The Risen Goddess (Updated 3.10.08)
(contact)
Explorer
65 -- Pen pals!
65—Diplomacy without teeth is called ‘surrender’, after all.
By the time that the first few chaotic hours have passed, several fights have been broken up, and the drow refugees are appointed to their temporary quarters within the huge dungeon that recently housed several hundred of their fiendish kin. ‘Group leaders’ have been appointed, more for the look in their eye and willingness to take the job rather than any verifiable merit.
Khuumar wades through the ranks of the drow, informing them that they are now part of House Szith Moraine, and berating the worst of the addicts for their weakness. He calls it “edification” rather than “verbal abuse”, and Taran accepts his explanation.
In the meantime, Taran and Thelbar meet with Gorquen, who relates an interesting tale of her own. Shortly after the Underdark group defeated the Nightmare Orb of Irae T’ssarion and released the infant goddess from her bondage, Arunshee appeared before Gorquen. As she had with Taran and Thelbar, Arunshee used the body of Kyreel for her avatar.
The goddess informed Gorquen that she had placed her breath within the elven Champion when last they were together, as safekeeping against the foul plans of Irae T’ssarion. While Gorquen was battling with the last of Tar Elentyr’s foul allies, she carried the goddess’ essence within her. Thus, Kiransalee and her high priestess were unable to do any lasting harm to the babe, their violent and expansive imaginations notwithstanding.
“I am reborn, and I have come for what is mine,” the goddess told her.
In an instant, Gorquen felt some of the rightness within her pulled forcefully out.
“And now I have part of you, as well,” Arunshee said. “But I no longer take where I will not give.” And with that, Gorquen felt a sensation long-missed, but never forgotten: wings upon her back! Sleek, ebony wings, in every way as perfect and beautiful as the wings ripped from her in her former life, but jet black where the former were white.
“Black suits me,” Arunshee said, and then disappeared.
“I like your new wings, Gorquen,” Taran says. “They look good on you. Very slimming.”
-----
That evening, as he settles down to sleep in their new home, Taran takes off his boots for the first time in days. He looks at them, stained to the calves with blood. So many foes, so many stories. The foul, corpulent fire-giant priest of Tenebrous, Kurgoth Hellspawn, Irae T’ssarion and her clan. Taran determines to set them under glass, and keep them as a trophy. “The boots tell a lot about a man,” he says to himself. “Mine say, ‘don’t f-ck with me’.” And laughing to himself, he falls into the deepest sleep of his young life, dreaming of Arunshee, and Nathè .
----
The next morning, the group has pulled the bodies of their enemies from the portable hole, and divested them of their magic items. They take a careful inventory, keeping what they like, and equipping Khuumar as befits his new role beside the Champions of the Risen Goddess.
That evening, Thelbar and Taran hold a secret ritual, in which Thelbar makes permanent a Rary’s telepathic bond between the two. “All the better to think to you with,” Thelbar says laughing.
After a long telepathic debate as to their next course of action, the two of them prepare a letter, to be sent to Elgin Trezler, Enae Enhallo, and Jumdash Dir.
Gentlemen,
We have the honor of addressing you from our new home far to the North. We greet you with the North Wind at our back and the holy names of Palatin Eremath, Arunshee, Lathander, Corellon Larethian and Tempus upon our lips. May this missive find you well, and at peace.
We are at this time greatly concerned for your reputation, as many of the slanders you have spread about us are patently untrue. We are, like yourselves, engaged in the adventuring profession, and understand how such a life leads one to swift action, oftentimes before all of the facts can be determined.
Therefore, we consider your destruction of our home, and our subsequent banishment from the Dalelands to be nothing more than a well-intentioned mistake, honestly made, and absent of any genuine malice.
We are prepared, as good and right-thinking individuals, to offer you an opportunity to make amends for the unfortunate and ill-considered destruction of our home and property. An inventory follows, containing both the items of note ruined by your act, and the property value of our holdings in Mistledale, as well as a modest sum to encompass duress and inconvenience.
The total amount is one hundred thirty three thousand gold pieces. We will pass the winter awaiting your decision, but expect you to have obtained the requisite funds by the beginning of Spring Rites or first thaw in Arabel, whichever should pass first. You will understand that due to the precarious financial position you have put us in, we cannot at this time afford to be flexible as to the due date for settlement.
We hope that this winter finds you well, and may your gods and goddesses smile upon you,
Taran and Thelbar Tar-Ilou.
“They’re gonna be pissed, Thel,” Taran thinks, laughing to himself.
“We shall see, but I suspect you are right,” Thelbar replies, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Then out loud he says, “Gods help them if they come after us now. These drow are all in the throes of a foul temper—the sun burns them, their drugs cannot be had, and food must be rationed. I suspect they would tear the three to pieces before the first self-aggrandizing proclamation made it out of their mouths.”
“Yeah,” Taran says wistfully. “Hey, you know who else needs a boot up their ass?” he asks. “The Harpers, that’s who. But I don’t want to write them a letter—we have to sell magic items anyway, so why not do it in Waterdeep? That way we can say ‘hi’ to Khelben what’s-his-staff and put him on notice too.” Taran stretches and yawns. “You know, I’m really starting to like Faerun. I really am.”
-----
The two brothers teleport to Waterdeep and hire a guide. Their guide assists them in obtaining accommodations, then leaves them at the gates to the Thayvian Enclave. The Enclave is a huge affair, an entire city-block walled and patrolled by dour-looking Thayvians dripping with magical armament and permanenced enchantments.
After presenting the impressive list of magic items recently snatched from the clutches of dead elves, the group gains admittance, and are shown a decadent courtesy that includes . . . well, anything. After partaking of all the food, drink and dancing girls they can stomach, they are ushered into a meeting with a high-ranking Thayvian representative. Thelbar’s arcane sight reveals that the saturnine man is a wizard of the highest caliber, and not a man to be taken lightly.
He is glad to make the acquaintance of such a pair of worthy individuals, he purrs, and hopes they understand that the Red Wizards would much prefer to barter for magic or services rather than spend the entirety of their liquid coinage on a wagon-load of magical items. Thelbar acquiesces, and the two wizards draw up a contract that includes the establishment of a Thayvian enclave in the Far Forest. (Provided, of course, that the local threats to life and limb can be . . . “managed”.)
In the end, the Red Wizards agree to enhance Arunshee’s Kiss (“Give her the best possible enhancement”, Taran instructs them), and turn over the debt-marks of several Waterdhavian construction houses to assist in the building of Taran and Thelbar’s new home.
After their business with the Red Wizards, the two boldly knock on the door at Khelben Blackstaff’s house. Or rather, they ask one of the friendly young guards at the gate to his estate if he would journey the quarter-mile to the main house and inquire if Khelben is home.
“Tell him the brothers Tar-Ilou request an audience at our earliest convenience,” Thelbar says.
“Hey, Thel,” Taran thinks, using the telepathic bond.
“I know what I said,” Thelbar replies.
Khelben sends the boy back with the message that he will be glad to have them for tea, implying that they are welcome to visit, but not for very long. Taran and Thelbar trudge up to the main house, passing several smaller outlying cottages as they go by. Khelben, as it turns out, is actually taking tea, and offers the brothers a cup along with some delicate biscuits.
“What is this, the uncomfortable wing?” Taran wonders silently as he fidgets in his hard-backed chair.
The grim brothers relate the gist of what they have learned about the Risen Goddess and her family since they pulled Khelbin from the clutches of the deranged vampire Gulthais. He nods attentively, but does not speak.
“The elven god Solonor Thelandir has joined our Mother in the pasoun,” Thelbar says. “In fact, the Eremathian Pantheon now numbers five: Palatin Eremath, Arunshee, Solonor Thalendiir, and the goddess Eilistraee. In addition, the lost elven god Asharladon, known to us as Iiam, stands with his mother Ishlok. Great changes are afoot, Khelbin, and we must all play a role.”
“Which brings us to my point,” Taran says. “It’s your Harpers, Khelbin. You know they strong-armed us out of Mistledale?”
“I did not order it, if that is what you mean,” Khelbin says.
“Well, I’m sure you didn’t, buddy,” Taran says through a smile. “And let me just set my usual tact aside since we’re practically blood brothers. Us saving your life and all. I have some good advice for you, and you ought to listen close.”
Khelben smiles, but his eyes remain hard.
“What you need to do, see, is back your Harpers all the way off of us. Set them on somebody less likely to end their careers on a sour note. ”
Khelben drops his smile. “I would deeply regret any violence, Taran,”
“Not as much as the entire rest of your organization would,” Taran says, his smile never leaving his face. “I’ll just cut out the diplomatic talk for now, because you and I have some history. So we should be sure that we’re clear. I’m not the Zhentarim, and when I’m provoked, I don’t plot and scheme. I remove the threat from this plane of existence. I don’t believe the fairy-tale that you don’t have influence with your Harpers, so what you should do is suggest that they spend their time and energy doing something productive, and leave us alone.”
“We do not threaten you, Khelbin,” Thelbar says. “We understand that mistakes are common in any large organization, and we hold you no personal ill-will. What my brother is trying to say is that we intend to keep our solitude, and as always will favor direct methods over surreptitious ones. Our faith teaches us that ‘deceit is well termed a web, and the righteous should not touch it’.”
“I see,” Khelbin says. “And what is next for you, then? Retirement in the Far Forest?”
“Oh no, nothing of the sort,” Thelbar says. “We have unfinished business with the Matron Mother in Menzoberranzan.”
“And her fine-ass bodyguard,” Taran thinks to his brother.
“The largest drow city in this part of the world,” Khelben muses. “I think you’ll find that it is surprisingly cosmopolitan, all things considered, although access is closely monitored. When you are ready, come see me again. I can help you gain entrance into the city. It is no mean feat, even for two as . . .” he looks at Taran,” direct as yourselves. Call upon me, and I shall gladly assist you.”
“See there,” Taran says, “We’re all good friends. I like you okay, Khel. Better than that old guy, anyway.”
As they leave the house, Taran says, “Sometimes I just want to kick wizards in their goddamned smug teeth. Except you, Thel. I love you.”
65—Diplomacy without teeth is called ‘surrender’, after all.
By the time that the first few chaotic hours have passed, several fights have been broken up, and the drow refugees are appointed to their temporary quarters within the huge dungeon that recently housed several hundred of their fiendish kin. ‘Group leaders’ have been appointed, more for the look in their eye and willingness to take the job rather than any verifiable merit.
Khuumar wades through the ranks of the drow, informing them that they are now part of House Szith Moraine, and berating the worst of the addicts for their weakness. He calls it “edification” rather than “verbal abuse”, and Taran accepts his explanation.
In the meantime, Taran and Thelbar meet with Gorquen, who relates an interesting tale of her own. Shortly after the Underdark group defeated the Nightmare Orb of Irae T’ssarion and released the infant goddess from her bondage, Arunshee appeared before Gorquen. As she had with Taran and Thelbar, Arunshee used the body of Kyreel for her avatar.
The goddess informed Gorquen that she had placed her breath within the elven Champion when last they were together, as safekeeping against the foul plans of Irae T’ssarion. While Gorquen was battling with the last of Tar Elentyr’s foul allies, she carried the goddess’ essence within her. Thus, Kiransalee and her high priestess were unable to do any lasting harm to the babe, their violent and expansive imaginations notwithstanding.
“I am reborn, and I have come for what is mine,” the goddess told her.
In an instant, Gorquen felt some of the rightness within her pulled forcefully out.
“And now I have part of you, as well,” Arunshee said. “But I no longer take where I will not give.” And with that, Gorquen felt a sensation long-missed, but never forgotten: wings upon her back! Sleek, ebony wings, in every way as perfect and beautiful as the wings ripped from her in her former life, but jet black where the former were white.
“Black suits me,” Arunshee said, and then disappeared.
“I like your new wings, Gorquen,” Taran says. “They look good on you. Very slimming.”
-----
That evening, as he settles down to sleep in their new home, Taran takes off his boots for the first time in days. He looks at them, stained to the calves with blood. So many foes, so many stories. The foul, corpulent fire-giant priest of Tenebrous, Kurgoth Hellspawn, Irae T’ssarion and her clan. Taran determines to set them under glass, and keep them as a trophy. “The boots tell a lot about a man,” he says to himself. “Mine say, ‘don’t f-ck with me’.” And laughing to himself, he falls into the deepest sleep of his young life, dreaming of Arunshee, and Nathè .
----
The next morning, the group has pulled the bodies of their enemies from the portable hole, and divested them of their magic items. They take a careful inventory, keeping what they like, and equipping Khuumar as befits his new role beside the Champions of the Risen Goddess.
That evening, Thelbar and Taran hold a secret ritual, in which Thelbar makes permanent a Rary’s telepathic bond between the two. “All the better to think to you with,” Thelbar says laughing.
After a long telepathic debate as to their next course of action, the two of them prepare a letter, to be sent to Elgin Trezler, Enae Enhallo, and Jumdash Dir.
Gentlemen,
We have the honor of addressing you from our new home far to the North. We greet you with the North Wind at our back and the holy names of Palatin Eremath, Arunshee, Lathander, Corellon Larethian and Tempus upon our lips. May this missive find you well, and at peace.
We are at this time greatly concerned for your reputation, as many of the slanders you have spread about us are patently untrue. We are, like yourselves, engaged in the adventuring profession, and understand how such a life leads one to swift action, oftentimes before all of the facts can be determined.
Therefore, we consider your destruction of our home, and our subsequent banishment from the Dalelands to be nothing more than a well-intentioned mistake, honestly made, and absent of any genuine malice.
We are prepared, as good and right-thinking individuals, to offer you an opportunity to make amends for the unfortunate and ill-considered destruction of our home and property. An inventory follows, containing both the items of note ruined by your act, and the property value of our holdings in Mistledale, as well as a modest sum to encompass duress and inconvenience.
The total amount is one hundred thirty three thousand gold pieces. We will pass the winter awaiting your decision, but expect you to have obtained the requisite funds by the beginning of Spring Rites or first thaw in Arabel, whichever should pass first. You will understand that due to the precarious financial position you have put us in, we cannot at this time afford to be flexible as to the due date for settlement.
We hope that this winter finds you well, and may your gods and goddesses smile upon you,
Taran and Thelbar Tar-Ilou.
“They’re gonna be pissed, Thel,” Taran thinks, laughing to himself.
“We shall see, but I suspect you are right,” Thelbar replies, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Then out loud he says, “Gods help them if they come after us now. These drow are all in the throes of a foul temper—the sun burns them, their drugs cannot be had, and food must be rationed. I suspect they would tear the three to pieces before the first self-aggrandizing proclamation made it out of their mouths.”
“Yeah,” Taran says wistfully. “Hey, you know who else needs a boot up their ass?” he asks. “The Harpers, that’s who. But I don’t want to write them a letter—we have to sell magic items anyway, so why not do it in Waterdeep? That way we can say ‘hi’ to Khelben what’s-his-staff and put him on notice too.” Taran stretches and yawns. “You know, I’m really starting to like Faerun. I really am.”
-----
The two brothers teleport to Waterdeep and hire a guide. Their guide assists them in obtaining accommodations, then leaves them at the gates to the Thayvian Enclave. The Enclave is a huge affair, an entire city-block walled and patrolled by dour-looking Thayvians dripping with magical armament and permanenced enchantments.
After presenting the impressive list of magic items recently snatched from the clutches of dead elves, the group gains admittance, and are shown a decadent courtesy that includes . . . well, anything. After partaking of all the food, drink and dancing girls they can stomach, they are ushered into a meeting with a high-ranking Thayvian representative. Thelbar’s arcane sight reveals that the saturnine man is a wizard of the highest caliber, and not a man to be taken lightly.
He is glad to make the acquaintance of such a pair of worthy individuals, he purrs, and hopes they understand that the Red Wizards would much prefer to barter for magic or services rather than spend the entirety of their liquid coinage on a wagon-load of magical items. Thelbar acquiesces, and the two wizards draw up a contract that includes the establishment of a Thayvian enclave in the Far Forest. (Provided, of course, that the local threats to life and limb can be . . . “managed”.)
In the end, the Red Wizards agree to enhance Arunshee’s Kiss (“Give her the best possible enhancement”, Taran instructs them), and turn over the debt-marks of several Waterdhavian construction houses to assist in the building of Taran and Thelbar’s new home.
After their business with the Red Wizards, the two boldly knock on the door at Khelben Blackstaff’s house. Or rather, they ask one of the friendly young guards at the gate to his estate if he would journey the quarter-mile to the main house and inquire if Khelben is home.
“Tell him the brothers Tar-Ilou request an audience at our earliest convenience,” Thelbar says.
“Hey, Thel,” Taran thinks, using the telepathic bond.
“I know what I said,” Thelbar replies.
Khelben sends the boy back with the message that he will be glad to have them for tea, implying that they are welcome to visit, but not for very long. Taran and Thelbar trudge up to the main house, passing several smaller outlying cottages as they go by. Khelben, as it turns out, is actually taking tea, and offers the brothers a cup along with some delicate biscuits.
“What is this, the uncomfortable wing?” Taran wonders silently as he fidgets in his hard-backed chair.
The grim brothers relate the gist of what they have learned about the Risen Goddess and her family since they pulled Khelbin from the clutches of the deranged vampire Gulthais. He nods attentively, but does not speak.
“The elven god Solonor Thelandir has joined our Mother in the pasoun,” Thelbar says. “In fact, the Eremathian Pantheon now numbers five: Palatin Eremath, Arunshee, Solonor Thalendiir, and the goddess Eilistraee. In addition, the lost elven god Asharladon, known to us as Iiam, stands with his mother Ishlok. Great changes are afoot, Khelbin, and we must all play a role.”
“Which brings us to my point,” Taran says. “It’s your Harpers, Khelbin. You know they strong-armed us out of Mistledale?”
“I did not order it, if that is what you mean,” Khelbin says.
“Well, I’m sure you didn’t, buddy,” Taran says through a smile. “And let me just set my usual tact aside since we’re practically blood brothers. Us saving your life and all. I have some good advice for you, and you ought to listen close.”
Khelben smiles, but his eyes remain hard.
“What you need to do, see, is back your Harpers all the way off of us. Set them on somebody less likely to end their careers on a sour note. ”
Khelben drops his smile. “I would deeply regret any violence, Taran,”
“Not as much as the entire rest of your organization would,” Taran says, his smile never leaving his face. “I’ll just cut out the diplomatic talk for now, because you and I have some history. So we should be sure that we’re clear. I’m not the Zhentarim, and when I’m provoked, I don’t plot and scheme. I remove the threat from this plane of existence. I don’t believe the fairy-tale that you don’t have influence with your Harpers, so what you should do is suggest that they spend their time and energy doing something productive, and leave us alone.”
“We do not threaten you, Khelbin,” Thelbar says. “We understand that mistakes are common in any large organization, and we hold you no personal ill-will. What my brother is trying to say is that we intend to keep our solitude, and as always will favor direct methods over surreptitious ones. Our faith teaches us that ‘deceit is well termed a web, and the righteous should not touch it’.”
“I see,” Khelbin says. “And what is next for you, then? Retirement in the Far Forest?”
“Oh no, nothing of the sort,” Thelbar says. “We have unfinished business with the Matron Mother in Menzoberranzan.”
“And her fine-ass bodyguard,” Taran thinks to his brother.
“The largest drow city in this part of the world,” Khelben muses. “I think you’ll find that it is surprisingly cosmopolitan, all things considered, although access is closely monitored. When you are ready, come see me again. I can help you gain entrance into the city. It is no mean feat, even for two as . . .” he looks at Taran,” direct as yourselves. Call upon me, and I shall gladly assist you.”
“See there,” Taran says, “We’re all good friends. I like you okay, Khel. Better than that old guy, anyway.”
As they leave the house, Taran says, “Sometimes I just want to kick wizards in their goddamned smug teeth. Except you, Thel. I love you.”
Hammerhead
Explorer
Re: 65 -- Pen pals!
So true, Taran, so true. Most wizards do need a kick in the teeth.
Great update! I wonder if the Champions will pursue righteous vengeance (Kill) against those who destroyed their home. I don't think they will pay the gold. So I guess Taran will just have to retrieve compensation from their bloodied, still-warm bodies.
(contact) said:
So true, Taran, so true. Most wizards do need a kick in the teeth.
Great update! I wonder if the Champions will pursue righteous vengeance (Kill) against those who destroyed their home. I don't think they will pay the gold. So I guess Taran will just have to retrieve compensation from their bloodied, still-warm bodies.
Barastrondo
First Post
Re: Re: 65 -- Pen pals!
That's pretty much what I was going to say.
So let's see… our heroes are sticking up for drow (and not good-aligned rangers, neither), being polite to Thayvians and rude to Harpers, challenging the champions of good deities, acting in the interests of a formerly-known-as-Evil deity (who hasn't kicked the habit entirely yet, it seems) and (worst of all!) seriously disrespecting wizards.
Either (contact)'s trying to violate every single rule that Forgotten Realms fiction authors must abide by (well, except those that coincide with the Eric's Grandmother Rule), or the brothers Tar-Ilou are made out of that rare material known as Anti-Faerun. Not enough of it to annihilate the poor game world in one single cataclysmic explosion, of course...
...but one big explosion is boring, and many little explosions make for better serial entertainment.
I eagerly await the next Toril-shattering Kaboom.
Hammerhead said:
That's pretty much what I was going to say.
So let's see… our heroes are sticking up for drow (and not good-aligned rangers, neither), being polite to Thayvians and rude to Harpers, challenging the champions of good deities, acting in the interests of a formerly-known-as-Evil deity (who hasn't kicked the habit entirely yet, it seems) and (worst of all!) seriously disrespecting wizards.
Either (contact)'s trying to violate every single rule that Forgotten Realms fiction authors must abide by (well, except those that coincide with the Eric's Grandmother Rule), or the brothers Tar-Ilou are made out of that rare material known as Anti-Faerun. Not enough of it to annihilate the poor game world in one single cataclysmic explosion, of course...
...but one big explosion is boring, and many little explosions make for better serial entertainment.
I eagerly await the next Toril-shattering Kaboom.
incognito
First Post
Methinks (contact) and his DM asre just challenging the perceptions of the classic faerun, which is pretty 2 dimenisonal with it's good guys and bad guys if you ask me.
Although one has to wonder with Thel spareing pretty Fire Giant, and Taran schmoozing it up with drow 'hidden' assasins.
It would be the best joke of all time to have a revleaed thread in which Taran and Thel are simply Neutral Evil, rather than neutral good.
"righteous" indeed...
Although one has to wonder with Thel spareing pretty Fire Giant, and Taran schmoozing it up with drow 'hidden' assasins.
It would be the best joke of all time to have a revleaed thread in which Taran and Thel are simply Neutral Evil, rather than neutral good.
"righteous" indeed...
(contact)
Explorer
You know, for all intents and purposes we play an alignment-less game, and while we love the FRCS, the whole rest of the setting has gone by the wayside-- neither of us read the novels, and we never really played the 2e version . . .
-----
So is Taran evil or good? It's a challenging question, and I could make a case for either alignment!
Is he good? Well, he kills a *lot* of Evil stuff, shows signs of sincere familial affection, and has given his treasure away to NPCs that touch his heart strings. But on the other hand, he revels in slaughter and mayhem like any good CE would, and is extremely callous about loss of sentient life. Contrasting that Chaotic flavor, he demands the sort of organization from his adventuring buddies and underlings that you'd associate with a Lawful character. . .
We would have axed alignment alltogether, except so many of the D&D mechanics are dependant on it. So you read these characters' alignment as carrying the disclaimer "For the purposes of spells spell-like effects, and planar travel only".
-----
So is Taran evil or good? It's a challenging question, and I could make a case for either alignment!
Is he good? Well, he kills a *lot* of Evil stuff, shows signs of sincere familial affection, and has given his treasure away to NPCs that touch his heart strings. But on the other hand, he revels in slaughter and mayhem like any good CE would, and is extremely callous about loss of sentient life. Contrasting that Chaotic flavor, he demands the sort of organization from his adventuring buddies and underlings that you'd associate with a Lawful character. . .
We would have axed alignment alltogether, except so many of the D&D mechanics are dependant on it. So you read these characters' alignment as carrying the disclaimer "For the purposes of spells spell-like effects, and planar travel only".
(contact)
Explorer
66- "I've got friends in low places . . ."
66—Mother, I’m home!
Their business with Khelbin Blackstaff settled, the duo return to the Far Forest, and Taran hardly complains about the lack of dancing girls once they arrive.
Thelbar sets to researching spells and crafting a few magic items, both for Taran and himself, including a pair of unique circlets. “These hold the spell gentle repose within them,” he says.
“Uh. What for?” Taran asks.
“Would you have your clone decay while it awaits your death, brother?” Thelbar replies, as he brandishes a wicked-looking scalpel. “Now hold still, this will only take a moment.”
Taran and Khuumar while away a carefree month breaking up drow riots, training an elite shadow-elven expeditionary force for local scouting and defense, and gambling away Taran’s fortune. The first of the Waterdhavian builders arrive, and work upon the new home for the Champions of the Risen Goddess begins in earnest.
Khuumar, Gorquen and Taran establish regular sparring sessions, with Taran and Gorquen concentrating on aerial combat. Taran takes the majority of the sessions with either opponent, but it is many times only through a liberal application of deceit and treachery. Khuumar proves a surprisingly honorable combatant, considering his heritage, and it is often he and Gorquen scolding Taran on a point of fighting etiquette.
Taran also establishes Winter Survival Training for his cadre of fledgling rangers. To the drow, it is a triple-cursed affair. Not only is it bright, but it is cold enough to kill the reckless, and they are often wet. Having no word for snow in their language, they call it “the burning dust”, or more poetically, “grandmother to the ice storm” (the spell being well known to them). Taran is dubbed “Arunshee’s Kiss,” and while he assumes the name is a respectful reference to his sword, it is a play upon the old phrase “Giving Them Lolth’s Kiss,” which was a euphemism for torture; Taran is a relentless taskmaster.
All in all, it is nearing mid-winter when Thelbar emerges from his studies, and announces that he is ready to take the group to Menzoberranzan. There, they will settle their unfinished business with the Matron Mother Banare, and as Taran puts it, “Bring Nathè to my side.”
“Whether she cares for it or no,” Khuumar says.
“Mind your tongue, drow,” Taran fumes.
Khuumar laughs, amused by Taran’s emotional reaction. “You know, if you were smart you’d liberate you a nice, pliant human slave girl. Like one of those the playthings kept by those Red Wizards you like so much.” Khuumar smirks. “Drow woman’s going to bring you pain.”
“Pfeh. I don’t take advice from you on love.”
“You make sense only when you’re bleeding or something? You’re in love with a drow, moron. A woman like Nathè , you’d better put her in fear of her life first thing you do, else she’s going to run you cruel.”
“We don’t hurt the people we love here on the surface. We only harm the people that harm us.”
“Same difference to a drow,” Khuumar shrugs.
“It’s not!” Taran says, warming to the argument. “You love the people you trust, and you trust the people you love.”
“Which makes you vulnerable to them.”
“Exactly.” Satisfied, Taran leans back.
“You’re such a fool, Tar-Ilou,” Khuumar says. “I knew you were stupid, but I’m surprised to see that you’re a sucker. What you don’t know about drow women could kill a dozen men your size.”
-----
Thelbar teleports the group to Waterdeep, just outside of the dimensional anchor surrounding Khelbin Blackstaff’s estate, and they trudge the long drive up to the main house. Once there, they are greeted by the manor’s master, politely if not warmly, and led through a complex of rooms beneath the house.
“Wizards and dungeons, wizards and dungeons.” Taran thinks to his brother. “They all pretty much have them don’t they? What’s the deal with that?”
“Well, it’s counter-symmetrical,” Thelbar replies sagely.
Khelbin proves true to his word, and provides the characters with the rune-carved stone tablets that indicate a visitor has passed through Menzoberranzan’s outlying checkpoints, as well as giving them a brief outline of what to expect. He leads them to a portal that he tells them will give out in the center of the city, very near the fane of Lolth.
“You can’t miss it,” he says wryly, as the characters step into the portal.
-----
And so they do not. Menzoberranzan is truly spectacular, a massive city underground, rivaling Waterdeep itself for size and grandeur. The city is built into a multi-tiered cavern complex, each individual tier large enough to hold the entirety of Mistledale, and still have room for one of the ostentatious palaces favored by the drow nobles. Massive stalactites and stalagmites are also worked, providing towers that reach hundreds of feet into the air. The whole of the place is busy and bustling, lit by a pleasant glow from phosphorescent fungi, in the drow fashion. The characteristic elven eye for beauty and elegance is present, made all the more strange by the inequity and evil it houses. The temple to Lolth is the most impressive structure in the place—the compound stretches so far to either side of the main gates that the individual figures guarding its walls can no longer be seen.
Taran, Thelbar and Khuumar approach the temple gates boldly, and their obvious lack of subservience provokes an instant challenge from the multitude of guards there. Crossbows and lances are leveled at the characters as they approach, and one guard steps haughtily forward, intent on teaching these outsiders a lesson.
“Be on your best behavior, Khuumar,” Taran says.
“These guards are powerfully armed,” Thelbar warns mentally.
“This is my culture, human,” Khuumar replies. “And my people. I know their ways better than you.” Khuumar stands still, his hands crossed behind his back, and he fixes the approaching guard with a withering stare. “I could take them,” he assures himself.
“What business do you have with our Queen of Spiders,” the guard demands with a threatening leer. “Speak quickly, or suffer!”
“Well,” Taran drawls, as he stares flatly at the guard. “We . . . have . . . come . . . to see . . . the Matron Mother.”
The guard narrows his eyes, perhaps taken aback at the audacity of the request, and the implied insult with which it was delivered. If he expected cowering servitude, this will prove to be only the least surprise of what will turn out to be a long, trying day. Taran displays the pendant of Lolth, given to the group the last time they met the temporal and spiritual leader of the drow capitol, and smiles.
“So chop, chop,” he says. “We’re already late.”
The group is taken into the Temple, and led to a central chamber, an audience hall of sorts, if one ever needs an audience with several hundred people. The massive room is decorated with murals depicting the most depraved acts, and the looming presence of the Spider Queen is implied, rather than depicted directly within the artwork. The effect is beguiling and unsettling in turns.
The group is left to wait, and long minutes pass without any sign of courtesy or even acknowledgement. Finally, and without fanfare, the Matron Mother appears, looking to have aged in the time since the heroes saw her last. She is flanked by a wiry male swordsman on her right, and Nathè on her left.
Her greeting is terse and to the point. “You have failed. I do not see a child in your midst.”
Thelbar smiles, a thin and cheerless expression, and replies, “We did not fail. We killed Irae T’ssarion . . .”
“That petty rebellious trash?” The Matron Mother says. “I care little for the life of Irae T’ssarion, and even less for your role in ending it. I sent you for the child, and you have not delivered on your promise.”
“Oh, as to that. We did liberate Sharlequannan, but the child proved . . . willful. If she has not seen fit to contact you,” he opens his hands, “what can I tell you?”
At this moment, a pair of drow, one male and one female, emerge from a side door to the rear of the party. The male wears the robes of a wizard, and the female is dressed in the vestments of Lolth. Her resemblance to the Matron Mother is uncanny.
“Ah, excellent,” the Matron Mother crows. “Pay attention my children; you will see what happens to those that fail us.”
“Like you failed your f-cking goddess?” Taran growls at the Matron Mother.
The male fighter steps forward, an angry flush darkening his features. “Show your respect!” he yells.
“What respect?” Taran replies, placing his hands on his sword hilts.
The drow smiles at Taran’s pugnacious stance, and opens his hands, palms up. “Any time you’re ready,” he says, a deadly stare punctuating his smug grin.
The Matron Mother barks, “Stand your ground, Dantrak!” And to Taran, she says, “You could not cross blades with him. He is first sword.”
“Oh, yeah? Well I’m the last sword,” Taran says, with a cold edge to his voice. His eyes hold the drow’s stare.
The moment stretches, then the younger drow woman speaks. “Mother, I have been thinking,” she purrs. Her features bespeak a lifetime of cruelties, gleefully perpetrated, alongside a deep sense of confidence.
“She has access to 9th level spells,” Thelbar thinks. “Both young ones do. But the Matron Mother is without spells altogether.”
The young woman continues. “You said our time would come when the child is delivered. It is not these who have failed, it is you who are weak. You have failed us. You have failed your people!”
In that instant, Nathè turns and whips two swords from their scabbards. Before anyone can react, she attacks the Matron Mother, cutting her twice with flaming and frost weapons! Dantrak whirls, shock and surprise clear on his face.
“Tenebrous favors us above all others!” the young priestess screams. “There is a new god for the dark elves!”
“Nathè , don’t do this,” Taran says. “We have a home for you now, with me!”
Dantrak is easily the fastest swordsman Taran has ever seen. In an instant, he has drawn his own swords, leapt to the Matron Mother’s side, and cut Nathè deeply. “Treacherous bitch!” he growls.
Khuumar, as one who understands that betrayal is the common coin of all drow trade, is unsurprised by the turn of events, and takes advantage of the moment to close the distance to the Matron Mother—but once there, he does not attack the elderly drow, but rather sunders Nathè’s flaming sword with a single blow from his own two-handed blade!
“I told you so, Taran, you dumb bastard!” Khuumar yells. “You should pay me to nursemaid you!”
A drow female appears from out of the shadows, directly behind Nathè and Dantrak. “Hello, mother,” she says, and runs the Matron through! The ancient drow cleric is badly wounded, and raises her hands feebly in front of her.
Thelbar hastes himself, and sends a feeblemind streaking at the male wizard, but the drow’s innate resistance foils the spell.
Taran stands stunned, and sees Nathè give a subtle drow sign, “Help me.” He draws his own blade, and looks indecisively at the fight—on one side of the room, his lady love duels the best swordsman he’s ever laid eyes on, and on the other, a pair of drow that present the infinitely more dangerous threat.
Dantrak says, “We will spend a lifetime torturing you for your audacity!” Exactly which of the treacherous drow he intended his threat for is not clear, however. So many traitors, so little BAB.
Nathè stabs her sworn protectorate for the second time, and flees from the melee toward Taran. But as she does so, Khuumar seizes the opening, and destroys her other sword. “Bitch,” he says.
Nathè runs to Taran’s side, her eyes wild and flaring. She is flecked with warm blood and she smiles into his face. In that moment, Taran has never seen a woman look so beautiful.
“I love you,” he whispers, and places Arunshee’s Kiss into her hands.
“Isn’t it curious how events can turn so fast, mother?” the cleric asks, then points a single perfectly manicured finger at Thelbar. The familiar sensation of an implosion presses in on him, but Thelbar resists the spell. And just at that moment, the wizard completes an invocation and everything seems to stand still.
Then the time stop ends.
A massive array of spells fills the room with sudden effect. The Matron Mother, Dantak, the hidden assassin and Khuumar are struck with a horrid wilting, a maximized fireball, and a lightning bolt all at the exact same instant. Taran, Thebar and Nathè are blasted by a cone of cold, and separated from the mage by a wall of force. The mage himself is instantly cloaked by a shield spell, stoneskin and a globe of invulnerability.
Nathè dies immediately, falling against Taran’s side as she collapses.
“I have waited hundreds of years to do this!” the mage screams. “Satisfaction, at last you are mine!”
Dantrak is withered, scorched and blasted and dies within the whirlwind of spell effects, unable to resist the withering rain of magic. Khuumar is badly hurt, and falls to his knees, only his pride keeping the pain from his lips. From the ground, he lashes out at the rogue, crushing her ribcage, and finishing what the mage failed to do.
But the wizard is not finished yet, and he says to the Matron Mother, “Die.” His power word snuffs her life from her form, and she falls across the corpse of her would-be assassin.
“Uh, I’m killing him first I guess,” Taran thinks to Thelbar. “Give me the word.”
Thelbar disintegrates the wall of force, and thinks, “Go.”
Leaping forward, Taran charges the mage, but despite the wizard’s confident disregard of the fighter, Taran proves that not everything that can’t be cut can’t be killed. He drops his sun blade at the last instant, and tackles the mage, taking him to the ground, and locking his arms in what he hopes will be the first of several brutally painful submissions.
“Hold him down,” Khuumar yells, “I’m coming!” And he begins to move across the room.
Thelbar speaks a power word of his own, and the cleric is stunned—she reels backward, disoriented and unable to focus. At that moment, the chamber’s main doors fly open, and a pair of drow guards standing outside the room take in the scene.
“Murder!” one yells, obviously making his bid for Understatement of the Year. The other sounds the alarm, proving that drowish pragmatism is still kicking, even if drowish chivalry has long since rotted away.
Taran begins to work on the mage’s neck, cranking it painfully and choking the air from the drow. Khuumar rushes to his side, and readies his sword for a killing blow.
Thelbar approaches the guards, and says “Hold! I have great news!” He then casts charm monster and dominate monster. Both spells take effect. The dominated drow moves to the cleric, and carefully places his polearm over her heart before punching it through. To the charmed guard, Thelbar says, “Keep your fellows from entering this room. If you can hold them for a few moments, you will be First Sword in the new order!”
Thus assured that all this murder and betrayal will work out in his favor, the guard gratefully turns to his new task, closing the doors behind him.
Khuumar runs the mage through, nearly piercing Taran in the process. “We’d better get scarce,” he says, “before that guard goes down.” Helping Taran to his feet, he says, “Tough break about your little camp-follower. Better luck next time, hey?”
Taran scrambles to his feet, shoving past Khuumar and his gloating smirk. He begins grimly placing the bodies of the fallen into the portable hole. As he does so, Thelbar crosses the room, touching each of the companions in turn; by the time the temple guards kick aside the bolt-ridden body of their former comrade and throw open the door, there is nothing visible within the room but blood-smears and broken weapons.
Unseen, the trio of adventurers flies invisibly out of the temple into the city, and in a matter of moments, teleports home.
66—Mother, I’m home!
Their business with Khelbin Blackstaff settled, the duo return to the Far Forest, and Taran hardly complains about the lack of dancing girls once they arrive.
Thelbar sets to researching spells and crafting a few magic items, both for Taran and himself, including a pair of unique circlets. “These hold the spell gentle repose within them,” he says.
“Uh. What for?” Taran asks.
“Would you have your clone decay while it awaits your death, brother?” Thelbar replies, as he brandishes a wicked-looking scalpel. “Now hold still, this will only take a moment.”
Taran and Khuumar while away a carefree month breaking up drow riots, training an elite shadow-elven expeditionary force for local scouting and defense, and gambling away Taran’s fortune. The first of the Waterdhavian builders arrive, and work upon the new home for the Champions of the Risen Goddess begins in earnest.
Khuumar, Gorquen and Taran establish regular sparring sessions, with Taran and Gorquen concentrating on aerial combat. Taran takes the majority of the sessions with either opponent, but it is many times only through a liberal application of deceit and treachery. Khuumar proves a surprisingly honorable combatant, considering his heritage, and it is often he and Gorquen scolding Taran on a point of fighting etiquette.
Taran also establishes Winter Survival Training for his cadre of fledgling rangers. To the drow, it is a triple-cursed affair. Not only is it bright, but it is cold enough to kill the reckless, and they are often wet. Having no word for snow in their language, they call it “the burning dust”, or more poetically, “grandmother to the ice storm” (the spell being well known to them). Taran is dubbed “Arunshee’s Kiss,” and while he assumes the name is a respectful reference to his sword, it is a play upon the old phrase “Giving Them Lolth’s Kiss,” which was a euphemism for torture; Taran is a relentless taskmaster.
All in all, it is nearing mid-winter when Thelbar emerges from his studies, and announces that he is ready to take the group to Menzoberranzan. There, they will settle their unfinished business with the Matron Mother Banare, and as Taran puts it, “Bring Nathè to my side.”
“Whether she cares for it or no,” Khuumar says.
“Mind your tongue, drow,” Taran fumes.
Khuumar laughs, amused by Taran’s emotional reaction. “You know, if you were smart you’d liberate you a nice, pliant human slave girl. Like one of those the playthings kept by those Red Wizards you like so much.” Khuumar smirks. “Drow woman’s going to bring you pain.”
“Pfeh. I don’t take advice from you on love.”
“You make sense only when you’re bleeding or something? You’re in love with a drow, moron. A woman like Nathè , you’d better put her in fear of her life first thing you do, else she’s going to run you cruel.”
“We don’t hurt the people we love here on the surface. We only harm the people that harm us.”
“Same difference to a drow,” Khuumar shrugs.
“It’s not!” Taran says, warming to the argument. “You love the people you trust, and you trust the people you love.”
“Which makes you vulnerable to them.”
“Exactly.” Satisfied, Taran leans back.
“You’re such a fool, Tar-Ilou,” Khuumar says. “I knew you were stupid, but I’m surprised to see that you’re a sucker. What you don’t know about drow women could kill a dozen men your size.”
-----
Thelbar teleports the group to Waterdeep, just outside of the dimensional anchor surrounding Khelbin Blackstaff’s estate, and they trudge the long drive up to the main house. Once there, they are greeted by the manor’s master, politely if not warmly, and led through a complex of rooms beneath the house.
“Wizards and dungeons, wizards and dungeons.” Taran thinks to his brother. “They all pretty much have them don’t they? What’s the deal with that?”
“Well, it’s counter-symmetrical,” Thelbar replies sagely.
Khelbin proves true to his word, and provides the characters with the rune-carved stone tablets that indicate a visitor has passed through Menzoberranzan’s outlying checkpoints, as well as giving them a brief outline of what to expect. He leads them to a portal that he tells them will give out in the center of the city, very near the fane of Lolth.
“You can’t miss it,” he says wryly, as the characters step into the portal.
-----
And so they do not. Menzoberranzan is truly spectacular, a massive city underground, rivaling Waterdeep itself for size and grandeur. The city is built into a multi-tiered cavern complex, each individual tier large enough to hold the entirety of Mistledale, and still have room for one of the ostentatious palaces favored by the drow nobles. Massive stalactites and stalagmites are also worked, providing towers that reach hundreds of feet into the air. The whole of the place is busy and bustling, lit by a pleasant glow from phosphorescent fungi, in the drow fashion. The characteristic elven eye for beauty and elegance is present, made all the more strange by the inequity and evil it houses. The temple to Lolth is the most impressive structure in the place—the compound stretches so far to either side of the main gates that the individual figures guarding its walls can no longer be seen.
Taran, Thelbar and Khuumar approach the temple gates boldly, and their obvious lack of subservience provokes an instant challenge from the multitude of guards there. Crossbows and lances are leveled at the characters as they approach, and one guard steps haughtily forward, intent on teaching these outsiders a lesson.
“Be on your best behavior, Khuumar,” Taran says.
“These guards are powerfully armed,” Thelbar warns mentally.
“This is my culture, human,” Khuumar replies. “And my people. I know their ways better than you.” Khuumar stands still, his hands crossed behind his back, and he fixes the approaching guard with a withering stare. “I could take them,” he assures himself.
“What business do you have with our Queen of Spiders,” the guard demands with a threatening leer. “Speak quickly, or suffer!”
“Well,” Taran drawls, as he stares flatly at the guard. “We . . . have . . . come . . . to see . . . the Matron Mother.”
The guard narrows his eyes, perhaps taken aback at the audacity of the request, and the implied insult with which it was delivered. If he expected cowering servitude, this will prove to be only the least surprise of what will turn out to be a long, trying day. Taran displays the pendant of Lolth, given to the group the last time they met the temporal and spiritual leader of the drow capitol, and smiles.
“So chop, chop,” he says. “We’re already late.”
The group is taken into the Temple, and led to a central chamber, an audience hall of sorts, if one ever needs an audience with several hundred people. The massive room is decorated with murals depicting the most depraved acts, and the looming presence of the Spider Queen is implied, rather than depicted directly within the artwork. The effect is beguiling and unsettling in turns.
The group is left to wait, and long minutes pass without any sign of courtesy or even acknowledgement. Finally, and without fanfare, the Matron Mother appears, looking to have aged in the time since the heroes saw her last. She is flanked by a wiry male swordsman on her right, and Nathè on her left.
Her greeting is terse and to the point. “You have failed. I do not see a child in your midst.”
Thelbar smiles, a thin and cheerless expression, and replies, “We did not fail. We killed Irae T’ssarion . . .”
“That petty rebellious trash?” The Matron Mother says. “I care little for the life of Irae T’ssarion, and even less for your role in ending it. I sent you for the child, and you have not delivered on your promise.”
“Oh, as to that. We did liberate Sharlequannan, but the child proved . . . willful. If she has not seen fit to contact you,” he opens his hands, “what can I tell you?”
At this moment, a pair of drow, one male and one female, emerge from a side door to the rear of the party. The male wears the robes of a wizard, and the female is dressed in the vestments of Lolth. Her resemblance to the Matron Mother is uncanny.
“Ah, excellent,” the Matron Mother crows. “Pay attention my children; you will see what happens to those that fail us.”
“Like you failed your f-cking goddess?” Taran growls at the Matron Mother.
The male fighter steps forward, an angry flush darkening his features. “Show your respect!” he yells.
“What respect?” Taran replies, placing his hands on his sword hilts.
The drow smiles at Taran’s pugnacious stance, and opens his hands, palms up. “Any time you’re ready,” he says, a deadly stare punctuating his smug grin.
The Matron Mother barks, “Stand your ground, Dantrak!” And to Taran, she says, “You could not cross blades with him. He is first sword.”
“Oh, yeah? Well I’m the last sword,” Taran says, with a cold edge to his voice. His eyes hold the drow’s stare.
The moment stretches, then the younger drow woman speaks. “Mother, I have been thinking,” she purrs. Her features bespeak a lifetime of cruelties, gleefully perpetrated, alongside a deep sense of confidence.
“She has access to 9th level spells,” Thelbar thinks. “Both young ones do. But the Matron Mother is without spells altogether.”
The young woman continues. “You said our time would come when the child is delivered. It is not these who have failed, it is you who are weak. You have failed us. You have failed your people!”
In that instant, Nathè turns and whips two swords from their scabbards. Before anyone can react, she attacks the Matron Mother, cutting her twice with flaming and frost weapons! Dantrak whirls, shock and surprise clear on his face.
“Tenebrous favors us above all others!” the young priestess screams. “There is a new god for the dark elves!”
“Nathè , don’t do this,” Taran says. “We have a home for you now, with me!”
Dantrak is easily the fastest swordsman Taran has ever seen. In an instant, he has drawn his own swords, leapt to the Matron Mother’s side, and cut Nathè deeply. “Treacherous bitch!” he growls.
Khuumar, as one who understands that betrayal is the common coin of all drow trade, is unsurprised by the turn of events, and takes advantage of the moment to close the distance to the Matron Mother—but once there, he does not attack the elderly drow, but rather sunders Nathè’s flaming sword with a single blow from his own two-handed blade!
“I told you so, Taran, you dumb bastard!” Khuumar yells. “You should pay me to nursemaid you!”
A drow female appears from out of the shadows, directly behind Nathè and Dantrak. “Hello, mother,” she says, and runs the Matron through! The ancient drow cleric is badly wounded, and raises her hands feebly in front of her.
Thelbar hastes himself, and sends a feeblemind streaking at the male wizard, but the drow’s innate resistance foils the spell.
Taran stands stunned, and sees Nathè give a subtle drow sign, “Help me.” He draws his own blade, and looks indecisively at the fight—on one side of the room, his lady love duels the best swordsman he’s ever laid eyes on, and on the other, a pair of drow that present the infinitely more dangerous threat.
Dantrak says, “We will spend a lifetime torturing you for your audacity!” Exactly which of the treacherous drow he intended his threat for is not clear, however. So many traitors, so little BAB.
Nathè stabs her sworn protectorate for the second time, and flees from the melee toward Taran. But as she does so, Khuumar seizes the opening, and destroys her other sword. “Bitch,” he says.
Nathè runs to Taran’s side, her eyes wild and flaring. She is flecked with warm blood and she smiles into his face. In that moment, Taran has never seen a woman look so beautiful.
“I love you,” he whispers, and places Arunshee’s Kiss into her hands.
“Isn’t it curious how events can turn so fast, mother?” the cleric asks, then points a single perfectly manicured finger at Thelbar. The familiar sensation of an implosion presses in on him, but Thelbar resists the spell. And just at that moment, the wizard completes an invocation and everything seems to stand still.
Then the time stop ends.
A massive array of spells fills the room with sudden effect. The Matron Mother, Dantak, the hidden assassin and Khuumar are struck with a horrid wilting, a maximized fireball, and a lightning bolt all at the exact same instant. Taran, Thebar and Nathè are blasted by a cone of cold, and separated from the mage by a wall of force. The mage himself is instantly cloaked by a shield spell, stoneskin and a globe of invulnerability.
Nathè dies immediately, falling against Taran’s side as she collapses.
“I have waited hundreds of years to do this!” the mage screams. “Satisfaction, at last you are mine!”
Dantrak is withered, scorched and blasted and dies within the whirlwind of spell effects, unable to resist the withering rain of magic. Khuumar is badly hurt, and falls to his knees, only his pride keeping the pain from his lips. From the ground, he lashes out at the rogue, crushing her ribcage, and finishing what the mage failed to do.
But the wizard is not finished yet, and he says to the Matron Mother, “Die.” His power word snuffs her life from her form, and she falls across the corpse of her would-be assassin.
“Uh, I’m killing him first I guess,” Taran thinks to Thelbar. “Give me the word.”
Thelbar disintegrates the wall of force, and thinks, “Go.”
Leaping forward, Taran charges the mage, but despite the wizard’s confident disregard of the fighter, Taran proves that not everything that can’t be cut can’t be killed. He drops his sun blade at the last instant, and tackles the mage, taking him to the ground, and locking his arms in what he hopes will be the first of several brutally painful submissions.
“Hold him down,” Khuumar yells, “I’m coming!” And he begins to move across the room.
Thelbar speaks a power word of his own, and the cleric is stunned—she reels backward, disoriented and unable to focus. At that moment, the chamber’s main doors fly open, and a pair of drow guards standing outside the room take in the scene.
“Murder!” one yells, obviously making his bid for Understatement of the Year. The other sounds the alarm, proving that drowish pragmatism is still kicking, even if drowish chivalry has long since rotted away.
Taran begins to work on the mage’s neck, cranking it painfully and choking the air from the drow. Khuumar rushes to his side, and readies his sword for a killing blow.
Thelbar approaches the guards, and says “Hold! I have great news!” He then casts charm monster and dominate monster. Both spells take effect. The dominated drow moves to the cleric, and carefully places his polearm over her heart before punching it through. To the charmed guard, Thelbar says, “Keep your fellows from entering this room. If you can hold them for a few moments, you will be First Sword in the new order!”
Thus assured that all this murder and betrayal will work out in his favor, the guard gratefully turns to his new task, closing the doors behind him.
Khuumar runs the mage through, nearly piercing Taran in the process. “We’d better get scarce,” he says, “before that guard goes down.” Helping Taran to his feet, he says, “Tough break about your little camp-follower. Better luck next time, hey?”
Taran scrambles to his feet, shoving past Khuumar and his gloating smirk. He begins grimly placing the bodies of the fallen into the portable hole. As he does so, Thelbar crosses the room, touching each of the companions in turn; by the time the temple guards kick aside the bolt-ridden body of their former comrade and throw open the door, there is nothing visible within the room but blood-smears and broken weapons.
Unseen, the trio of adventurers flies invisibly out of the temple into the city, and in a matter of moments, teleports home.
Last edited:
Joshua Randall
Legend
Re: 66- "I've got friends in low places . . ."
Heh. The first time I read this, I thought the wizard was elated about getting to cast time stop, not about blasting the Matron Mother.
"I've played this character for two-and-a-half year, and now that I'm 18th level, I'm sure as hell casting Time Stop the first chance I get!"
Heh. The first time I read this, I thought the wizard was elated about getting to cast time stop, not about blasting the Matron Mother.
"I've played this character for two-and-a-half year, and now that I'm 18th level, I'm sure as hell casting Time Stop the first chance I get!"
incognito
First Post
you know, it's amazing to me that elves have this ultra-long lifespan - becasue they certainly kill each other with a zeal that borders on human.
I'm waiting for Taran to have Nathè raised - you know it's coming.
Also: Time Stop is such a dangerous spell, especially when you use it in conjuntion with 'save or die' spells.
So too the power words - no save, only verbal components. Drow MAges could've walked around in Full Plate and unleashed that Mojo.
I'm impressed to see Khuumar sundering weapons - it's a great tactic (esp with power attack), if you can break out of the mindset that you are destroying your spoils of war.
Questions:
The 'first sword' guy - he can;t really be all that better than Taran, right? Maybe he has 1-3 BAB on him, but there's only so many levels you can have. Was there anything that made him so fearsome?
If Khuumar's player (that's you, (contact), right?), getting a kick out of the role reversal -> Kyreel?
I am a little unsure of the 'sides' in the Final battle. Was it:
Side A) Matron Mother, The First, the two 'charmed' guards, Thel, and Khuumar
Side B) Nathè, the Wizard who time stopped, the Cleric who didn't do a dammed thing, and the assasin in the shadows, who ran the matron mother through (but did not kill her).
Side C) Taran, who helped Nathe, and killed the wizard.
I'm waiting for Taran to have Nathè raised - you know it's coming.
Also: Time Stop is such a dangerous spell, especially when you use it in conjuntion with 'save or die' spells.
So too the power words - no save, only verbal components. Drow MAges could've walked around in Full Plate and unleashed that Mojo.
I'm impressed to see Khuumar sundering weapons - it's a great tactic (esp with power attack), if you can break out of the mindset that you are destroying your spoils of war.
Questions:
The 'first sword' guy - he can;t really be all that better than Taran, right? Maybe he has 1-3 BAB on him, but there's only so many levels you can have. Was there anything that made him so fearsome?
If Khuumar's player (that's you, (contact), right?), getting a kick out of the role reversal -> Kyreel?
I am a little unsure of the 'sides' in the Final battle. Was it:
Side A) Matron Mother, The First, the two 'charmed' guards, Thel, and Khuumar
Side B) Nathè, the Wizard who time stopped, the Cleric who didn't do a dammed thing, and the assasin in the shadows, who ran the matron mother through (but did not kill her).
Side C) Taran, who helped Nathe, and killed the wizard.
Similar Threads
