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Message: <blockquote data-quote="(contact)" data-source="post: 1176114" data-attributes="member: 41">89—Ceredain Death-Caller, Mother of Entropy, Cursed of Moradin and Least In His Favor. A mad goddess only semi-aware of anything beyond her own torment; Ceredain’s agonies breed physical terrors and hauntings, and slowly pollute the souls of all who manage to survive within her realm; the weak are slain, and the strong corrupted, but none emerged unscathed.  Ceredain is bound within Kor’En Eamor, but she is Kor’En Eamor, and within this self-absorbed and barren womb, no life may take seed.  In fact, the natural process of life—birth, aging, death—is subverted altogether.  Creatures within the Delve may kill, but they may not create.  They do not age, and even time itself seems to have no true dominion here.  After all, forever is all that is left when there is no tomorrow.-----To mortal eyes, Ceredain appears to be a gigantic spirit or shade—faintly luminescent, but radiating a foul light that obscures where it should illuminate.  She is found where Merkatha indicated she might be—at the statue of Hepis' father, King Adwawn, in Kor’En Eamor’s top level.   The statue is likewise oversized, a monument intended to preserve for eternity a sense of the grandeur and majesty of the dwarven throne.  Ceredain whirls around this stonework like a night-mist, caressing the statue, and weeping to herself in an ancient dwarven tongue; a wretched mumbling, unintelligible yet unspeakably terrifying.When the Champions of the Risen Goddess first gain sight of her, Taran is instantly struck senseless by the sheer terror radiating off of the dead goddess in waves.  His objective intellectual knowledge that he has never encountered a greater personification for all of humanity’s deepest fears does not prepare his unreasoning self for the raw shock of confronting her.  While Elgin and Thelbar stand fast, perhaps protected by the mental disciplines demanded by their professions, Taran makes an unintelligible noise deep in his throat, and turns to flee.Thelbar holds his brother fast, binding him with an enchantment as the Death-Caller regards the three mortals who have come to pay her a visit.  She peers at them from behind the statue, hiding there like a playful child, and her beautiful face shows at first an expression of beatific bliss, which shifts instantly to one of terror and rage before disregarding the mortals altogether, and returning to her examination of the statue.Elgin and Thelbar look at one another quizzically.  Thelbar shrugs and motions the priest forward.“Ceredain, first among the dwarven gods and mother to the race,” Elgin Trezler booms in his most stately voice.  “We have come to you in the name of Palatin Eremath, Lathander of the Dawn, and the Free Gods of the Ermathan Pantheon.  As anointed representatives of these immortals, we bring you true knowledge of self; liberation from your curse in the form of the divinepasoun.  Will you hear our plea?”Thelbar and Elgin fidget nervously as the moment lengthens without a reply.  Then, caressing the statue, Ceredain groans in either pleasure or pain and her eyes roll back in her head.  The sound is low and penetrating—felt as much through vibrations in the dwarven-cut stone as it is heard by the ear.  As she moans, a thin black smoke begins to emerge from beneath the etheric dress of the writhing goddess.  This smoke slowly detaches from her, coalescing into three distinct humanoid shapes—each one four times as tall as a man and utterly without light or depth—holes in the vision rather than things that can be seen.  The three creatures outstretch long arms of nothingness and drift toward the two men—but Elgin Trezler does not wait for the inevitable result.  “These are undead,” he shouts, “beware!”  Elgin invokes a quickened divine favor, and as he grows to half of the creatures’ size, he attempts to drive them away by calling upon Lathander’s Dawn.In the presence of Ceredain Deathcaller, even the might of Lathander is suspect.  The anti-things turn their intention toward Elgin—they have no visible means of sight, yet their gaze is as clearly felt as if they had struck him with a lance of pure cold.  Elgin’s brow furrows, and he clutches the space between his eyes and collapses to the ground, dead.Thelbar enters into a time stop, and emerges instantly next to the body of Elgin Trezler, protected by a stoneskin spell.  From the spot he just left, a prismatic spray cascades toward the nightwalkers, banishing one from the Delve instantly.  The two others are lashed with the electrical band of the spray, and even as the bright colors fade, a low thrumming and *whomp* fill the air, as the undead anti-things are struck first with a sonic-substitued chain lightning, and then a sonic fireball.  A second nightwalker falls, and Thelbar smiles with a grim satisfaction.The remaining creature brings both of its long, whiplike arms to bear on the mage, buffeting him backward, and nearly breaking ribs despite Thelbar’s stoneskin.  The foul grave-chill of the thing seeps into Thelbar’s skin, and he feels faint for a moment, before composing himself.  He strikes the remaining monstrosity with a sonic-substituted cone of cold, and as it is blown into thin wisps, Thelbar pulls his portable hole over Elgin’s corpse and dashes to Taran’s side, where he teleports the two of them to the Delve’s portal to Isk without risking even a parting glance at Ceredain.-----Thelbar regards the barren waste that was once his home-world through the Iskian gate while he waits for Taran to recover from his fear.  He had meant perhaps to flee out into Isk, but now, facing the truth of what it was, and what it has become, he finds that he cannot bring himself to set foot in the place.  It is too . . . sacred, perhaps.  Or simply no longer bearable.  Thelbar observes his own reluctance coolly, analytically; systematically categorizing his responses and slowly subjecting his larger self to the iron rule of his mind.  Absorbed in his reverie, he does not notice that Taran has moved to stand by his side, and  joins his brother in looking out into the last world that they failed.“You know, we could go back to Ratik and kill Ishlokians until we felt better.”  Taran laughs, but he is not joking.“No, our business is here,” Thelbar says curtly.  Taran’s eyes narrow as he watches his brother for some trace of . . . something.  Thelbar, however, is not in a giving mood.  He impassively kneels over the body of Elgin Trezler and prepares to cast a true resurrection from a scroll.  While his initiation into the priestly arts is barely better than that of an acolyte, his personal knowledge of spellcraft is unrivalled, and he is confident that he can cast even the most complex divine spell if given enough time.And so he does.  There, just within the border of Kor’En Eamor, within feet of the killing sands that represented the end of his last life’s hopes, Thelbar, three feet away from safety, invokes the greatest life-giving magic known to mortal man within the womb of a dead goddess.And Ceredain does not appreciate the gesture.Stone shatters, and even as Elgin’s eyes flutter open, a piercing screech of rage and accusation flies through the Delve, carried on a strong wind that knocks Thelbar back toward the Iskian gate, and nearly upends Taran as well.  In the center of the chamber, a massive black obelisk shoves its way up from the floor—shattering the paving stones and rising all the way to the ceiling.  Reflected within the high-gloss surface of the stone, the heroes can see themselves as well as the face of Ceredain Death-Caller—fully awakened now and regarding the blaspheming mortals who would dare disrespect her here within the one place where she is still remembered--her self.“I’m holding for spell,” Taran stammers to Thelbar as he regards the horrific sight.Thelbar’s face pulls down in to a frown, and he sends a disintegrate beam at the obelisk.  But, predictably, his ray has no effect, and Thelbar shouts, “run!”Taran takes his brother in one large hand, Elgin in the other, and activates a teleport spell stored in an enchanted mantle he wears over his armor.  The trio appear just outside of the Faerunian gate, and run out into the mountain air, casting worried backward glances over their shoulders. Elgin Trezler, struck by inspiration, discerns the location of the one person that he believes can penetrate Ceredain’s blind rage and self-absorption.  As Elgin explains what he has learned, Thelbar is able to open a gate into the plane of Concordant Opposition; within seconds of fleeing Kor’En Eamor, the party is standing before the one dwarf who might be able to save it.  Forge-fires crackle and spit warmly against their skin—but the three adventurers fled the Realms before the chill mountain air could even cause it to blush.</blockquote>

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