The Risen Goddess (Updated 3.10.08)

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92—‘Sblood

Hereson is without question the swiftest swordsman Taran has ever had the misfortune of being cut by. More nimble and honed of reflex than even Dantrak, the matron-mother Banare’s First Sword, Hereson is able to close the intervening distance and freeze Taran in place with a solid blow from a thick broad-sword that snaps into his right hand so fast it looks like magic. Before Taran is even able to fully shift his weight onto his lead foot, Hereson has stopped Taran’s forward motion, and put him on his heels, drawing blood and tearing skin even through Taran’s enchanted mail.

Taran responds in kind, drawing his own swords and attempting to end the fight right there, but Hereson is entirely too quick to be struck—each of Taran’s sledgehammer blows are turned aside by the paladin’s blade, or simply evaded.

The dog-headed celestial ignores the fighter harassing his master and charges for what he has sized up as the real threat: the wizard remaining silent in the back. Before he can reach Thelbar, the mage has slipped out of, and back into, the time stream, and forces the celestial to shrug off a dominate monster, even as he leeches moisture from him with a horrid wilting, compresses his flesh with a sonic-substituted fireball[/i] and sends a prismatic spray across the battlefield. Hereson ignores all of these spell effects, but his granddaughter cannot, and she is killed before she can even realize that the quiet one in the back has gone invisible.

Elgin Trezler sends a dimensional anchor ray at Hereson, hoping to prevent any flight, and follows it for good measure with a second, quickened dimensional anchor. Both rays fizzle and are broken against the paladin’s holy nimbus of light. Hereson fends Taran away from him with the tip of his sword and spares a glance for his dead granddaughter. “You have just made a grave mistake,” he promises the adventurers.

“You know what, a-shole,” Taran says, “you just promised to send me to Hell, what more can you do?”

In reply, Hereson unleashes an unbelievable flurry of blows, each one striking true against Taran’s most vulnerable points. Hereson is nearly finished with his elaborate maneuver before the blood even begins to gush from the opened arteries and severed tendons. In an instant, Hereson has removed himself from the bloodspray (cleanliness is next to godliness, after all, and he is both of those things) and returns to a neutral posture.

Taran hits the cobblestones where Hereson was standing just a moment before with a thick crunch, his torn throat unable to offer any more to the exchange than a wet bubbling sound that might have meant, “Help me.”

“It is one for one now,” Hereson says coolly, counting coup on the back of Taran’s head with the flat of his sword. He surveys the battlefield intently, as unconcerned with Elgin during the fighting as he was intent on him before it. “You cannot hide from me forever, mage.”

Unseen, Thelbar places a forcecage around the divine warrior. With a gesture, Elgin grows to twice his size, and uses a mass heal to knit Taran’s wounds before the fighter can expire from them. Taran scrambles to his feet, and regards Hereson, admiration in his eyes.

“That was amazing,” he says. “Wait there.” And as Hereson attempts to dispel the cage, with no success, Taran rushes to where Hereson’s celestial companion is attempting to recover from the spell-barrage it just suffered. Taran proves a capable mimic, and while unable to evade the ensuing bloodspray (or perhaps unwilling), he shows Hereson that two can play at that gore. Elgin joins his side, and together they force the archon back, and spill its blood onto the streets.

“I admire your loyalty and courage,” Elgin says. “I hope for your sake that you are summoned and not called. Because this must end with your death.”

“It is an honor to die for my Lord,” the archon replies humbly.

“You’re welcome,” Taran says, shattering bones with an impaling strike.

Sadly, the body does not disappear. “Called,” Elgin mourns. “A light has left the multiverse.”

Thelbar’s second sonic fireball and subsequent chain lighting spells fail to affect Hereson, and he is beginning to believe that no spell at all could harm the man. Hereson is rooting through his granddaughter’s equipment, looking no doubt for some magic with which to destroy the force barrier imprisoning him. Finding no aid, he begins to pray to Torm.

“Somebody shut him up,” Taran warns.

Thelbar attempts to oblige with a disintegrate beam, but there is no effect.

Elgin sends a pair of searing light rays through the bars of the cage as well, but they might as well be warm afternoon sunshine for all the effect they have. Taran notices that Hereson cannot see his brother (who is still hidden by a greater invisibility), and makes himself invisible as well.

“If you can’t beat ‘em,” he says, “cheat.”

Elgin and Thelbar pour on the spell power, wasting sonic cones of cold, searing lights, magic missiles and flame strikes, but for all the sound and fury, none of it seems to work.

After a moment, Hereson stops praying and looks at Elgin with a calm sneer. “I see your mercenary friends have left you, Trezler. Perhaps they know something you don’t.”

Elgin looks at the arrogant paladin, and realizes in that moment that his dimensional anchor spells were as unnecessary as they were useless. This celestial and shining entity would no sooner have it said that he fled from Elgin Trezler than he would speak against the wishes of his god, however cruel they might be.

As Hereson finishes his taunt, a shimmering envelops the air of the city-square and coalesces into the form of a glorious angel. Feathery winged and wielding a flaming greatsword, the deva’s warm topaz skin and golden eyes reflect the day’s light, and seem to make it even more grand. “I wish,” the creature says in a melodic and resonant vibrato, “that this cage of force were not here.”

Just in time for Taran to leap on Hereson.

Despite his gruff rumblings, Taran is generally not the sort of man who fights with his heart leading the way. He has long since learned that cool pragmatism and level-headed ruthlessness provide more victories than high-strung emotions and histrionics. Brave speeches and high-blooded exhortations may be fine prods for the poor peasant conscripts on the pike-line, but in the adventurer’s line of work? He has seen time and time again that when all is said and done, the emotional man is generally the one left bleeding out on the dungeon stone. So even as he chides himself for earlier allowing his wounded pride to put him under the sword of a superior fighter, he suppresses the tiny glimmer of joy that threatens to bubble up when he realizes—a man can’t dodge what a man can’t see.

Standing up to Hereson, as the only visible target, Elgin bravely sacrifices himself in a battle he cannot win. Even filled with Lathander’s righteous might and divine power, the giant-sized cleric can do little except soak up punishment, and occupy the attention of the far superior swordsman. Careful to heal himself before growing too wounded, Elgin plays the decoy, as his invisible companion remains at Hereson’s back, cleaving huge chunks out of his decorative armor.

Surely, Taran thinks, no man who believed that a mortal sword could ever touch him would put on a suit of plate meant to be more impressive at a distance than in a fight. Hereson must be facing what, to him, is the unthinkable, as Taran’s sword slams home time and time again.

There are cries and shouts from the crowd at this—they cannot see Taran, but they see something bludgeoning their beloved saint—perhaps it is stubbornness that keeps Taran from simply finishing the fight by slipping Arunshee’s Kiss between the plates, or perhaps it is a mean-spirit born of humiliation, but whatever drives him, he is battering at the man—breaking him.

And while occupied evading Elgin’s hulking form, Hereson simply cannot defend himself.

The solar, however, has no trouble spotting his invisible foes, and after wasting a flurry of attacks against Elgin Trezler, it soon realizes that Taran is the true threat to his charge, and moves over to engage him. After a first blow is struck, the solar releases his sword—the blade dances in the air as if fighting of its own volition. Taran curses when he realizes that the blade is as good in a fight as its bearer.

Even before the deva’s arrival, Thelbar had wasted the best part of his spell-power against the invisible armor of Hereson’s divinity. In desperation, he allowed himself to pour his entire offensive repertoire into a futile attempt to make . . . something . . . happen. Left without an option, he uses wands that he hasn’t touched in months, striking the solar with magic missiles and lightning bolts, few of which are able to harm the powerful angel.

Elgin uses a second mass heal, his last spell of that caliber, to return the advantage to himself and Taran. Invigorated and instantly well, Taran redoubles his efforts, grunting with a sort of visceral satisfaction as his swords pierce metal and cut into the flesh of a god. Hereson wobbles on suddenly unsteady legs—as Taran’s blows begin to dismantle the heavily enameled gorget that is the only thing keeping Hereson’s head and body acquainted—Taran is suddenly struck with the notion that the gods bleed after all; and here is the proof, warming his face and arms. If they bleed, what other mortal functions must they keep? His mind rolls over these nearly blasphemous images despite itself—as he bludgeons the life out of the best fighter he has ever encountered, he lapses into a sort of drunkedness, the godling-blood seeming to seep into his skin and warm something inside of him; some part of his soul perhaps that has been long dormant. The sensation is dizzying, but Taran does not stop. Blood follows blood, and soon Torm’s greatest champion is no more.

As Hereson dies, the solar deva seems to shrink somewhat, and its color passes from a deep yellow to a pale, almost translucent white. It manages a last pair of half-hearted swings, but it is clearly fighting in a lost cause. If Torm has already lost his greatest champion this day, there is no call for Him to sacrifice the first among his hosts. The deva retrieves its sword and creates a gate for himself. As the Deva moves toward its gate, the adventurers realize its intent is to flee, and at Elgin’s signal, they break off combat.

But the deva is not done, and as it steps through the gate, it fixes Elgin with an icy stare and pronounces a heavenly judgment; “Cidhi qurlhuhu,” it says. Traitor to the good.

Cobblestones shiver and tear as this word is pronounced, bits of stone exploding skyward as a huge crack opens in the ground beneath Elgin Trezler’s feet. Before Taran can regain his balance, Elgin has fallen within the crack in the earth, and is gone. As Taran moves to investigate, he is fully knocked from his feet as the crack seals shut with a shuddering roar.

 

[dpdx]

Pardon me for this stupid question, but where the hell was Lathander during all of this? And I hope they don't forget the acid storm.

 

[thatdarncat]

But the deva is not done, and as it steps through the gate, it fixes Elgin with an icy stare and pronounces a heavenly judgment; “Cidhi qurlhuhu,” it says. Traitor to the good.

Cobblestones shiver and tear as this word is pronounced, bits of stone exploding skyward as a huge crack opens in the ground beneath Elgin Trezler’s feet. Before Taran can regain his balance, Elgin has fallen within the crack in the earth, and is gone. As Taran moves to investigate, he is fully knocked from his feet as the crack seals shut with a shuddering roar.

daaaammmn what a bastard. Not that Taran and Thelbar would have done any less had the situation been reversed.

 

[Joshua Randall]

WOO-HOO! I'd say the door has been approrpriately blown off its hinges.

*does his bloodthirtsy happy dance*

 

[(contact)]

93—Another year older, another year wiser

The brothers Tar-Ilou return home without Elgin. While they both know that this should be a mournful thing, neither of them can bring themselves to grieve. They are both filled with a giddy light-headedness, and describe to one another a sense of pervasive warmth—although it doesn’t seem to be related to temperature; their skin grows cold upon their return to the North, but no matter what their nerves tell them, they can’t shake the belief that there is this great warmness spreading throughout them.

Taran starts to call his commanders together to double the watch assignments, fearing reprisal from Torm’s hosts, but as he does so, he has the strangest sensation that he can smell Kyreel. As if she were standing just over his shoulder. The small hairs on the back of his neck hop to attention, and he hears Kyreel’s voice, as clear as day: “Rest easy, I will take this watch.”

Without questioning the event, Taran retires to his chamber, and takes his former companion’s advice, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

-----

Two days after their fight in the marketplace, Thelbar has discovered Elgin’s whereabouts—he has been imprisoned deep beneath the earth. Thelbar has researched the necessary counter-spell, and is ready to free his companion. While Thelbar was lost in research, Taran has compiled the intelligence he gathered on the Truesilvers’ military preparations, and drawn up a plan of attack.

The brothers Tar-Ilou return to Arabel, and finish what they started two days before: Elgin is recovered from his magical imprisonment, and both he and Thelbar direct their spells at the apparatus of the Truesilver military machine: fireballs, lightning bolts, acid storms and fire storms; storm of vengeance, elemental swarm and acid fog; earthquakes, transmute rock to mud and disintegrate; all these spells and more are used at Taran’s direction, and by the time the city grows quiet again, the adventurers are gone, and House Truesilver is utterly de-fanged as a military entity. They estimate that they have set Arabel’s rulers back by at least a year, possibly two—a fact that will probably be music to Sembian ears.

“See how you like getting sacked, f-ckers,” Taran mutters as they leave Arabel, intending never to return.

-----

Over the next several weeks, Elgin and Thelbar work closely together and establish a workshop for their magical-craft hidden within the Astral plane, accessed by permanent gates leading to the Tar-Ilou’s home in New Ithor. Putting their workshop to use, Elgin enlists Taran’s help to craft a new suit of armor—the most elaborate, functional and flatly powerful Taran has ever possessed. It is mastercrafted plate, enchanted to be as light as mail, and imbued with a strong alteration that makes its wearer both difficult for the eye to fix on as well as nearly soundless. Wearing his new armor, Taran looks and feels like a great and shining champion, and some of his melancholy begins to leave him.

-----

Weeks pass, and months fall away. Just before winter arrives, Thelbar announces that he will be sequestering himself for the season in magical study, learning new spells and crafting items, most notably a mirror of mental prowess. Elgin also spends the majority of his time working on projects, and traveling to and from Suzail, assisting with the affairs of his church. He is pleased to report that the situation there has stabilized somewhat. As the remaining population are primarily Lathanderites, religious tension in what remains of Cormyr is relatively low, and as the leaves turn and the first crisp wind whips through closed shutters, the nation grows stable, if not well.

The brothers Tar-Ilou make large amounts of adventurer’s gold available for the Church of Lathander, and ensure that the populace of New West Cormyr, as it is coming to be called, are at least fed and housed. Taran spends some time meeting with the Red Wizards of Thay, hoping to ensure that a quiet flow of arms and armor will reach the nation as well.

Arabel, as expected, is unable to press an attack, and they also grow quiet at the approach of winter. The new Truesilver patriarch signs a formal recognition pact with Sembia, however, and the two “nations” exchange “ministers.” The Steel Regent bitterly calls these Sembians “string-pullers,” and the “mutual admiration and defense pact” is widely viewed as a bloodless conquest of Old Cormyr’s South.

Despite this acrimony, Cormyr signs a formal peace treaty with Sembia, signing away their former territory in exchange for a promise that the sliver of land remaining to the nation will be held, “As a sovereign and separate state, for now and for evermore.”

Mother Talendiira leaves Cormyr, and returns to her accustomed haunts among the drow of New Ithor, alternately blessing and teaching the drow, and gone entirely. The drow call her, “the forest mother,” and a small cult of rangers devoted to the sight of her forms among the recent Ermathan converts.

As the gods feud, Bane looks to benefit most of all. Scardale and Harrowdale in the Dalelands fall to his Zhentarim, .

The dwarves surrounding Kor’En Eamor come to a sort of blustery peace, marked by occasional mass-brawls and some bloodshed, but after three or more months of futile waiting, they set out to return home as the first snows begin to fall in the lowlands.

The Southern dwarves move into what was Northern Cormyr, and begin to make what seems like a half-hearted military occupation of the land. The Northern band, however, is facing bleak times—their homes in the Silver Marches have been overrun in their absence by Obuld Many-Arrows. Unlike the human and elven settlements, the dwarves of the North were by and large unable to flee before the overwhelming horde. Orcs poured into their caverns and underground halls, and Obuld’s Legions do not take prisoners.

Left homeless and bereaved, Moradin’s faithful grimly march through the first snows of the year, intending to either rip the throat from Obuld’s force, or throw their lives away in the effort.

The Orcish king, growing fat on the plunder of last spring, is more than willing to accommodate them. As a canny tactician who knows all to well how difficult it can be to assault a well-defended dwarven burrow, Obuld has cruelly sworn to fight to the last dwarf.

Taran begins a plan of organization for his drow forces. Beset by raiding orcs to the North, and this new prospect of dwarven fighters to the East, the drow begin to learn the subtle art of the ambush, and practice guerilla tactics, taking a cue from their surface-world kin. The priesthood of Solonor Thelandir aids in this task, teaching traditional elven archery and forest-craft to the drow.

The worship and lessons of Sharlaquannan, formerly Lolth, begins to coalesce into something resembling a religion, and her first true clerics emerge, preaching the faith on the unsteady legs of a new-born colt. But New Ithor is a safe place for religions to grow—the pasoun asserts its inevitability but does not dictate paths.

 

[Joshua Randall]

I realize I should post something meaningful about the sweeping sociopolitical changes overtaking Faerun, but all I can think of to say is this:

If you thought Thelbar was powerful before, just wait until he completes his mirror of mental prowess - and (contact), I know you know what I'm talking about!

 

[coyote6]

As the gods feud, Bane looks to benefit most of all. Scardale and Harrowdale in the Dalelands fall to his Zhentarim, .

Was there something missing here, that went after the comma?

Bets on whether this quiet fast-forwarded interlude is the typical calm before the storm?

 

[(contact)]

Was there something missing here, that went after the comma?

Bets on whether this quiet fast-forwarded interlude is the typical calm before the storm?

Good eye. It should be ". . . fall to his Zhentarim, and the rest of the Dalelands brace for war, their patrons' attention elsewhere."

And that is what we call a sucker bet.

 

[(contact)]

94—The Divine Champion of Palatin Eremath


During the long respite, Elgin Trezler goes to his god several times asking about Gorquen’s well being, and each time is assured that she is well. Winter turns to Spring, and Spring to fall. Nearly a full year after they left, Gorquen, Ilwe and Khuumar return with a fabulous tale:

Beginning at the beginning, Gorquen states that Obuld-Many-Arrows does have fire giants in his army.

“Did have,” Ilwe corrects her.

“Did have,” she says.

These fire-giants were led by a foul priest of Tenebrous (the deity known to the Ermathan Pantheon as Scaladar, and to the rest of the multiverse as Orcus), and after killing all of the demon-worshippers among them, she was able to persuade the surviving giants to leave the Silver Marches and trouble civilization no more.

As she adventured against these giants, she encountered a strange being—a titan who claimed to have been rescued from a long imprisonment in the penal-plane Carceri by followers of Scaladar. The giants were raiding the plane to rescue elven souls; souls that had been cast into torment by Corellon Larethian for the crime of remaining loyal to Palatin Eremath, and her “Eternal Champion” Scaladar. Apparently, the demon-god had been conspiring to free them for many millennia, and used the recent deific upheaval to make his move.

What exactly happened to the liberated souls was unclear to her, but she assumes that they are somehow in the service of their fallen lord.

She returned to New Ithor with drow refugees that had been abandoned in the cities beneath Sundabar and the Moon Pass. Lost without the withering guidance of Lolth’s church, these drow had responded to a prophet’s call to make for the surface, where they found themselves trapped by the fire-giants squatting in the caverns above. Gorquen’s arrival broke the détente, and she led two thousand of the willing to a new life in the new drow-home to the south.

After that adventure, she might have thought she was done, but the Ermathan Pantheon was not done with her. Solonor Thelandir sent a dream to Ilwe instructing him to travel South and East—to old Cormanthyr and Myth Drannor. There, he and Gorquen were to find a holy artifact: a wedding present given Solonor by the elven father-god when Solonor married Corellon’s champion Palatin Eremath! Ilwe was to take this gift, and return it to Corellon Larethian’s high priests on the elven isle of Evermeet.

“Holy sh-t,” Taran says, more impressed with someone going willingly to Myth Drannor than with all this talk of gods and their artifacts.

Ilwe, Gorquen and Khuumar set out for the fabled city (and Second Worst Place in Faerun) and upon their arrival discover three things of note: first among them, and most surprising, Gorquen herself lived one of her past-lives here during the era of Myth Drannor’s fall!

In this life, she was eldest sister to Clan Alushair, the very same family of high-elves who kept and tended Corellon Larethian’s wedding gift to Solonor Talendiira and Palatin Eremath—a single, perfect and unique flower, as immortal as its giver. Along with the bride-gift, they also kept the most crucial knowledge of all; of the existence of Palatin Eremath. That there should be at least one person alive who could recall her name, Gorquen (in her past life) was sent from the city just prior to its downfall, and lived the rest of that existence ashamed that she had abandoned her loved ones in the time of need.

“Well, that really explains a lot about you, Gorqie,” Taran says.

Gorquen sniffs disdainfully, and Ilwe picks up the tale.

After learning about her past life, the group made for the artifact chamber (which, armed with her knew knowledge, Gorquen could access), but were confronted by a band of Tenebrous followers led by Nathe.

“Yes,” Khuumar says with a sneer, “Your Nathè, Taran.”

“We had to fight her, Taran,” Ilwe says, gently placing a comforting arm on Taran’s shoulder.

“You killed her, did you?” Taran asks evenly.

“I had that honor,” Gorquen replies coolly. The two warriors stare at one another for a long moment.

“Get my jewelry back, then?” Taran asks.

-----

During her fight with the Tenebrous followers, Gorquen was struck by a prismatic spray, and plane-shifted against her will to the border-town of Plague-Mort, in Concordant opposition. Her companions were able to join her, and had some predictably violent interactions with the locals.

Shortly after their arrival, they were contacted by a craven and cringing necromancer of a uniquely loathsome disposition by the name of Skleeve who claimed that he was “waiting” for Gorquen. Apparently he had been on something of a sightseeing trip to the corpse of a god floating in the Void when he lingered too long—he was snared by residual deific power, and had since become something of an unwilling prophet. Mostly he had been prophesying this meeting, he told her, clearly glad to be finally free of his charge.

Skleeve explains to Gorquen that he belongs to a great and wide-reaching organization; one that holds the gods themselves to be frauds and charlatans. So is it any wonder, that of all the vacation sites in the universe, Skleeve wanted to visit the corpse of the goddess who agrees with him?

He led Gorquen to the corpse of Palatin Eremath, and there within the goddess’ body was the blade Soludrun, the legendary weapon of Corellon Larethian—the very blade that refused his hand once he struck down his kin.

Gorquen communicated with this blade, and was able to remove it from Palatin Eremath’s corpse. The bastard sword is magnificent—a powerfully enchanted weapon in its own right, but even more impressively Solodrun is intelligent! Solodrun agrees with Skleeve on only one topic; it too has been waiting for Gorquen’s arrival.

Ilwe and Khuumar arrive via plane shift fairly shortly after Gorquen does, and the three adventurers spend several days grilling Skleeve and meditating on the meaning of recent events. Rested, and somewhat overwhelmed, they returne to house Alushair in Myth Drannor only to find that their experience with the body of Palatin Eremath cost them almost a year of Prime-Material time!

They were able to recover the artifact, despite the best attempts of several foul servants of Tenebrous who stood in their way. Artifact in hand, they journeyed to the Elven Retreat of Evermeet to return the gift to the priesthood of the elven father-god.

“And you should’ve seen those day-elves giving me the up and down,” Khuumar laughs. “But hey, at least I wasn’t the only drow on the isle.” Khuumar smirks. “Just the second.”

Nearly the entire community was on hand to receive the three adventurers, and despite their misgivings they were warmly embraced by the elves of Evermeet. The flower was taken into the care of Corellon Larethian’s high priests, and Queen Almuriel gave the following address:



“Welcome, brothers and sisters. I have waited long for this meeting. I honor your quest, as does my master. You may believe differently, but we are not enemies--your cause is not so distant from our own. We elves know of grief unlike any other; but our suffering is a shallow and transient thing compared to the pain of those who give us life. My Master’s sorrow is deep.

I have communed with him and have seen the history that was withheld from us. How I wish that we need not feel the loss of our mother. A hollow place in our soul has been made, to honor her memory; in her name we mean to plant this flower in the center of our greatest shrine where it will mark our grief and our hope. May her memory live there always.”



During the group’s stay, Almuriel approached Gorquen alone, and told her that she had “seen a great battle that will tear apart everything you have built. The heavens will part and the anger of the gods drive their celestial hordes forth. She will die again, and you will be left godless, abandoned.” Almuriel begged Gorquen to rethink her cause, and “stay with your people, leaving the humans and dark ones to their own paths.”

Gorquen bristled at this proclamation, but Almuriel took pains to assure Gorquen that while she has been given visions of this great conflict to come, “no elf who loves Corellon Larethian or his kin will draw blood in this battle.”

The queen made it clear to Gorquen that while she accepted the reality that Palatin Eremath was the mother-goddess of the elven race, and was killed by Corellon Larethian’s hand no less, she holds the act to be just, if tragic. She told Gorquen that despite the hidden history of the elven race, the goddess Ishlok is no longer a true elven goddess. Ishlok’s pasoun, she contended, robs the elves of those things that make them a people—their culture, identity and racial integrity. Almuriel encouraged Gorquen to leave the service of Ishlok and “the base races”, to “rejoin her family,” and remain on the isle.

Gorquen refused, but nonetheless, Almuriel gave the winged elf her blessings, and presented Gorquen with a family heirloom, a magical scabbard “worthy of Soludrun.”

-----

“It is a grand gift,” Gorquen says, slightly embarrassed.

“My family has left the isle,” Ilwe adds. “They accepted the pasoun, I am proud to say, and have done me the honor of accepting Gorquen.” He is blushing with pride, and he takes Gorquen’s hand.

“And then we came here,” Khuumar says. “We went to Evermeet to slap a god, but got a hero’s welcome!” He is obviously pleased with himself. In fact, gone is his former hang-dog bearing—the mark of Arunshee is fully on him now, and he no longer has the vaguely terrified and cowed look that he’d possessed while adventuring with Taran and Thelbar.

Gorquen and Ilwe are likewise strengthened by their recent exploits—Gorquen in particular looks majestic. Truly, Soludrun is a legendary weapon, and Gorquen appears every inch the swordswoman worthy of it.

“Gave you a magical scabbard, huh,” Taran says suspiciously. “Did you tell them who gave you your wings?”

 

[(contact)]

My DM: “We’ll pick the story up with the characters waking up on the morning of the blood solstice”

Me: “ Blood solstice? Is that a day of note?”

My DM: (Evil grin) “It is now."