Derrick Reeves
First Post
Very cool stuff. It seems reasonably apparent where this is going...
The Risen Goddess (Updated 3.10.08)
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thatdarncat
Overlord of Chat
hey, look over there!
*steal steal steal*
*steal steal steal*
(contact)
Explorer
Marpenoth the 9th
My studies here are complete. We now know what these ancient dwarves saw fit to record, and now it falls to us to sort out whatever remains. Winterbeard has spoken: Ceridain Death-Caller must not stir, for her womb is cursed, and spawns only death. The dwarf warned Merkatha as much, and we are in a truly horrific peril.
But for the moment, more mundane concerns are at our door. Two bands of Stoneland goblins have been sent into the Delve, no doubt searching for Ceridain and following the bidding of Ilthais Truesilver.
Both bands of goblins were sent here before their leaders were assassinated, and likely have no knowledge of the Sorcerer Queen’s treachery. Ashara and Merkatha both believe that if we can make them understand this, they will leave the Delve, saving us the trouble of killing them.
And as the only goblin-speaking member among us, it is I who shall conduct the parley! I never dreamed of such things sitting beneath a candle in my study!
Marpenoth the 10th
The hobgoblin war-chieftain proved remarkably agreeable once his clerics confirmed through divination and commune spells that we had the truth of things. The Sorcerer Queen’s treachery outraged him, but the reality of Ceridain Death-Caller terrified them all.
These goblins are contesting with one another over an artifact called the Mantle of Imialbulb, an ancient garment and artifact that once belonged to their greatest hero. Merkatha assures me that the Mantle is in possession of Lord Ilthais, which explains his control over the goblins.
We met with the hobgoblin war-chief in the Hanging Gardens, and his priests directed us toward a site nearby—a massacre site, replete with fresh dwarven corpses. They say that they are terrified of the place, which makes it sound even more appealing (from the perspective of gaining a more firm grasp on the historical record, of course).
Marpenoth the 10th
We have conversed with an elder servant of Moradin—a fallen solar celestial, to be precise. An angel, to use the common parlance.
We found him just as the hobgoblin priests had directed us—in the center of a massive common-hall to the West of the Hanging Gardens. The radiant being still stands mournfully over the ground where he fulfilled Moradin’s final decree for Kor’En Eamor, and massacred thousands of the Father God’s own worshippers. The dwarven corpses lie where they fell, as fresh as the day they were slain, many of them killed as they attempted to flee. The solar responsible kneels unmoving in the center of the corpse-field, his normally radiant skin dulled by the millennia of dust that settled over him as he contemplated his act.
It was in this place that Moradin took his dak’qis. By ancient dwarven custom, the first and best part of all things crafted must be sacrificed to Moradin. The dak’qis of Kor’En Eamor’s last generation died here, at the hands of this solar. Perhaps they harbored love for Hepis in their hearts, or perhaps they supported Moradin out of duty rather than belief. Or, most chilling, perhaps they were simply too loyal—a true dak’qis, the first and best of His people.
The immortal has remained here ever since, contemplating the price of obedience, and slipping further into an abyss of regret, abandoned by Moradin even as he fulfilled the Father God’s last command.
Now, the celestial broods over the bodies of the fallen, and has lost his faith.
He has not, however, lost his memory, and was able to reveal more to us about this Uqaraq, the leader of the Hepis worshippers here in Kor’En Eamor. The Uqaraq is apparently an honorific given to the King’s right-hand dwarf. Uqaraq Aq Med is his full title, and he is sworn council to the Usurper God, and the temporal head of Hepis’ cult. Uqaraq is also a lich.
Marpenoth the 10th
The celestial has made a request of us. In the area to the East of his vigil are the Halls of the Dead. These were the halls where the deceased were interred, and their names were recorded in a great Book of the Dead. The celestial has requested that we retrieve this book, and take it from the Delve to some place of safety, in order that the names of the dwarves of Kor’En Eamor not be lost to time, but exist as a record of their lives
We have determined to aid the celestial, and I write this as my group prepares themselves for the expedition.
Marpenoth the 11th
If my handwriting has changed, it is because I have changed. Rather, I was slain and reincarnated. I’m not sure how to put this, and truth be told I am grappling with a profound life-altering event. I am, in the long and short of it, less long and more short. Two and one-half feet tall, to be precise. I am a gnome.
There it is.
I write it and I don’t even believe it. But it is true nonetheless, I have reincarnated as a gnome, of middling years. But on the inside, I have not changed—I remember everything from my former life and retain my skill with Spellcraft.
Ashara called a new body for my departed soul, through the blessing of her god, and now my handwriting is unrecognizable.
It occurs to me that this transformation explains the mystery of the Great Sage of the Deepen Forest, who penned his missives in two distinct hands, a well known matter of some debate amongst the scholars of the Emerald Method, scholars who I am sure any future readers will be well acquainted with. In particular the treatise The Seven Tides of the Sea King’s Tablets springs to mind.
But my present narrative compels me to return to it, and I shall have to ruminate upon the debates of the Emerald Method school at a later date.
I know you are probably saying to yourself, “get on with it, old man, tell us how you died”—but I must council you that in matters of narrative, the Shadowed Sage of Neverwinter Moor put it best, just before he was rended limb from limb by dire rats:
“How fitting and purposeful it seems, this world of ours, as my death arrives only just as the last of my life has been told. ”
For my part, I agree with the poet Lifsilven, who interpreted this to mean that time as we experience it (moving only in one direction, etc.) exists to provide us with the maximum amount of surprise, and that all authors of narrative (fictional or no) should contrive to follow the workings of the Gods, and the universe They have made for our edification, if not for our entertainment.
Our journey to the Halls of the Dead was made over water—in this instance long carved passages flooded by an elaborate aqueduct system stood in place of the mythical Fugue River. Even as I was contemplating the universality of the waterway as a symbol of transition, we were set upon by spirits of the drowned dead! It seems to me that those undead who die in water harbor an especially wicked hatred for the living. Certainly, these undead were terribly fierce, and it was only luck that prevented our rafts from capsizing.
My companions wrested the Book of the Dead from a group of undead dwarves beyond the waterway, who seemed to be re-enacting their last living days before the Dwarven Fall. I say ‘my companions’, because I was slain outright.
When I awoke, it was looking into the eyes of Ashara. She had reincarnated me, and here I stand, although not so high as I used to. I shall have to have a new stool, I think.
Nonetheless, the book is ours, and we are quite sure that we can put the thing to a use far closer to that of its original creators’ intent than the living-dead who guarded it.
Marpenoth the 16th
Upon our return to the celestial, we debated the best place of safety for the Book of the Dead. It was his wish, after all, that the names of Kor’En Eamor never be lost to whatever terrible future he has foreseen for this place.
The thing is a massive tome, and calling it a “book” does not do it justice. It is the height of a grown dwarf, and nearly twice again as thick. We are forced to carry it in a litter as one might a wounded companion.
We debated where to take the book, and in the end settled upon placing it within the care of the Lady Tesseril of Eveningstar, and so here we are. I suggested taking the tome to Candlekeep and the great libraries there, but some of our more militant Cormyrian members carried the argument.
I can only trust that our Lady Tesseril will take all appropriate care with this ancient and priceless artifact.
Marpenoth the 18th
Our journey back to the Delve was primarily uneventful, although our divinations indicated that Lord Ilthais is actively hunting for us. We have evaded him, and decided to explore the upper levels of the place.
We journeyed upwards to what we believe is the top of Kor’En Eamor, a level dedicated to the unique cold forging techniques that I will leave to more expert voices to detail.
What I will tell you is that the place is cold—frozen in fact, and occupied by a strange menagerie of bat-riding semi-humans. These creatures are as blind as their winged steeds and bloodthirsty, led by a terrible sorceress of foul temperament and bestial heritage. Do you recall the joke about having seen the medusa? Well, I have now seen one, and it is no laughing matter.
These bat riders made their lair inside the Great Delve, but hunted outside of it—they were masters of one of this place’s many portals.
Like all of Kor’En Eamor’s egresses, it gives onto a mountainside at the other end, and wonder of wonders, this portal has a still-extant city of dwarves living at the base of the mountain. They must be descendants of the First Dwarves. Tomorrow, we intend to face these dwarves and see what they might be about!
Marpenoth the 19th
We have returned from the dwarven city in one piece and somewhat the richer. They live in a strange world, occupied solely by dwarves, giants and abominations. They have no knowledge of magic or priest-craft, and behave entirely like a people whose culture is steeped in a deep and abiding shame.
They refer to Kor’En Eamor as “Hell”, and believe that the gods who live within are angry with them for some long forgotten sin. They have determined to make a show of their architectural abilities in an attempt to win back the lost favor of their gods. They have set the task for themselves that they will carve the entire mountain face into a great city—a sprawling dwarven place that will act as an offering of penance. Surely, they reason, their gods cannot but warm their hearts to them once they witness this wonder built of dwarven craft.
They received us well enough, though we seem more strange to them than we can possibly imagine. Their king took us in state, and once again I was able to play the interpreter.
It is worth noting that the ancient language of the dwarves is a living language amongst these people, and I am chastened to admit that my presupposition about the silibant ‘tsc’ was incorrect.
I now can state with some authority that rhyming prose was the custom, not the exception amongst these ancient dwarves, and should I live through this adventure, I have a bet to settle with a certain well-educated lady of my acquaintance.
Marpenoth the 22nd
I remain in our base camp, hoping to study the mysterious cold-forges, better acquaint myself with my new form, and avoid the necessity of acquiring a third identity! The rest of our group began to work their way back down toward All Roads Meet, exploring as they go. As of yet I have no word of their progress.
Marpenoth the 24th
Solitude plays tricks on my new eyes, else I am stalked by shadows. It is cold nearly all the time, my fire notwithstanding. I have no word of my companions. I only guess at the date, for I am frightened and must remain out of sight of the portal.
My studies here are complete. We now know what these ancient dwarves saw fit to record, and now it falls to us to sort out whatever remains. Winterbeard has spoken: Ceridain Death-Caller must not stir, for her womb is cursed, and spawns only death. The dwarf warned Merkatha as much, and we are in a truly horrific peril.
But for the moment, more mundane concerns are at our door. Two bands of Stoneland goblins have been sent into the Delve, no doubt searching for Ceridain and following the bidding of Ilthais Truesilver.
Both bands of goblins were sent here before their leaders were assassinated, and likely have no knowledge of the Sorcerer Queen’s treachery. Ashara and Merkatha both believe that if we can make them understand this, they will leave the Delve, saving us the trouble of killing them.
And as the only goblin-speaking member among us, it is I who shall conduct the parley! I never dreamed of such things sitting beneath a candle in my study!
Marpenoth the 10th
The hobgoblin war-chieftain proved remarkably agreeable once his clerics confirmed through divination and commune spells that we had the truth of things. The Sorcerer Queen’s treachery outraged him, but the reality of Ceridain Death-Caller terrified them all.
These goblins are contesting with one another over an artifact called the Mantle of Imialbulb, an ancient garment and artifact that once belonged to their greatest hero. Merkatha assures me that the Mantle is in possession of Lord Ilthais, which explains his control over the goblins.
We met with the hobgoblin war-chief in the Hanging Gardens, and his priests directed us toward a site nearby—a massacre site, replete with fresh dwarven corpses. They say that they are terrified of the place, which makes it sound even more appealing (from the perspective of gaining a more firm grasp on the historical record, of course).
Marpenoth the 10th
We have conversed with an elder servant of Moradin—a fallen solar celestial, to be precise. An angel, to use the common parlance.
We found him just as the hobgoblin priests had directed us—in the center of a massive common-hall to the West of the Hanging Gardens. The radiant being still stands mournfully over the ground where he fulfilled Moradin’s final decree for Kor’En Eamor, and massacred thousands of the Father God’s own worshippers. The dwarven corpses lie where they fell, as fresh as the day they were slain, many of them killed as they attempted to flee. The solar responsible kneels unmoving in the center of the corpse-field, his normally radiant skin dulled by the millennia of dust that settled over him as he contemplated his act.
It was in this place that Moradin took his dak’qis. By ancient dwarven custom, the first and best part of all things crafted must be sacrificed to Moradin. The dak’qis of Kor’En Eamor’s last generation died here, at the hands of this solar. Perhaps they harbored love for Hepis in their hearts, or perhaps they supported Moradin out of duty rather than belief. Or, most chilling, perhaps they were simply too loyal—a true dak’qis, the first and best of His people.
The immortal has remained here ever since, contemplating the price of obedience, and slipping further into an abyss of regret, abandoned by Moradin even as he fulfilled the Father God’s last command.
Now, the celestial broods over the bodies of the fallen, and has lost his faith.
He has not, however, lost his memory, and was able to reveal more to us about this Uqaraq, the leader of the Hepis worshippers here in Kor’En Eamor. The Uqaraq is apparently an honorific given to the King’s right-hand dwarf. Uqaraq Aq Med is his full title, and he is sworn council to the Usurper God, and the temporal head of Hepis’ cult. Uqaraq is also a lich.
Marpenoth the 10th
The celestial has made a request of us. In the area to the East of his vigil are the Halls of the Dead. These were the halls where the deceased were interred, and their names were recorded in a great Book of the Dead. The celestial has requested that we retrieve this book, and take it from the Delve to some place of safety, in order that the names of the dwarves of Kor’En Eamor not be lost to time, but exist as a record of their lives
We have determined to aid the celestial, and I write this as my group prepares themselves for the expedition.
Marpenoth the 11th
If my handwriting has changed, it is because I have changed. Rather, I was slain and reincarnated. I’m not sure how to put this, and truth be told I am grappling with a profound life-altering event. I am, in the long and short of it, less long and more short. Two and one-half feet tall, to be precise. I am a gnome.
There it is.
I write it and I don’t even believe it. But it is true nonetheless, I have reincarnated as a gnome, of middling years. But on the inside, I have not changed—I remember everything from my former life and retain my skill with Spellcraft.
Ashara called a new body for my departed soul, through the blessing of her god, and now my handwriting is unrecognizable.
It occurs to me that this transformation explains the mystery of the Great Sage of the Deepen Forest, who penned his missives in two distinct hands, a well known matter of some debate amongst the scholars of the Emerald Method, scholars who I am sure any future readers will be well acquainted with. In particular the treatise The Seven Tides of the Sea King’s Tablets springs to mind.
But my present narrative compels me to return to it, and I shall have to ruminate upon the debates of the Emerald Method school at a later date.
I know you are probably saying to yourself, “get on with it, old man, tell us how you died”—but I must council you that in matters of narrative, the Shadowed Sage of Neverwinter Moor put it best, just before he was rended limb from limb by dire rats:
“How fitting and purposeful it seems, this world of ours, as my death arrives only just as the last of my life has been told. ”
For my part, I agree with the poet Lifsilven, who interpreted this to mean that time as we experience it (moving only in one direction, etc.) exists to provide us with the maximum amount of surprise, and that all authors of narrative (fictional or no) should contrive to follow the workings of the Gods, and the universe They have made for our edification, if not for our entertainment.
Our journey to the Halls of the Dead was made over water—in this instance long carved passages flooded by an elaborate aqueduct system stood in place of the mythical Fugue River. Even as I was contemplating the universality of the waterway as a symbol of transition, we were set upon by spirits of the drowned dead! It seems to me that those undead who die in water harbor an especially wicked hatred for the living. Certainly, these undead were terribly fierce, and it was only luck that prevented our rafts from capsizing.
My companions wrested the Book of the Dead from a group of undead dwarves beyond the waterway, who seemed to be re-enacting their last living days before the Dwarven Fall. I say ‘my companions’, because I was slain outright.
When I awoke, it was looking into the eyes of Ashara. She had reincarnated me, and here I stand, although not so high as I used to. I shall have to have a new stool, I think.
Nonetheless, the book is ours, and we are quite sure that we can put the thing to a use far closer to that of its original creators’ intent than the living-dead who guarded it.
Marpenoth the 16th
Upon our return to the celestial, we debated the best place of safety for the Book of the Dead. It was his wish, after all, that the names of Kor’En Eamor never be lost to whatever terrible future he has foreseen for this place.
The thing is a massive tome, and calling it a “book” does not do it justice. It is the height of a grown dwarf, and nearly twice again as thick. We are forced to carry it in a litter as one might a wounded companion.
We debated where to take the book, and in the end settled upon placing it within the care of the Lady Tesseril of Eveningstar, and so here we are. I suggested taking the tome to Candlekeep and the great libraries there, but some of our more militant Cormyrian members carried the argument.
I can only trust that our Lady Tesseril will take all appropriate care with this ancient and priceless artifact.
Marpenoth the 18th
Our journey back to the Delve was primarily uneventful, although our divinations indicated that Lord Ilthais is actively hunting for us. We have evaded him, and decided to explore the upper levels of the place.
We journeyed upwards to what we believe is the top of Kor’En Eamor, a level dedicated to the unique cold forging techniques that I will leave to more expert voices to detail.
What I will tell you is that the place is cold—frozen in fact, and occupied by a strange menagerie of bat-riding semi-humans. These creatures are as blind as their winged steeds and bloodthirsty, led by a terrible sorceress of foul temperament and bestial heritage. Do you recall the joke about having seen the medusa? Well, I have now seen one, and it is no laughing matter.
These bat riders made their lair inside the Great Delve, but hunted outside of it—they were masters of one of this place’s many portals.
Like all of Kor’En Eamor’s egresses, it gives onto a mountainside at the other end, and wonder of wonders, this portal has a still-extant city of dwarves living at the base of the mountain. They must be descendants of the First Dwarves. Tomorrow, we intend to face these dwarves and see what they might be about!
Marpenoth the 19th
We have returned from the dwarven city in one piece and somewhat the richer. They live in a strange world, occupied solely by dwarves, giants and abominations. They have no knowledge of magic or priest-craft, and behave entirely like a people whose culture is steeped in a deep and abiding shame.
They refer to Kor’En Eamor as “Hell”, and believe that the gods who live within are angry with them for some long forgotten sin. They have determined to make a show of their architectural abilities in an attempt to win back the lost favor of their gods. They have set the task for themselves that they will carve the entire mountain face into a great city—a sprawling dwarven place that will act as an offering of penance. Surely, they reason, their gods cannot but warm their hearts to them once they witness this wonder built of dwarven craft.
They received us well enough, though we seem more strange to them than we can possibly imagine. Their king took us in state, and once again I was able to play the interpreter.
It is worth noting that the ancient language of the dwarves is a living language amongst these people, and I am chastened to admit that my presupposition about the silibant ‘tsc’ was incorrect.
I now can state with some authority that rhyming prose was the custom, not the exception amongst these ancient dwarves, and should I live through this adventure, I have a bet to settle with a certain well-educated lady of my acquaintance.
Marpenoth the 22nd
I remain in our base camp, hoping to study the mysterious cold-forges, better acquaint myself with my new form, and avoid the necessity of acquiring a third identity! The rest of our group began to work their way back down toward All Roads Meet, exploring as they go. As of yet I have no word of their progress.
Marpenoth the 24th
Solitude plays tricks on my new eyes, else I am stalked by shadows. It is cold nearly all the time, my fire notwithstanding. I have no word of my companions. I only guess at the date, for I am frightened and must remain out of sight of the portal.
Dakkareth
First Post
Whoa. That's one heck of a journal. Reincarnation, book of the fallen, a fallen angel. And all that from a scholar's point of view making for great verisimilitude ...
And of course the fallen solar. this sure is a powerful image and it was one of the best installments so far ...
/me bows
-Dakkareth
And of course the fallen solar. this sure is a powerful image and it was one of the best installments so far ...
/me bows
-Dakkareth
(contact)
Explorer
Marpenoth the 26th
Thank the gods, they have returned for me! The top levels are all cut from the mountain’s ice cap, they report, and directly beneath the medusa’s lair they found the home of an impressive family of frost giants. These giants were led by a great shaman, a Dragon-Caller—this mystic hunts through a portal to an ice-world, and brings dragons of the cold under his thumb.
If Merkatha can be believed, she is as crafty as she is suspicious. The party gave battle to these giants, and several small dragons. But flush with the victory (and perhaps light-headed from loss of blood), Merkatha ventured deeper into the giant’s lair, searching for their treasure-trove.
What she found will haunt even one so hard-bitten as herself, I wager. She wandered into the clutches of a terrible wyrm—a frost-dragon of such great size and majesty that it certainly must be the progenitor of the dragons that fought by the side of the giants. The creature agreed to let Merkatha go free, provided she surrendered her magic items in supplication, then went to her companions and delivered up their magic and treasure as well! Merkatha agreed, divested herself of a fortune in hard-won magic, then took her opportunity to flee.
Merkatha fetched me from my hiding place to a hidden passage within the aqueducts that feed water to the Great Delve. There I was reunited with the band, and heard the whole of it. Not wanting an angry dragon at our backs (or our fronts, depending on one’s orientation), Ashara determined to summon Celestial help. She invoked an ancient contract between Lathander and the hosts of Heaven, and before my eyes an angel appeared! I cannot specify the type with any certainty, I am a Monstrologist, not a Celestialist after all.
The creature agreed to slay this dragon, but exacted a task from us in return—we are to travel directly to Storm’s Rise and kill Lord Ilthais! We confront him on the morrow.
Ashara and Selise have formed a daring plan—we will wind walk invisibly to the Lord’s Manor, use stone-shaping magic to enter, and put everyone within to the sword! It’s terribly frightful, but I am armed with several wands, and I hope to be of some small use.
Marpenoth the 26th
Victory is ours! The Lord’s men were forewarned, undoubtedly through vile blood-divinations made in Cyric’s name. Ilthais knew that we were the only stumbling block for his wicked hopes, and being an unusually dedicated cleric, he thought his foreknowledge might give him the advantage. I am glad to report that he was mistaken.
We set upon them, disrupting their formation by attacking from the rear of the building. As we had planned, we opened a hole in the rear wall of the keep through magical means and achieved complete surprise. We were able to destroy Ilthais’ reserves before his spell-casters could make themselves ready. Once the battle was joined in earnest, we attacked each other from range at either end of the long corridor connecting the foyer and the aviary, with a general melee erupting in the center of the hallway. Our foes seemed unable to respond effectively to the unexpected, and were forced to subject themselves to our superior archers in order to target us with spells.
Vai was our first and only casualty, and she fell holding the center of the hall, and keeping the Lord’s skirmishers off of our archers and spellcasters.
Lord Ilthais’ blackguard proved a true bully—a mean-spirited paper tiger. His terrifying aspect brought our combined attentions to bear, and I swear before the Gods that the man died before he was able to cause any harm. His fall seemed to finish off whatever thin morale the Lord’s henchmen had left. Soon the Lord was left to face the Gods’ judgement and our wrath alone. Ilthais was a terrible foe, and he called down death magics in the name of Cyric the way another man might scream curses at his enemies during a tavern-brawl, but we were triumphant.
When the sun set this evening, it set with the Lady Tess on the throne of Storm’s Rise once again! Praise Oghma, and praise Lathander!
The Mantle of Imiablulb is gone back to the Stonelands, in the possession of the hobgoblins we allied with, and there may it remain.
Uktar the 3rd
It has been less than a week, and I fear that the taste of our victory has gone to ashes in my mouth. Ashara, her man Baeren and the wizardess Bitzfit have fallen within the delve. To compound our trouble, we have had dire tidings of the war—our Southern forces are surrounded by Vesper Hall dwarves, and Cormyr looks soon to fall. The Hullackswood has fallen, although remnants of the Northern Cormyrian army use it as a base for small-band skirmishing, and Selise means to return to defend her ancestral seat. The Lady Tess travels with her, over my most stern objections. She has left me as seneschal and regent, but I administer a thin and sparse winter-town. We will wait out the snows as free Cormyrians, but I do not know what the Spring might bring.
I for one, will never set foot again within Kor’En Eamor so long as I shall live, so do I swear.
The Delve has destroyed our band, Storm’s Rise has been made a ghost-town, and should Ceredain Deathcaller awaken and turn her gaze to us, there are none left to oppose her. May Oghma guide my hand, and may He bear witness to the truths I have transcribed herein.
Thus ends this journal and monster-log, transcribed in its entirety by the Revered Helman Fith of Oghma, in the Year of the Long Night.
Thank the gods, they have returned for me! The top levels are all cut from the mountain’s ice cap, they report, and directly beneath the medusa’s lair they found the home of an impressive family of frost giants. These giants were led by a great shaman, a Dragon-Caller—this mystic hunts through a portal to an ice-world, and brings dragons of the cold under his thumb.
If Merkatha can be believed, she is as crafty as she is suspicious. The party gave battle to these giants, and several small dragons. But flush with the victory (and perhaps light-headed from loss of blood), Merkatha ventured deeper into the giant’s lair, searching for their treasure-trove.
What she found will haunt even one so hard-bitten as herself, I wager. She wandered into the clutches of a terrible wyrm—a frost-dragon of such great size and majesty that it certainly must be the progenitor of the dragons that fought by the side of the giants. The creature agreed to let Merkatha go free, provided she surrendered her magic items in supplication, then went to her companions and delivered up their magic and treasure as well! Merkatha agreed, divested herself of a fortune in hard-won magic, then took her opportunity to flee.
Merkatha fetched me from my hiding place to a hidden passage within the aqueducts that feed water to the Great Delve. There I was reunited with the band, and heard the whole of it. Not wanting an angry dragon at our backs (or our fronts, depending on one’s orientation), Ashara determined to summon Celestial help. She invoked an ancient contract between Lathander and the hosts of Heaven, and before my eyes an angel appeared! I cannot specify the type with any certainty, I am a Monstrologist, not a Celestialist after all.
The creature agreed to slay this dragon, but exacted a task from us in return—we are to travel directly to Storm’s Rise and kill Lord Ilthais! We confront him on the morrow.
Ashara and Selise have formed a daring plan—we will wind walk invisibly to the Lord’s Manor, use stone-shaping magic to enter, and put everyone within to the sword! It’s terribly frightful, but I am armed with several wands, and I hope to be of some small use.
Marpenoth the 26th
Victory is ours! The Lord’s men were forewarned, undoubtedly through vile blood-divinations made in Cyric’s name. Ilthais knew that we were the only stumbling block for his wicked hopes, and being an unusually dedicated cleric, he thought his foreknowledge might give him the advantage. I am glad to report that he was mistaken.
We set upon them, disrupting their formation by attacking from the rear of the building. As we had planned, we opened a hole in the rear wall of the keep through magical means and achieved complete surprise. We were able to destroy Ilthais’ reserves before his spell-casters could make themselves ready. Once the battle was joined in earnest, we attacked each other from range at either end of the long corridor connecting the foyer and the aviary, with a general melee erupting in the center of the hallway. Our foes seemed unable to respond effectively to the unexpected, and were forced to subject themselves to our superior archers in order to target us with spells.
Vai was our first and only casualty, and she fell holding the center of the hall, and keeping the Lord’s skirmishers off of our archers and spellcasters.
Lord Ilthais’ blackguard proved a true bully—a mean-spirited paper tiger. His terrifying aspect brought our combined attentions to bear, and I swear before the Gods that the man died before he was able to cause any harm. His fall seemed to finish off whatever thin morale the Lord’s henchmen had left. Soon the Lord was left to face the Gods’ judgement and our wrath alone. Ilthais was a terrible foe, and he called down death magics in the name of Cyric the way another man might scream curses at his enemies during a tavern-brawl, but we were triumphant.
When the sun set this evening, it set with the Lady Tess on the throne of Storm’s Rise once again! Praise Oghma, and praise Lathander!
The Mantle of Imiablulb is gone back to the Stonelands, in the possession of the hobgoblins we allied with, and there may it remain.
Uktar the 3rd
It has been less than a week, and I fear that the taste of our victory has gone to ashes in my mouth. Ashara, her man Baeren and the wizardess Bitzfit have fallen within the delve. To compound our trouble, we have had dire tidings of the war—our Southern forces are surrounded by Vesper Hall dwarves, and Cormyr looks soon to fall. The Hullackswood has fallen, although remnants of the Northern Cormyrian army use it as a base for small-band skirmishing, and Selise means to return to defend her ancestral seat. The Lady Tess travels with her, over my most stern objections. She has left me as seneschal and regent, but I administer a thin and sparse winter-town. We will wait out the snows as free Cormyrians, but I do not know what the Spring might bring.
I for one, will never set foot again within Kor’En Eamor so long as I shall live, so do I swear.
The Delve has destroyed our band, Storm’s Rise has been made a ghost-town, and should Ceredain Deathcaller awaken and turn her gaze to us, there are none left to oppose her. May Oghma guide my hand, and may He bear witness to the truths I have transcribed herein.
Thus ends this journal and monster-log, transcribed in its entirety by the Revered Helman Fith of Oghma, in the Year of the Long Night.
(contact)
Explorer
Thus it endeth. Here is a repost of section 73:
-----
73—Old enemies have new friends, and old friends have none.
“Alvodar?” Taran says. “That name is familiar.”
“It must be a coincidence,” Thelbar says. “We knew of an Alvodar who took the name Cursebreaker, but he was not from this world, nor from this lifetime. His name was given to us in conjunction with another abandoned dwarven Delve.”
“Really?” Ashnern asks. “Kor’En Eamor is a portal to many worlds. Alvodar was the last king of this place, but his appellation was false, I’m sad to say.”
“Wait a minute,” Taran says. “Are you telling me that this is the same damned delve?”
“I am not telling you anything,” Ashnern begins, taking a sagely breath and raising one finger into the air. “Rather . . .”
“Our dragon!” Taran interrupts the gnome.
“Dragon? What dragon?” Gorquen asks.
“The adventurers that I was advising faced several dragons within the Delve,” Ashnern says. “There was a nest of frost wyrms, an entire family. They were under the care of a giant mystic. I recall it well, though I never saw them.”
Gorquen looks at Taran. “What dragon?” she asks.
“While you and Indy were helping the druid,” Taran says. “We let a dragon slip through our fingers.”
“Did you just say ‘Indy’?” Ashnern asks softly.
“You remember the fight differently than I do brother,” Thelbar says. “We were lucky to escape with our lives.”
“But that dirt worm killed Rex!” Taran protests. “We hate it, don’t we Thel?”
Thelbar nods. “We do.”
“Oh, that dragon,” Gorquen says.
Ashnern lights a candle, and leads the group into a large library. “I have many artifacts and rubbings taken from the Delve. I have translated them, and compiled them onto scrolls, for ease of reference. The ancient dwarves kept no tomes, preferring to record anything of importance onto stone. But Alvodar kept books—a product of his association with humans and elves, I believe. One in particular you may find illuminating. I did not recognize your names at first, but now I do. Here we are,” he says, carefully opening an thick leather-bound book.
The gnome clears his throat and reads aloud. “The humans Taran and Thelbar defeated Axultur, Scourge of Greshk and Father of a Thousand Burning Nights—and that is where our Lord Alvodar tasted death for a second and final time, praise his name with stone and steel.” Ashnern looks at the stunned adventurers. “It continues as you might expect . . . his body brought back to the mines by friends, his life story recorded, the usual state burial. They entomb him with this very book.”
Ashnern flips forward through the pages. “Here his eyes open, and he resumes the narrative himself. He writes, ‘She is alive, alive beyond death. The name that Moradin kept from my ears, I have seen her. Indy swore she died in her struggles, but now she has brought me to her. I must silence the call. I must confront her and give her peace.’” Ashnern looks at his audience. “Merkatha found this book—it was in the tomb of Alvodar Cursebreaker, Last King of Kor’En Eamor.”
“Alvodar was from our world!” Gorquen says. “An outsider like us! And he knew you.”
“And that bastard dragon is in there,” Taran says.
-----
Thelbar and Gorquen remain with the gnome to look over his scholarly notes, while Taran and Elgin Trezler seek out the sole remaining witness to the Great Delve—a drow woman by the name of Merkatha. They find her sitting alone with her feet on a table in Storm’s Rise’s only inn. She is lithe and haggard, her elven features made ugly by the heavy scarring that mars her face and neck. Several knife handles protrude from her plain clothing and the tops of her filthy boots. She stares at the two adventurers balefully as they enter.
“Whatever you’re after, you don’t want it. Go away,” she says in greeting.
Taran removes his swords, and sets them on the table in front of her as he seats himself. “We are here on the authority of Cormyr, and we’re here to investigate the Great Delve.”
“Well, I didn’t think you were here for the scenery,” she snarls.
“Please, Merkatha, tell us what you know,” Elgin says soothingly as he sits down.
“How many months you got?” she says.
“All of them,” Taran says.
“I’ve seen a half-score of adventurers like you lost in that Delve. And they all went in bright-eyed and bushy tailed. They died screaming, or they didn’t see it coming. But they’re all dead now,” she puts her feet on the ground. “So f--k off.”
“We are all hardened adventurers, Merkatha,” Elgin says.
Taran leans toward her. “He’s right. You know, I walk around bunched up like a spring all the time. In a place like the Delve, I kill everything I see, and I get to be free. Along the way, I do some good for some people, and I get rich. Whatever’s in that Delve, it oughta be worried about me.”
The drow snorts. “I’m touched.”
Elgin smiles at her. “Please, Merkatha, tell us what you know about the Delve. We are seasoned adventurers, not amateurs new to our weapons and prayer books.”
“That’s what everybody says,” Merkatha growls.
“Oh yeah?” Taran reaches out and unsheathes Arunshee’s Kiss. The keen sword is so sharp that it whines as he passes it through the air. “Is this everybody’s sword?”
Merkatha watches him with disdain. “That is a fine weapon. Do you mean to torture me with it?”
Taran laughs. “I don’t torture people, sister. I kick a$s, and I walk point in the baddest adventuring group you’ve never heard of.”
“Do you know traps?”
“Only the hard way,” Taran smiles. “I don’t do traps. I make the bad people wish they weren’t, and I do it with style.”
“You won’t last a single day walking point in the Delve, human. You should read Fernal’s journal. I watched him die.”
“It seems the suffering of others is the only thing that loosens your tongue,” Elgin scolds. “You are forthcoming with dire predictions, yet you will not give aid to those who seek the Good.”
“There’s a whole other world out there, Merkatha,” Taran says. “Puppies, sunrises and falling in love in springtime.”
“I don’t believe in such a world.”
“You are not wise,” Elgin says.
“A wise man would be afraid of that Delve,” she replies.
Taran snorts. “A wise Delve would be afraid of us.”
“Say that to Ceredain when she takes you.” Merkatha stares at Taran.
“I will.”
“You won’t have the breath.”
“I will.”
“You won’t.”
“Really,” Elgin says, exasperated. “What can we do to assure your aid?”
Merkatha stares at Taran for a moment, then turns to Elgin. “Can you raise the dead?”
“I can,” Elgin says. “But the soul must embrace the pasoun.”
Merkatha rolls her eyes. “Of course they must agree with you. You are faithful, after all. Myself, I used to worship Kiransalee.”
Taran cocks his head, and places his hands on the table. “That’s what they call a bad answer, Merkatha.”
“But, the bitch never came through,” she says. “So now I worship Shelvaras.”
Taran laughs, relaxing. “That’s an even worse answer. Gods be good, but you’re dumb as a stone. Shlevaras hates only one thing more than he hates us, and that’s the drow.”
Merkatha shrugs.
“Your friend,” Elgin says. “Where is his body?”
“Mixed up with fur and firewine in a pile of gnoll sh-t, I imagine,” Merkatha says. “He died in the delve.”
-----
Over the next two days, Thelbar pores over the research provided by Ashnern the sage. Merkatha finally relents, and agrees to accompany the party into the Delve, provided they do what they can to recover and raise the bodies of her fallen friends. Taran emerges from his room one sunny morning, and proudly shows Gorquen the drow sign that Merkatha has been teaching him. There’s more than 10, he signs. Run for your life and Every man for himself. “Isn’t it great?” Taran asks. “Merkatha says I’ve got the basics.”
Merkatha also produces the journal of “Fearless” ‘Fernal, an adventuring companion of hers that kept a day-to-day account of his experiences within Kor’En Eamor. The bloodstained and heavily gnawed-upon journal proves light reading, and within a day, all four members of the adventuring party have read through it at least once.
-----
“That Dragon Caller,” Taran says. “He had several dragons under his control, and you killed all but the big one, right?” Taran and Merkatha stand on a balcony outside of Ashnern’s study. Taran paces, but Merkatha leans on the stone rail overlooking the outer pavillion. Inside, Thelbar and Ashnern are discussing the translation of the Dwarven writings discovered within the Great Delve.
“That’s right,” Merkatha says. “The big one came after us, and the priest summoned a Celestial to deal with it. In exchange, we were to get rid of Lord Ilthais, which we did.”
“But you didn’t see it die.”
“I saw an angel swear to kill it, isn’t that enough?”
“Let’s hope not,” Taran grins. “That bastard dragon owes me blood.”
Merkatha pauses for a moment, and spits into the air over the rail. “Didn’t say whose blood, dumb f--k. You know, your accent is familiar. I couldn’t place it at first, because you’ve always got something big to say about yourself, and you never talk smart. But I met somebody who sounds just like you and your owl-eyed brother. T’sdeal, her name was. We found her where the gnolls got ‘Fernal, and she said she came in a portal from her world. Maybe you should go have you a look, and then you can shut the f--k up.” And with that, Merkatha leaps over the edge, and disappears into the night.
-----
73—Old enemies have new friends, and old friends have none.
“Alvodar?” Taran says. “That name is familiar.”
“It must be a coincidence,” Thelbar says. “We knew of an Alvodar who took the name Cursebreaker, but he was not from this world, nor from this lifetime. His name was given to us in conjunction with another abandoned dwarven Delve.”
“Really?” Ashnern asks. “Kor’En Eamor is a portal to many worlds. Alvodar was the last king of this place, but his appellation was false, I’m sad to say.”
“Wait a minute,” Taran says. “Are you telling me that this is the same damned delve?”
“I am not telling you anything,” Ashnern begins, taking a sagely breath and raising one finger into the air. “Rather . . .”
“Our dragon!” Taran interrupts the gnome.
“Dragon? What dragon?” Gorquen asks.
“The adventurers that I was advising faced several dragons within the Delve,” Ashnern says. “There was a nest of frost wyrms, an entire family. They were under the care of a giant mystic. I recall it well, though I never saw them.”
Gorquen looks at Taran. “What dragon?” she asks.
“While you and Indy were helping the druid,” Taran says. “We let a dragon slip through our fingers.”
“Did you just say ‘Indy’?” Ashnern asks softly.
“You remember the fight differently than I do brother,” Thelbar says. “We were lucky to escape with our lives.”
“But that dirt worm killed Rex!” Taran protests. “We hate it, don’t we Thel?”
Thelbar nods. “We do.”
“Oh, that dragon,” Gorquen says.
Ashnern lights a candle, and leads the group into a large library. “I have many artifacts and rubbings taken from the Delve. I have translated them, and compiled them onto scrolls, for ease of reference. The ancient dwarves kept no tomes, preferring to record anything of importance onto stone. But Alvodar kept books—a product of his association with humans and elves, I believe. One in particular you may find illuminating. I did not recognize your names at first, but now I do. Here we are,” he says, carefully opening an thick leather-bound book.
The gnome clears his throat and reads aloud. “The humans Taran and Thelbar defeated Axultur, Scourge of Greshk and Father of a Thousand Burning Nights—and that is where our Lord Alvodar tasted death for a second and final time, praise his name with stone and steel.” Ashnern looks at the stunned adventurers. “It continues as you might expect . . . his body brought back to the mines by friends, his life story recorded, the usual state burial. They entomb him with this very book.”
Ashnern flips forward through the pages. “Here his eyes open, and he resumes the narrative himself. He writes, ‘She is alive, alive beyond death. The name that Moradin kept from my ears, I have seen her. Indy swore she died in her struggles, but now she has brought me to her. I must silence the call. I must confront her and give her peace.’” Ashnern looks at his audience. “Merkatha found this book—it was in the tomb of Alvodar Cursebreaker, Last King of Kor’En Eamor.”
“Alvodar was from our world!” Gorquen says. “An outsider like us! And he knew you.”
“And that bastard dragon is in there,” Taran says.
-----
Thelbar and Gorquen remain with the gnome to look over his scholarly notes, while Taran and Elgin Trezler seek out the sole remaining witness to the Great Delve—a drow woman by the name of Merkatha. They find her sitting alone with her feet on a table in Storm’s Rise’s only inn. She is lithe and haggard, her elven features made ugly by the heavy scarring that mars her face and neck. Several knife handles protrude from her plain clothing and the tops of her filthy boots. She stares at the two adventurers balefully as they enter.
“Whatever you’re after, you don’t want it. Go away,” she says in greeting.
Taran removes his swords, and sets them on the table in front of her as he seats himself. “We are here on the authority of Cormyr, and we’re here to investigate the Great Delve.”
“Well, I didn’t think you were here for the scenery,” she snarls.
“Please, Merkatha, tell us what you know,” Elgin says soothingly as he sits down.
“How many months you got?” she says.
“All of them,” Taran says.
“I’ve seen a half-score of adventurers like you lost in that Delve. And they all went in bright-eyed and bushy tailed. They died screaming, or they didn’t see it coming. But they’re all dead now,” she puts her feet on the ground. “So f--k off.”
“We are all hardened adventurers, Merkatha,” Elgin says.
Taran leans toward her. “He’s right. You know, I walk around bunched up like a spring all the time. In a place like the Delve, I kill everything I see, and I get to be free. Along the way, I do some good for some people, and I get rich. Whatever’s in that Delve, it oughta be worried about me.”
The drow snorts. “I’m touched.”
Elgin smiles at her. “Please, Merkatha, tell us what you know about the Delve. We are seasoned adventurers, not amateurs new to our weapons and prayer books.”
“That’s what everybody says,” Merkatha growls.
“Oh yeah?” Taran reaches out and unsheathes Arunshee’s Kiss. The keen sword is so sharp that it whines as he passes it through the air. “Is this everybody’s sword?”
Merkatha watches him with disdain. “That is a fine weapon. Do you mean to torture me with it?”
Taran laughs. “I don’t torture people, sister. I kick a$s, and I walk point in the baddest adventuring group you’ve never heard of.”
“Do you know traps?”
“Only the hard way,” Taran smiles. “I don’t do traps. I make the bad people wish they weren’t, and I do it with style.”
“You won’t last a single day walking point in the Delve, human. You should read Fernal’s journal. I watched him die.”
“It seems the suffering of others is the only thing that loosens your tongue,” Elgin scolds. “You are forthcoming with dire predictions, yet you will not give aid to those who seek the Good.”
“There’s a whole other world out there, Merkatha,” Taran says. “Puppies, sunrises and falling in love in springtime.”
“I don’t believe in such a world.”
“You are not wise,” Elgin says.
“A wise man would be afraid of that Delve,” she replies.
Taran snorts. “A wise Delve would be afraid of us.”
“Say that to Ceredain when she takes you.” Merkatha stares at Taran.
“I will.”
“You won’t have the breath.”
“I will.”
“You won’t.”
“Really,” Elgin says, exasperated. “What can we do to assure your aid?”
Merkatha stares at Taran for a moment, then turns to Elgin. “Can you raise the dead?”
“I can,” Elgin says. “But the soul must embrace the pasoun.”
Merkatha rolls her eyes. “Of course they must agree with you. You are faithful, after all. Myself, I used to worship Kiransalee.”
Taran cocks his head, and places his hands on the table. “That’s what they call a bad answer, Merkatha.”
“But, the bitch never came through,” she says. “So now I worship Shelvaras.”
Taran laughs, relaxing. “That’s an even worse answer. Gods be good, but you’re dumb as a stone. Shlevaras hates only one thing more than he hates us, and that’s the drow.”
Merkatha shrugs.
“Your friend,” Elgin says. “Where is his body?”
“Mixed up with fur and firewine in a pile of gnoll sh-t, I imagine,” Merkatha says. “He died in the delve.”
-----
Over the next two days, Thelbar pores over the research provided by Ashnern the sage. Merkatha finally relents, and agrees to accompany the party into the Delve, provided they do what they can to recover and raise the bodies of her fallen friends. Taran emerges from his room one sunny morning, and proudly shows Gorquen the drow sign that Merkatha has been teaching him. There’s more than 10, he signs. Run for your life and Every man for himself. “Isn’t it great?” Taran asks. “Merkatha says I’ve got the basics.”
Merkatha also produces the journal of “Fearless” ‘Fernal, an adventuring companion of hers that kept a day-to-day account of his experiences within Kor’En Eamor. The bloodstained and heavily gnawed-upon journal proves light reading, and within a day, all four members of the adventuring party have read through it at least once.
-----
“That Dragon Caller,” Taran says. “He had several dragons under his control, and you killed all but the big one, right?” Taran and Merkatha stand on a balcony outside of Ashnern’s study. Taran paces, but Merkatha leans on the stone rail overlooking the outer pavillion. Inside, Thelbar and Ashnern are discussing the translation of the Dwarven writings discovered within the Great Delve.
“That’s right,” Merkatha says. “The big one came after us, and the priest summoned a Celestial to deal with it. In exchange, we were to get rid of Lord Ilthais, which we did.”
“But you didn’t see it die.”
“I saw an angel swear to kill it, isn’t that enough?”
“Let’s hope not,” Taran grins. “That bastard dragon owes me blood.”
Merkatha pauses for a moment, and spits into the air over the rail. “Didn’t say whose blood, dumb f--k. You know, your accent is familiar. I couldn’t place it at first, because you’ve always got something big to say about yourself, and you never talk smart. But I met somebody who sounds just like you and your owl-eyed brother. T’sdeal, her name was. We found her where the gnolls got ‘Fernal, and she said she came in a portal from her world. Maybe you should go have you a look, and then you can shut the f--k up.” And with that, Merkatha leaps over the edge, and disappears into the night.
(contact)
Explorer
74—Into the Delve, For Once and For All (Part II).
Elgin Trezler prepares several divinations the morning of the group’s foray. He secludes himself for several hours, and emerges with little news. It is true that there is a fallen goddess within the Delve by the name of Ceredain Death-Caller, and it is true that the Delve itself contains portals to every world known to dwarvenkind. But any questions beyond the surface are turned away—apparently Lathander’s light does not shine in the Delve and its mysteries are unknown even to the God of the Morning.
Elgin suggests to the group that the Delve itself is likely a place between places—a timeless demi-plane of Moradin’s making. If his assumptions are correct, the group should not expect the laws of physics and magic to necessarily operate as would be expected.
-----
Metagame note: When thinking about Elgin’s approach to casting divinations, we were discussing the likelihood that he had done some “hardcore adventuring”:
DM: Elgin did cut his teeth in Myth Drannor.
Me: Yeah, the single worst place in Faerun.
DM: (Pauses) Until now.
-----
The party follows Merkatha’s lead up the mountain pass that terminates at the entrance to Kor’En Eamor. They pass through the gates, and stare down the length of the Great Highway—a grand passage some twenty feet wide and twice that in height, perfectly level and perfectly straight. According to ‘Fernal’s maps, the highway is well over a mile long.
Merkatha checks that the mechanisms disabling the trap are activated and the party moves cautiously toward the Great Hall of Kings. Upon their arrival, the group fans out and begins to inspect the elaborate dwarven mosaics depicting generations of artisans, warriors and sages gravely contemplating the elaborate stone throne that fills the center of the place. The hall is huge, extending in all directions beyond the party’s darkvision, the light from the gigantic dwarven statues reported in ‘Fernal’s diary no longer present.
Taran, for his part, is staring into the air. “Gods,” he says. He removes his goggles of see invisible and turns to his brother. “Thel, did you see that?”
“I did.” Thelbar says, frowning.
“What is the problem?” Elgin asks in a concerned tone as he jogs over to where the brothers are conferring.
“There’s no problem here,” Taran says as he draws his swords. “But Cyric sends his regards!”
Elgin gasps and stumbles back, his eyes wide and white with fear. He throws his hands up, prepared to fend off the killing blow or defend himself with a spell, but the attack never comes. Taran is bent at the waist, choking back tears of laughter.
“Oh Gods, you should have seen your face,” Taran says. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I met you. You know how in the songs the good guy always gets into the dungeon before his new friends turn out to be dirty traitors? Holy sh-t, that was funny.”
“Taran,” Thelbar admonishes. “Stop it.”
“Well, I fell for it,” Elgin says, his grin returning to his face.
“You’re one of those, are you?” Merkatha growls at Taran. “If Ceredain has any mercy in her, she’ll take you first. F-cking amateurs.” Merkatha moves away from the group, slipping into a hiding place along the base of one of the massive dwarven statues.
“Seriously, Elgin—put these on.” Taran hands Elgin his goggles of see invisible. “No joke.”
Elgin places the goggles over his head, and his smile fades instantly. He looks about him, turning his neck rapidly to and fro. “What are . . . Lathander’s Light . . . these are souls,” he says.
“Souls of the dead,” Thelbar says. “I cannot count them all.”
Dwarves, old and young. Everywhere dwarves. Children, women, warriors and priests. Giants and goblins, a rare few humans and strange nameless abominations from the earth’s depths. Older souls still are mixed in, unrecognizable and without concrete form as the eons grind all mortal memory away. Thousands upon thousands of these souls, trapped within the entropic womb of Ceredain Lifegiver, listlessly wandering and searching for release. They are invisible to the naked eye, but with magical sight they are seen to be everywhere. There must be tens of thousands of them throuought the Delve.
“If you didn’t know before,” Taran says. “Now you know. Don’t die here.”
-----
When Taran retrieves his goggles, Thelbar draws him toward the great throne at the center of the hall. There, standing behind it are twenty-one dwarven kings. Majestic and regal, they silently stare at the empty seat, seemingly oblivious to the passage of mortals before their gaze.
“They look like they are expecting someone,” Thelbar says.
“I hate to dissapoint them, but whatever they want, it ain’t gonna happen,” Taran says with a shiver. “This dungeon is going down.”
-----
Merkatha leads the party through a series of ceremonial chambers and out into a massive underground cavern. The place is given over to a riot of underdark flora, and she leads them through it , showing them the tracks of the adventuring groups who had gone before, preserved for an eternity in the mausoleum-like space. She shows them the steps that lead to the halls of the Filas Hali, and where Hepis the Great’s proclamation of Godhood is carved in the altar of mysterious translucent steel. She takes the group across a shattered bridge spanning a deep chasm and into the tunnels that served as the lair of the gnolls that made a meal of Fearless ‘Fernal, and guarded the portal to T’sdeal’s world. Thelbar repairs the break in the bridge with a wall of stone, and the party is able to walk across.
The group finds the halls empty save for the corpses of the dead, already half-scavenged by the spores and growths of the Fungal Forest. They pass through the area, and discover the portal just where Merkatha suggested it would be, a stone double door that stands open to a strange, orange sky.
The air beyond the portal is salty and much warmer than the cool cavern interior. An unrecognizable and unpleasant odor teases the nose, lurking beneath the common grave-smell of a battlefield. Immediately beyond the portal’s opening lie the last remnants of what must have been a great army, fallen unremembered into the salted earth.
The party emerges into the heat and warm orange light, remaining on guard and glancing at one another. Taran is uncharacteristically silent as he picks his way through the bones and corpses of the field, examining weapons and discarded bits of gear, even prying battle-standards from the fingers of the dead. He holds up an Ishlokian crescent-moon banner—gold against black, only slightly changed from the ones flown by the Ishlokians near Ratik. A few minutes later he recovers a second banner, this one depicting a silver dragon rampant against a grey ziggurat. He exchanges a wordless look with Thelbar, and places the war-standard around his shoulders.
“Is this Isk? ” Thelbar thinks to his brother through their telepathic bond.
“I am sure of it, ” Taran replies. “I have been here before.”
A furtive movement betrays the location of a living man amongst the corpses—ragged and disheveled. The wretch looks to flee, but Taran springs forward and seizes him. As he is grabbed, the man falls to his knees.
“Mercy Lord, mercy,” he croaks in a broken and strangely accented Isthenian. “I was just hungry is all. I mean no disrespect to the dead.”
“How did you . . . how did this come to be?” Taran asks him, and the man reluctantly begins to answer questions. He was scavenging for food, he claims, and has broken his people’s taboo against coming near the delve. The place is a battle site, but greater terrors than mortal combat struck down the men scattered under the sun.
Two armies clashed here, he says, Ishlokains and what he calls “King’s men” like himself—an usurper King had claimed a lineage leading back to the Ishlokian Imperial throne using the name Tar-Ilou, and had fought a long war to impress his claim and seize the throne of the greatest military power of its age. The Tar-Ilou house was the line of the previous Emperor of Ishlok, a family believed to have been extinguished through murder—wiped out to the last mother and infant when the current Imperial lineage ascended.
The Ishlokians caught the would-be Emperor here, encamped before the Great Delve, as the King thought to find allies within the dwarven redoubt. Recent setbacks had caused him to grow desperate, and he was frantically searching for some means to tip the scales back in his favor. But there were no allies to be had within Kor’En Eamor, and the gates to the Delve would not open through magic or force. The Ishlokians caught the Tar-Ilou King with his back to the Delve and crushed his forces at its gates, leading the usurper away in chains.
Looking back, the man says, he and the other soldiers believed the worst to be over. They had been defeated in honorable battle, and hoped to go home. But such fantasies were not to be. The Ishlokians put most of the usurper’s soldiers to the sword, conscripts and career soldiers alike. Those they spared were enslaved and set to work building a siege-camp—the Ishlokians meant to take the Delve themselves. Days turned into weeks, and still no means to enter Kor’En Eamor could be found.
Then, one bright morning, the gates opened.
A lone dwarf emerged—even from a great distance his gold and silver raiment could be seen to reflect the sun. He spoke words, gave some speech that the man could not hear at a distance, and then a great black cloud emerged from the Delve. It looked like smoke at first, but obeyed no wind. It rolled out over the Ishlokian camp, covering the ground like water rushing forth from a burst dam.
The man tells them that he only escaped by being far enough away from the entrance to outrun the cloud. Other men who were less quick to flee did not survive. The cloud killed every living thing it touched, man, animal or plant. Since that day, the bodies do not decompose—the earth will not accept them, and nothing will grow. The survivors make a meager life for themselves but they are all starving, and their meager numbers decrease every day.
Taran is stunned by the man’s tale. He wanders away, looking over the bodies of the fallen, pausing to examine this or that trinket. Thelbar regards the man. “Your tale is terrible, indeed,” he says. “But why do you not leave this place?”
The man looks quizzically at Thelbar. “All places are like this. Even so far as the Veiled City, no man lives but on what he can take from others, like yourselves.”
“We are not bandits, friend,” Thelbar says.
“Your weapons tell me otherwise, Lord,” the man replies.
“We are adventurers, from faraway lands,” Gorquen interjects. “What wealth we have, we have earned rightfully, and the only being with cause to fear us is a wicked being.”
The haggard man regards Gorquen thoughtfully. “Do you have food?” he asks.
Taran interrupts her and turns the man to face him. “What is the Veiled City?”
“The City of Mists, sir?” The man replies. “The Floating Palace? It is a great sea-port, or it was—three hundred miles to the south and west. The city is gone now, sir.”
“It is destroyed?”
“No sir, it is not there at all. Perhaps the Goddess bore it away to safety when she abandoned us. There is nothing here, there or in between. There is nowhere to go.”
Taran looks at Thelbar. “Is this possible? ” he thinks. “Could magic accomplish this much devestation? ”
Gorquen reaches into her pouch and hands the man a silk-wrapped ration of dried fruit and trail-bread. “This is elven bread, human, and you will never taste its equal.”
“It is possible.”
The man seems stunned. He warily tastes the fruit, then begins to wolf the portion down.
“I have meat for him if he wants it,” Merkatha says, producing skewers of dried jerky with the rat-tail still attached.
“Then you need to learn that spell, brother. ”
Thelbar watches the haggard man attack his small portion of trail-food, and begins to translate his story for Elgin and Merkatha.
“I am confused,” Elgin says. “This Tar-Ilou was you?”
“Or my brother,” Thelbar says. “Or some other Tar-Ilou entirely who happened to adventure with Alvodar Cursebreaker, Last King of Kor’En Eamor.” Thelbar looks back toward the Great Delve. “But I suspect it was my brother. He was always over-confident in his friendships.”
Elgin Trezler prepares several divinations the morning of the group’s foray. He secludes himself for several hours, and emerges with little news. It is true that there is a fallen goddess within the Delve by the name of Ceredain Death-Caller, and it is true that the Delve itself contains portals to every world known to dwarvenkind. But any questions beyond the surface are turned away—apparently Lathander’s light does not shine in the Delve and its mysteries are unknown even to the God of the Morning.
Elgin suggests to the group that the Delve itself is likely a place between places—a timeless demi-plane of Moradin’s making. If his assumptions are correct, the group should not expect the laws of physics and magic to necessarily operate as would be expected.
-----
Metagame note: When thinking about Elgin’s approach to casting divinations, we were discussing the likelihood that he had done some “hardcore adventuring”:
DM: Elgin did cut his teeth in Myth Drannor.
Me: Yeah, the single worst place in Faerun.
DM: (Pauses) Until now.
-----
The party follows Merkatha’s lead up the mountain pass that terminates at the entrance to Kor’En Eamor. They pass through the gates, and stare down the length of the Great Highway—a grand passage some twenty feet wide and twice that in height, perfectly level and perfectly straight. According to ‘Fernal’s maps, the highway is well over a mile long.
Merkatha checks that the mechanisms disabling the trap are activated and the party moves cautiously toward the Great Hall of Kings. Upon their arrival, the group fans out and begins to inspect the elaborate dwarven mosaics depicting generations of artisans, warriors and sages gravely contemplating the elaborate stone throne that fills the center of the place. The hall is huge, extending in all directions beyond the party’s darkvision, the light from the gigantic dwarven statues reported in ‘Fernal’s diary no longer present.
Taran, for his part, is staring into the air. “Gods,” he says. He removes his goggles of see invisible and turns to his brother. “Thel, did you see that?”
“I did.” Thelbar says, frowning.
“What is the problem?” Elgin asks in a concerned tone as he jogs over to where the brothers are conferring.
“There’s no problem here,” Taran says as he draws his swords. “But Cyric sends his regards!”
Elgin gasps and stumbles back, his eyes wide and white with fear. He throws his hands up, prepared to fend off the killing blow or defend himself with a spell, but the attack never comes. Taran is bent at the waist, choking back tears of laughter.
“Oh Gods, you should have seen your face,” Taran says. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I met you. You know how in the songs the good guy always gets into the dungeon before his new friends turn out to be dirty traitors? Holy sh-t, that was funny.”
“Taran,” Thelbar admonishes. “Stop it.”
“Well, I fell for it,” Elgin says, his grin returning to his face.
“You’re one of those, are you?” Merkatha growls at Taran. “If Ceredain has any mercy in her, she’ll take you first. F-cking amateurs.” Merkatha moves away from the group, slipping into a hiding place along the base of one of the massive dwarven statues.
“Seriously, Elgin—put these on.” Taran hands Elgin his goggles of see invisible. “No joke.”
Elgin places the goggles over his head, and his smile fades instantly. He looks about him, turning his neck rapidly to and fro. “What are . . . Lathander’s Light . . . these are souls,” he says.
“Souls of the dead,” Thelbar says. “I cannot count them all.”
Dwarves, old and young. Everywhere dwarves. Children, women, warriors and priests. Giants and goblins, a rare few humans and strange nameless abominations from the earth’s depths. Older souls still are mixed in, unrecognizable and without concrete form as the eons grind all mortal memory away. Thousands upon thousands of these souls, trapped within the entropic womb of Ceredain Lifegiver, listlessly wandering and searching for release. They are invisible to the naked eye, but with magical sight they are seen to be everywhere. There must be tens of thousands of them throuought the Delve.
“If you didn’t know before,” Taran says. “Now you know. Don’t die here.”
-----
When Taran retrieves his goggles, Thelbar draws him toward the great throne at the center of the hall. There, standing behind it are twenty-one dwarven kings. Majestic and regal, they silently stare at the empty seat, seemingly oblivious to the passage of mortals before their gaze.
“They look like they are expecting someone,” Thelbar says.
“I hate to dissapoint them, but whatever they want, it ain’t gonna happen,” Taran says with a shiver. “This dungeon is going down.”
-----
Merkatha leads the party through a series of ceremonial chambers and out into a massive underground cavern. The place is given over to a riot of underdark flora, and she leads them through it , showing them the tracks of the adventuring groups who had gone before, preserved for an eternity in the mausoleum-like space. She shows them the steps that lead to the halls of the Filas Hali, and where Hepis the Great’s proclamation of Godhood is carved in the altar of mysterious translucent steel. She takes the group across a shattered bridge spanning a deep chasm and into the tunnels that served as the lair of the gnolls that made a meal of Fearless ‘Fernal, and guarded the portal to T’sdeal’s world. Thelbar repairs the break in the bridge with a wall of stone, and the party is able to walk across.
The group finds the halls empty save for the corpses of the dead, already half-scavenged by the spores and growths of the Fungal Forest. They pass through the area, and discover the portal just where Merkatha suggested it would be, a stone double door that stands open to a strange, orange sky.
The air beyond the portal is salty and much warmer than the cool cavern interior. An unrecognizable and unpleasant odor teases the nose, lurking beneath the common grave-smell of a battlefield. Immediately beyond the portal’s opening lie the last remnants of what must have been a great army, fallen unremembered into the salted earth.
The party emerges into the heat and warm orange light, remaining on guard and glancing at one another. Taran is uncharacteristically silent as he picks his way through the bones and corpses of the field, examining weapons and discarded bits of gear, even prying battle-standards from the fingers of the dead. He holds up an Ishlokian crescent-moon banner—gold against black, only slightly changed from the ones flown by the Ishlokians near Ratik. A few minutes later he recovers a second banner, this one depicting a silver dragon rampant against a grey ziggurat. He exchanges a wordless look with Thelbar, and places the war-standard around his shoulders.
“Is this Isk? ” Thelbar thinks to his brother through their telepathic bond.
“I am sure of it, ” Taran replies. “I have been here before.”
A furtive movement betrays the location of a living man amongst the corpses—ragged and disheveled. The wretch looks to flee, but Taran springs forward and seizes him. As he is grabbed, the man falls to his knees.
“Mercy Lord, mercy,” he croaks in a broken and strangely accented Isthenian. “I was just hungry is all. I mean no disrespect to the dead.”
“How did you . . . how did this come to be?” Taran asks him, and the man reluctantly begins to answer questions. He was scavenging for food, he claims, and has broken his people’s taboo against coming near the delve. The place is a battle site, but greater terrors than mortal combat struck down the men scattered under the sun.
Two armies clashed here, he says, Ishlokains and what he calls “King’s men” like himself—an usurper King had claimed a lineage leading back to the Ishlokian Imperial throne using the name Tar-Ilou, and had fought a long war to impress his claim and seize the throne of the greatest military power of its age. The Tar-Ilou house was the line of the previous Emperor of Ishlok, a family believed to have been extinguished through murder—wiped out to the last mother and infant when the current Imperial lineage ascended.
The Ishlokians caught the would-be Emperor here, encamped before the Great Delve, as the King thought to find allies within the dwarven redoubt. Recent setbacks had caused him to grow desperate, and he was frantically searching for some means to tip the scales back in his favor. But there were no allies to be had within Kor’En Eamor, and the gates to the Delve would not open through magic or force. The Ishlokians caught the Tar-Ilou King with his back to the Delve and crushed his forces at its gates, leading the usurper away in chains.
Looking back, the man says, he and the other soldiers believed the worst to be over. They had been defeated in honorable battle, and hoped to go home. But such fantasies were not to be. The Ishlokians put most of the usurper’s soldiers to the sword, conscripts and career soldiers alike. Those they spared were enslaved and set to work building a siege-camp—the Ishlokians meant to take the Delve themselves. Days turned into weeks, and still no means to enter Kor’En Eamor could be found.
Then, one bright morning, the gates opened.
A lone dwarf emerged—even from a great distance his gold and silver raiment could be seen to reflect the sun. He spoke words, gave some speech that the man could not hear at a distance, and then a great black cloud emerged from the Delve. It looked like smoke at first, but obeyed no wind. It rolled out over the Ishlokian camp, covering the ground like water rushing forth from a burst dam.
The man tells them that he only escaped by being far enough away from the entrance to outrun the cloud. Other men who were less quick to flee did not survive. The cloud killed every living thing it touched, man, animal or plant. Since that day, the bodies do not decompose—the earth will not accept them, and nothing will grow. The survivors make a meager life for themselves but they are all starving, and their meager numbers decrease every day.
Taran is stunned by the man’s tale. He wanders away, looking over the bodies of the fallen, pausing to examine this or that trinket. Thelbar regards the man. “Your tale is terrible, indeed,” he says. “But why do you not leave this place?”
The man looks quizzically at Thelbar. “All places are like this. Even so far as the Veiled City, no man lives but on what he can take from others, like yourselves.”
“We are not bandits, friend,” Thelbar says.
“Your weapons tell me otherwise, Lord,” the man replies.
“We are adventurers, from faraway lands,” Gorquen interjects. “What wealth we have, we have earned rightfully, and the only being with cause to fear us is a wicked being.”
The haggard man regards Gorquen thoughtfully. “Do you have food?” he asks.
Taran interrupts her and turns the man to face him. “What is the Veiled City?”
“The City of Mists, sir?” The man replies. “The Floating Palace? It is a great sea-port, or it was—three hundred miles to the south and west. The city is gone now, sir.”
“It is destroyed?”
“No sir, it is not there at all. Perhaps the Goddess bore it away to safety when she abandoned us. There is nothing here, there or in between. There is nowhere to go.”
Taran looks at Thelbar. “Is this possible? ” he thinks. “Could magic accomplish this much devestation? ”
Gorquen reaches into her pouch and hands the man a silk-wrapped ration of dried fruit and trail-bread. “This is elven bread, human, and you will never taste its equal.”
“It is possible.”
The man seems stunned. He warily tastes the fruit, then begins to wolf the portion down.
“I have meat for him if he wants it,” Merkatha says, producing skewers of dried jerky with the rat-tail still attached.
“Then you need to learn that spell, brother. ”
Thelbar watches the haggard man attack his small portion of trail-food, and begins to translate his story for Elgin and Merkatha.
“I am confused,” Elgin says. “This Tar-Ilou was you?”
“Or my brother,” Thelbar says. “Or some other Tar-Ilou entirely who happened to adventure with Alvodar Cursebreaker, Last King of Kor’En Eamor.” Thelbar looks back toward the Great Delve. “But I suspect it was my brother. He was always over-confident in his friendships.”
Joshua Randall
Legend
Dag nabbit, (contact), this story rocks. But you already know that.
Am I correct in vaguely remembering an earlier part of the story in which Taran has a dream / flashback / vision about being paraded in chains to his impending execution? I think that's right, and that must be what occurred / will occur / might occur in some other plane of existence to the Tar-Ilou who failed to gather aid from the dwarves of the Delve.
Everybody got that? Okay. Quiz tomorrow.
Am I correct in vaguely remembering an earlier part of the story in which Taran has a dream / flashback / vision about being paraded in chains to his impending execution? I think that's right, and that must be what occurred / will occur / might occur in some other plane of existence to the Tar-Ilou who failed to gather aid from the dwarves of the Delve.
Everybody got that? Okay. Quiz tomorrow.
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