99—Love never dies.
While knowledge of Myth Iskok has been hidden from the multiverse by a god’s hand, knowledge of Nar Tyr has not. Orcus’ realm is detailed in many treatises, most of them dubious, but nonetheless, three days after their meeting with Factol Terrance, Thelbar reports that he has made a significant discovery.
“I met a lore-mistress,” he says, “a bardic nymph from Mount Olympus; the abyssal realms are her specialty. She was able to reveal many things to me that I should have known, in all candor. Orcus’ realm must be littered with the detritus of his life as Scaladar—it is, after all, a reflection of his own self.”
“Uh,” Taran says. “Right.”
“Myth Iskok is within the Abyss. The signs are there, if one knows how to read them, although I doubt many others in the multiverse do. Myth Iskok is associated with the city of Nar Tyr, which should be familiar to you all as the place Factol Terrance spoke of. This is no coincidence.”
“Nar Tyr means literally the ‘Home of the Dead,’” Thelbar says, “and it is the heart of Orcus’ realm. If I am correct . . .”
“And I’m sure you are,” Taran says.
“. . . Myth Iskok is a temple near the city. Or rather Myth Iskok is a temple that itself had an existence in many prime worlds, before the death of Palatin Eremath destroyed her worship.”
“So, it exists all over the place, but we’re going to get there through the Abyss?” Taran asks. “Isn’t this ELS?”
“There is no other route,” Thelbar says.
“ELS?” Gorquen whispers.
“Extinction-Level Stupid,” Taran clarifies.
“Myth Iskok is difficult to find because it no longer exists. Yet, it can be reached through Orcus’ realm, specifically Nar Tyr.”
“I know I’m not the only one lost here,” Taran says defensively.
“I suspect it is the will of the demon-prince that keeps Myth Iskok within his realm—it is the literal representation of his memory.”
“The home of the dead,” Elgin muses.
“There are three direct routes to Nar Tyr,” Thelbar continues, “And none of them easily trod. There are two planar routes to the heart of Orcus’ realm. The first is a gate from the first layer of the Abyss, watched over by an entire legion of vrocks. The second path is unguarded, but involves a long overland trek across a frozen abyssal sea.”
“Hell, no,” Taran says. “That sounds worse.”
“The third is a portal found within Faerun, on the very spot where I believe Myth Iskok had its existence prior to the schism.”
“This portal is sealed?” Elgin asks. “It must be.”
“And well-protected,” Thelbar says.
“By Corellon Larethian?”
“By his angels, yes. And the celestials do have a purpose there, beyond simply maintaining Corellon Larethian’s proscription. The Abyssal side of the portal is home to uncountable hungry undead. Breaching the gate’s seal could have disastrous consequences.”
“Well, if we have to kill our way in, better vrocks than angels,” Taran says.
-----
The Champions of the Risen Goddess have gathered in the common-room to pack gear and prepare for their journey. Despite the grim nature of their quest, their spirits are high. As the group finalizes their plans, Taran and Gorquen argue playfully about who might beat who in a sword-fight.
“I would sunder both of your swords,” Gorquen asserts.
“Go ahead,” Taran counters. “I wouldn’t even need them. I could kill you with a sharpened stick.”
Elgin laughs and Gorquen rolls her eyes.
Skleeve interrupts with a rasping cough, meant (no doubt) to be decorous. “Pardons, gentle-beings, but there is a visitor for you, yes there is.”
“Tell him go away,” Taran says without looking up. “We’re busy. And go get me a sharpened stick.”
“Oh, I think you should see this one,” Skleeve replies. “Yes, I do.” Skleeve is so seldom assertive that every eye in the room turns to the cringing necromancer.
Thelbar nods his permission. Skleeve bows and scrapes his way out of the room, and after a moment, a new figure darkens the heroes’ door. The creature was human once, when it was alive, although how long ago that was cannot be readily determined. The thing is dressed in finery, and sports several potent magical charms and portents, baubles that hang from spell-component pouches.
“I have come to speak with you regarding Nar Tyr,” the creature whispers, its voice a throaty hiss. “What humble knowledge I may possess, I place before you. Your success is our success.”
“Our?” Thelbar says.
“I represent a coven of liches that live within the City of the Dead, and we know what you would be about.”
“Let’s take him outside and kill him,” Gorquen says.
Taran squints at the lich, sizing him up. “He won’t bleed—we can kill him here.”
The lich keeps his gaze upon Thelbar. “I did not come to speak with your dull-witted chattel,” it says. “Dismiss them, so we may converse as entities among equals.”
Taran laughs. “He’s talking about you, Gorquen.”
“He is not,” she snaps.
“Begin with Nar Tyr,” Thelbar suggests. “My companions shall remain.”
The lich bows slightly—a gesture that produces a slight trickle of sand from one eye-socket. “Nar Tyr is the unfortunate capitol of Orcus’ realm within in the abyssal plane of never-life,” the lich rasps. “Our city is built on three tiers carved from a mountain face. The least sentient populate the lowest tier, the free-willed undead the second, and the city’s crown is Nixel-Rel, the center for arcane study within the entire plane, and my cherished home. Nixel-Rel is also the place where Kiransalee sat her throne while she was our mistress. Orcus’ mysterious return from the dead has disposed Kiransalee, and not all are pleased. I am here to tell you that we support your intent, although we cannot offer any palpable assistance at this time.”
“Our intent?” Thelbar asks. “We pursue many goals. Perhaps you could clarify your comment.” There is a subtle exchange between the two wizards, an unseen but tremendous battle of wills.
“We agree that Myth Iskok and the other . . . examples of our current ruler’s scandalous past have no place in the Abyss.”
“Other examples?” Thelbar looks strained, his lips taut and thin.
“There is a burial mound near the city, a place strong with souls who do not belong with us. Orcus is himself terrified of the place, and will not face it. The corpulent demon-prince also scuttles on his belly to another location within his realm. We have not observed him there, for he permits no company, but curses and cries have been heard—nearly all who live within Nixel-Rel have been forced to endure his begging and tears.”
“Begging?” Taran says.
“You can see where this might impact the confidence of his so-called servitors,” the lich finishes.
“What does he beg for?” Thelbar asks.
The lich clacks his teeth sharply in a gesture meant to replace a smile. “I am sure I would not wish to know.” The creature gathers his robes about him, and backs away from the door. “May fortune smile upon you. We shall never see one another again.”
Gorquen stands and places her hand upon her sword-hilt “Well that’s a shame, dick. Sorry you couldn’t stay.”
Taran laughs as the lich fades away and dissapears.
“Call me stupid,” Gorquen mutters to herself.
“We are stupid,” Taran says. “Lighten up. He was terrified of you.”
-----
The Champions of the Risen goddess thread their way through Sigil’s wretched Hive ward, searching for a portal rumored to lead to the first layer of the Abyss. Skleeve’s directions were vague at best, and Thelbar and Elgin are off by themselves halfway down a wide but barren alley, counting paces and searching for the portal. Taran, Gorquen and Ilwe hang back, talking among themselves. Taran has purchased rat-on-a-skewer (a ward delicacy), discarded the rat, and is menacing Gorquen with the skewer. To her feigned disgust, he adopts the game of using stealth to disappear into the shadows, then “sneak attack” the winged elf.
“Oh, this is priceless. Have you taken up with the day-elf slut now?”
Taran looks toward the voice and notices a familiar shape half-hidden within a nearby archway—directly in-between the group and its destination. Nathè emerges fully into the ubiquitous misty half-light of Sigil’s day and sighs heavily. “A fickle cuckold? Will wonders never cease.” The drow has seen better days; her head sits on her neck at a strange angle, and a long cut runs from cheek to exposed cleavage, and oozes a thin, grey pus. She is armed with her customary pair of short swords, and wears elven-craft chain mail underneath a cloak woven of some unrecognizable metallic fabric.
“I thought you said you killed her,” Taran whispers.
“I did!” Gorquen whispers back.
“What’s the matter, Tar-Ilou? Don’t you like what you see?” Nathe is stalking toward the group. Thelbar backs away from her, and Elgin clutches his holy symbol.
“You ain’t nothin’ but walking treasure to me,” Taran says. “Now you better get along, unless you want to die again.”
“You found me beautiful once,” she says with a mocking drawl.
Behind Nathe, a second drow woman emerges from the doorway. Another fighter-type, this one is armed with a long, wickedly serrated bardiche, and wears a suit of rune-carved half-plate armor. Like Nathe, she bears the marks of her first-death.
“Hale!” Ilwe says. “She commanded the giants at Sudabar!”
“I thought we blessed the bodies!” Gorquen complains as she regards her foes.
“This is your sloppy work, Gorquen!” Taran hisses.
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.” Irae T’ssarion stands at the opposite end of the alleyway, her pale skin a perfect match for her cloak and tunic of purest white. Her dead eyes are twin pools of menacing black within an anti-silhouette.
Gorquen rasps Solodrun from its scabbard. “Put the stick away, Taran.”
