101—Introduction to Ancient History
The party returns to their home, and Gorquen is closely tended by both Ilwe and Elgin Trezler. They chant prayers and make offerings, and over the next day help Gorquen’s soul-fragments return to their host. By the time twenty-four hours have elapsed since Irae T’ssarion’s attack, Gorquen is feeling nearly whole.
That afternoon, as the Champions of the Risen Goddess divide the spoils of the previous day’s fighting and Taran and Gorquen work through their daily argument, there is a sharp rap at the door. Skleeve is nowhere to be found, and Taran reluctantly trudges over to answer the door, talking to Gorquen over his shoulder.
“F-ck that,” he observes with his usual dignified reserve. ” I wouldn’t even need a sharpened stick—a splintery stick would work!” Taran opens the door, and sees a stranger’s face. An elven man, smaller and more slender than most, he is dressed plainly, and carries only a simple traveller's staff. Of course, most humanoids seem small when standing next to Taran, and the adventurer’s gaudy jewelry and ornate magic items could cause even remarkable clothing to seem plain.
“Which one of you is Gorquen?” the elf asks softly, perhaps recognizing what little use civility might have in the face of a half-drunk Tar-Ilou.
Taran places himself more squarely in the doorway, and towers over the small man with a threatening frown. “Me,” he says with a glare. “Who are you?”
“I am Almus Re.”
Taran’s face goes blank for a moment, and then he stands aside, pointing at Gorquen. “That’s her,” he says as he walks away from the door, and toward the back of the house.
“Where are you going?” Elgin asks.
“I don’t want to know,” Taran explains as he leaves the room. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to know.”
Thelbar and Ilwe rush to the man’s side, and take his cloak and walking stick. “Be welcomed within our home, revered sage,” Thelbar says. “We have, of course, heard of you,” he continues, “although I speak for my companions when I say that meeting you is an unexpected honor.”
Elgin pours the wine, and even Gorquen gets in on the act, fussing over Almus Re’s chair, and asking him several times if he requires a cushion (and despite his insistence that he does not, brings him one anyway).
Almus Re is a legendary figure among the followers of the Ermathan Pantheon. As the seer who first prophesied the elven schism and rebirth of Palatin Eremath, he is technically the first being to recognize the Risen Goddess, and therefore a saint by default. But the moral most commonly associated with his legend is simply this: too much knowledge is worse than none at all.
It has been said about him that the gods themselves refused to allow him to die; that until all of his prophecies came to pass, he should be forced to wait—his soul made to witness those things his words have promised.
“You treat me like an honored guest,” Almus Re complains. “But I have come before you as a beggar.” The elf stands up, pushing the untouched wine glass away from him. “I will take a knee and entreat you—do not go into the realm of the undead.”
There is a long pause, as the Champions look at one another, at a loss for words.
“I spoke prophecies, yes, at the time many of us did. Such things were closer to the minds of the elves, and the future seemed more knowable than it does today. But unlike my peers, I spoke Elder prophecies. I told the gods themselves what might be, and in some cases what must be. For this I was cursed, and for years uncountable I have borne the weight of the thing that I made.”
Almus Re regards Gorquen. “But I did not speak them all. Some words I have kept to myself, that no ear might be burdened with them. There is a fifth prophecy that I alone carry. And when you broke the sword of Helm, you made it true. I ask you now, I beg you: abandon your quest—walk away.”
Gorquen shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, her wings opening and closing.
“Will you tell us then, what you have seen?” Thelbar asks, his eyes glinting.
“I will not,” Almus Re says. “I have sworn an oath never to reveal it, and will not break my word.”
“Then you ask too much,” Thelbar says. “I am moved by your entreaty, sir, but I am not convinced. You must forgive me, for were I to be swayed by nebulous promises of doom, I think I should not have come to where I find myself, nor ever dared what I have done.”
“For myself, my faith guides me,” Elgin says. “And I am also convinced that we are about the right.”
Almus Re bows his head, and without another word, stands and leaves the Champion’s home.
“Taran, return to us, please,” Thelbar thinks through his telepathic bond.
“Almus Re has reminded me of something,” Thelbar says, when Taran has taken his seat. “I had meant to speak with each of you privately, although this moment seems the better time. What we are about in the Abyss will, I believe, result in an upsetting of the natural order; we intend to set the pasoun above the gods, and in so doing reclaim something believed lost forever. There are souls in Myth Iskok—followers of the goddess, banished to the Abyss in a time before our goddess liberated us from such a fate. It is unjust, it is wrong, and if we are strong enough, we will set it to rights.”
“Yes, that is what I also believe,” Gorquen says.
“But have you considered the implications?” Thelbar asks. “If you have not, do so now, for I assure you that our enemies have. We can expect to be opposed by all who hold to the rightness of things as they are. We intend to usurp the justice of the gods themselves, and if we are successful, expose their will as a finite and temporal thing. You see that this will not endear us among those who distrust our doctrines.”
“What else is new?” Taran says. “As far as I’m concerned they can all bring it. It’s not like we aren’t already hated by the big kids on the block—we might as well be hated by the rest of them.”
“That is my opinion, yes,” Thelbar replies. “But I would know that we are all equally committed. This is no thing to be undertaken lightly.”
“Danger means nothing to me,” Gorquen says. “My duty is clear.”
Elgin sighs. “This conflict pains me greatly. But our pasoun threatens these gods—and why should it not? The worshippers they loose are lost to the outer planes forever.”
“So?” Taran says.
“After death, the souls of the Prime Material travel to the outer planes, and eventually merge with a plane—this process is how the planes grow and sustain themselves.”
“Yet, aren’t the planes infinite?” Ilwe asks.
“So we are led to believe,” Elgin says. “But unending does not mean infinitely populated.”
“So what?” Taran says.
“If there were an unlimited amount of souls, there would be an unlimited amount for everyone. If that were true, the pasoun would not threaten these deities.”
“Yeah, I get all that. I meant, ‘who cares.’ Any god sends his proxies against us, well, he must not have wanted them, because we will kill them dead.”
“You do understand that if the multiverse is not, in fact, infinite, then the pasoun will eventually consume it?”
“Didn’t I say ‘so what’ already?” Taran asks. Thelbar stifles a smile.
“I don’t understand,” Gorquen says. “Since souls gravitate toward the good over many lifetimes, how could the pasoun be bad?”
“It is not ‘bad,’” Elgin says. “We are discussing why others may be threatened by it.”
Ilwe continues. “By passing souls through the veil, Ishlok is removing spiritual energy from the multiverse. The resistance we have faced so far indicates that these gods do not believe that it will be replaced. From their point of view, they are fighting for their home.”
“Maybe the bath-water’s cold, and it’s time to pull the plug,” Taran says.
“Or maybe you just like killing things, and don’t really care one way or the other,” Gorquen says prickly.
Taran smiles and shrugs.
Elgin raises his hands. “Philosophy aside, I would have it said of us that we held to our truth, and that faith was our guide. As Lathander is with our cause, so am I. To answer your original question, Thelbar, I believe we have all considered what we are about; I believe we can all rely on one another.”
Thelbar nods. “There is one other thing. I have not shared it with you until now, but if we are to travel within the lower realms, it could prove crucial; my brother and I are marked souls.”
“Marked?” Ilwe asks.
“We have a devil-mark upon us—we are hated, for the folly of our past lives, hated beyond all measure by the Infernal princes, and our souls have become objects of great desire among them. The demons of the Abyss are likely to recognize this, and we should not expect an easy time.”
Gorquen scoffs. “I had never imagined we would find anything less than hostility in Orcus’ realm. Devils or demons, it matters little.” After a moment, she adds, “And Solodrun agrees with me.”
The group returns to their activities, the priests go to prayer, and Thelbar (as is his habit when distressed) excuses himself to study alone. Taran and Gorquen sit drinking, their conversation muted and without any trace of its former playfulness.
“You know what,” Gorquen says. “If this turns out to be another bad idea, I hope everyone remembers your name for a change—I’m sick and tired of everyone saying ‘Hey, there’s Gorquen; we’ve been waiting for her to come and f-ck things up.’”
Keep it up.
