked-looking wounds along her arms and chest.
The ghost-woman only laughs at this development. “Kiransalee will not be foiled by the likes of you!” she sneers.
Taran regards her with a cold stare then glances down at his two swords. “Your daughter was,” he says, raising his eyebrows and stepping forward.
Kyreel moves to a position where she can look into the cradle; whatever she sees there holds her for a moment, and she bows her head, despite the presence of two armed enemies at her back. They lash out at her, taking advantage of their attacks of opportunity to score wounds along her shoulder. Kyreel gasps, although whether it is from the wounds, or something she sees in the cradle, none can tell.
Once again, Irae T’ssarion is forced to step back and heal herself, but this time she follows the spell with a fire storm that sweeps the room with a sheet of intense flame, singing her foes despite their protections. Immediately afterwards, a familiar thin crackling sound is heard, and the sickening sensation of a horrid wilting pervades the room.
“The witch did not cast that spell!” Thelbar yells.
“The baby!” Taran says. “They horrid wiltinged the baby! You bitch!” He stumbles forward then, severely dehydrated and wounded badly from the rain of spells.
At that moment, two suits of full plate armor, animated without any apparent occupants, rise through an opening in the floor at one end of the circular chamber. Sartre wheels past them, and dives toward Taran, curing him with an imbued spell. As the owl lends aid, Taran feels a tug at his mind—a mental compulsion that he manages to throw off.
Thelbar rises up to his full height, and levels his finger at Irae T’ssarion, speaking a power word stun. The ghost-drow staggers back and a sigh escapes her lips as her eyes glaze over. Taran seizes this opportunity, and strikes with a snake-like quickness, burying Black Lisa into her skull, splitting her head in two through to the lower jaw. He releases Black Lisa, and as Irae T’ssarion begins to fall backwards, he whirls around, pulls a wand from his belt, fireballs the armored specters, drops the wand and completes his circle by grasping his sword hilt again. With a whip-like contraction of his heavily muscled arm, he frees his sword, shattering Irae T’ssarion’s skull into red, gelatinous pieces.
“Bitch.”
Kyreel lays her hands on Taran and uses her own curing magics to complete the task Sartre began. As she does so, Thelbar rips a chain lighting into the spectral knights, destroying them, and disintegrates the skull, causing the crib to fall roughly to the ground. “Demi-lich,” he says by way of explanation.
It's even funnier when you imagine a 3-ft. halfling running *flat out*, with his mullet trailing behind him. 
