Travels through the Wild West: Books V-VIII (Epilogue)
- Thread starter Lazybones
- Start date
Lazybones
Adventurer
Oooh, eerie powers... 
Welcome to Book VII, where all hell breaks loose in the Western Heartlands. Some old familiar faces that haven't been seen in quite a while will reappear, and some new friends--and enemies--come into the story.
I haven't prepared a summary or character list, but will update the Rogues' Gallery thread at some point this week. Lok, Cal, and Benzan are now ECL 12.
* * * * *
Travels through the Wild West
Book VII
Book VII, Part 1
The small village of Elden’s Pond looked like any of a thousand hamlets in the rural expanse of the Western Heartlands. Thirty buildings in an assortment of wood and stone huddled close together by the side of the pond, which in turn was surrounded by the fields of the village’s farming families. Since this was the Western Heartlands, the village was surrounded by a wall. This fortification, however almost seemed present for esthetic reasons rather than for defense, as it came barely to chest height, and it showed clear signs of infrequent repair. A visitor might have commented on this apparent disregard for the risks of this still untamed region, but for the fact that Elden’s Pond was situated a mere five hours’ walk from Berdusk. That geographic relationship was important for the hundred and fifty residents of the village, however, for it meant that they were under the protection of Twilight Hall, the headquarters of the Harpers, and they could sleep safer knowing that there were few who would challenge that organization in its own den.
Thus it was that no one challenged the stranger who arrived late one afternoon in the spring of the year 1374 as reckoned by the Dalelands calendar. The villagers of Elden’s Pond were used to seeing visitors, typically folks up from the south on their way to Berdusk, who arrived too late to want to press on to the city, or city folk themselves who came to trade for the agricultural products of the hamlet. In all honesty, the villagers had gotten somewhat lazy with time, comfortable with their situation after years of relative prosperity. True, the just-completed winter had been a little rougher than usual, and there were reports of increased bandit activity out on the western trade roads this spring, but only the most foolish bandit would try to operate anywhere near Berdusk.
The stranger rode a dun mare, and the plain quality of his garments identified him as a middling merchant, perhaps, or a southlander up from Amn or Tethyr looking for opportunities in the open lands of the Western Heartlands. The custom in these lands wasn’t to ask too many questions, though, so after a brief conversation with the deputy who was warding the village gate that day the stranger was allowed in and directed to the sole inn, a compact two-story structure named The Whispering Willow.
The place was starting to get crowded, as the village residents came to the inn to enjoy a warm drink, good food, and friendly camaraderie with the end of the day’s labors. They were a young crowd, mostly male, as those with families tended to spend their evenings in the company of their kin. There was some curiosity toward the stranger from the assembled gathering, but he replied to their questions with only curt replies, ate his dinner quickly, and retired early. Speculation about the traveler kept the evening’s activity going for a little longer than usual, but in the end the farmers returned to their homes, and the innkeeper and his family closed down for the night. Other than the stranger, the only other guests of the inn that night was a young married couple, residents of the town who were having the roof of their house repaired after suffering damage in a late-winter storm.
In his room, a small but comfortable chamber in one corner of the inn’s second story, Lashkar Gah sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for the village to settle down into a night’s sleep. He was nervous, but also excited, impatient as the minutes ticked slowly by. The saddlebags he’d brought up to his room sat unpacked atop the tiny round table in the corner of the room, along with a lamp, turned low so that its glow only barely reached him.
Lashkar Gah was not his real name, or at least was not the name he had been born with. Inside the privacy of his own thoughts, he’d stopped using that old name, discarded it along with the other trappings of that once-life. His new name meant “speaker of lies” in one of the ancient languages of Faerûn, and now it fit him like a glove.
He waited, fidgeting slightly. He started a litany, a dark prayer that he muttered in a harsh whisper, but could not focus long on the dire pronouncements that were part of that chant. To steady himself he crossed to the saddlebags, and quietly dug something out of one of them. It was a lacquered wooden box, about as long as his forearm, with its edges bound in brass. He ignored the hasp and instead turned the box over, pressing slightly in two places with his fingers. At his touch the bottom of the box fell open, revealing a shallow hidden compartment underneath. Two items fell out; a flat disk about a palm across, and a tightly wound vellum scroll. He caught the scroll, but the disk escaped his grasp and clattered on the top of the wooden table. Even in the faint light of the lamp, the ensign etched onto the thin metal plate was instantly obvious, a black sunburst with a jawless skull floating within.
The Dark Sun.
Lashkar Gah looked around his room, a look of worry briefly crossing his features before he took hold of himself. The sound had not really been that loud, and in any case the innkeeper and his family were likely fast asleep by now. And even if someone did stir within the inn this night—how could any of them hope to challenge him? Even without his armor and his blade, he was more than a match for a dozen of these rural yokels, two dozen perhaps. With an uneven laugh, he took up the icon and placed it in his pocket.
He fingered the amulet around his neck, dangling against his chest under his coat. He sat down again, and waited. The night was quiet, broken only occasionally by the sound of a barking dog somewhere in the village, or the whisper of the night breeze under the eaves of the inn.
Finally, it was time.
Lashkar Gah rose and crossed to the table. He paused to brighten the lamp incrementally, just enough so that he could clearly read the writing on the scroll as he laid it upon the table. Then he opened the box again—this time lifting the lid normally—and took out the three vials inside the padded interior.
He drank the first two potions quickly. He glanced at the third vial—if it turned out that his mission tonight failed, he was supposed to drink that one. Quickly, he took up the vial and shoved it into another pocket.
The twin elixirs took effect, and had an observer been present he might have noticed that something changed in the way the man carried himself, as if he’d suddenly grown more imposing, his presence swelling to dominate the room. His demeanor also seemed more sure, his motions confident, as he sat down at the table and peered at the writing on the scroll.
Without hesitation, he began to read. The spell upon the scroll was beyond his abilities, but it was written on the scroll three times, in case he proved unable to complete the reading successfully on his first efforts. Assuming he did not kill himself with a mishap, of course. He did not know which member of his order had written the scroll, but he had successfully completed the spell in a test, and that had been enough for his superiors to entrust him with this mission.
His lips twisted into a sneer even as he continued to utter the complex syllables of the spell. He knew the real reason, of course. He was expendable, and if he failed, or was even captured, he would not be able to reveal too much about the larger plots of which he was just a simple cog.
The reading went on, and on. The writing on the scroll didn’t seem that long, but he repeated passages, changing the inflections, forming a web of sounds that he drew out into a deeper, more complex lattice of divine power. The ritual was a lengthy one, and his head hurt with the strain of it, but he had done it once, and seen it done other times, and he knew that he could do it.
Finally, he was done. He looked down at the scroll. He had finished the reading, and nothing had happened. Cursing silently, he recognized the word that he had mispronounced on the final pass, voiding the magic.
There was nothing to it but to start again on the second writing of the spell. The light of the lamp had faded, its supply of oil nearly depleted. He considered going downstairs for more oil, but decided not to risk it. What if the innkeeper, or his wife, was up late? Instead he paused to cast a minor spell, summoning a magical light that he placed upon the failing lantern. Once again the dark syllables flowed around him, seeming overly loud even though he kept his voice to a whisper.
Even before he finished he could feel the power building, and he exulted at the flowing of power. He completed the spell, his success banishing his exhaustion, and as the spidery words scribed on the scroll flared and vanished, he turned to his right, directing the magic to an empty space by the foot of the bed.
His light spell started to fade, and he hastily cast another one, banishing the shadows that had quickly gathered around him. All but one, that is. As the light brightened again it outlined a dark, wavering form, hovering in the air just a pace away, its eyes bright pinpricks of light that shone with a dark, twisted malevolence as they fixed upon his face. For a moment the thing wavered in the light, then, eagerly, it reached for him.
Lashkar Gah did not hesitate. “Hold,” he said, hastily drawing out the symbol of the Dark Sun from his pocket. “You are mine,” he said, as he stood. The chair scraped back noisily as he rose, but he was no longer worried about such minor details. If he failed to gain control of the shadow he’d created, things could go very badly very quickly.
But he felt the amulet around his neck flare with a surge of power, bolstering his attempt to gain control over the creature. He felt like laughing—with the amulet, and the boost to his charisma granted by the potion he’d consumed, his ability to control undead was as great as that of Karak himself. Still, there was a moment of uncertainty as the shadow drifted slightly closer, trembling as if uncertain what to do, but then it drew back within itself, compliant.
“What... wantss... living... mansss...” The shadow’s voice was like a cold wind through a graveyard, barely more than a whisper.
“Listen carefully,” the cleric of Cyric said, confident now that the hard part of his mission was finished. It was still possible that he would not survive the night, but at least the mandate given him by his superiors—and his dark master—would be fulfilled.
Careful to keep his instructions simple, he told the creature what he wanted from it.
The undead creature quavered, its glowing eyes flaring in anticipation.
Welcome to Book VII, where all hell breaks loose in the Western Heartlands. Some old familiar faces that haven't been seen in quite a while will reappear, and some new friends--and enemies--come into the story.
I haven't prepared a summary or character list, but will update the Rogues' Gallery thread at some point this week. Lok, Cal, and Benzan are now ECL 12.
* * * * *
Travels through the Wild West
Book VII
Book VII, Part 1
The small village of Elden’s Pond looked like any of a thousand hamlets in the rural expanse of the Western Heartlands. Thirty buildings in an assortment of wood and stone huddled close together by the side of the pond, which in turn was surrounded by the fields of the village’s farming families. Since this was the Western Heartlands, the village was surrounded by a wall. This fortification, however almost seemed present for esthetic reasons rather than for defense, as it came barely to chest height, and it showed clear signs of infrequent repair. A visitor might have commented on this apparent disregard for the risks of this still untamed region, but for the fact that Elden’s Pond was situated a mere five hours’ walk from Berdusk. That geographic relationship was important for the hundred and fifty residents of the village, however, for it meant that they were under the protection of Twilight Hall, the headquarters of the Harpers, and they could sleep safer knowing that there were few who would challenge that organization in its own den.
Thus it was that no one challenged the stranger who arrived late one afternoon in the spring of the year 1374 as reckoned by the Dalelands calendar. The villagers of Elden’s Pond were used to seeing visitors, typically folks up from the south on their way to Berdusk, who arrived too late to want to press on to the city, or city folk themselves who came to trade for the agricultural products of the hamlet. In all honesty, the villagers had gotten somewhat lazy with time, comfortable with their situation after years of relative prosperity. True, the just-completed winter had been a little rougher than usual, and there were reports of increased bandit activity out on the western trade roads this spring, but only the most foolish bandit would try to operate anywhere near Berdusk.
The stranger rode a dun mare, and the plain quality of his garments identified him as a middling merchant, perhaps, or a southlander up from Amn or Tethyr looking for opportunities in the open lands of the Western Heartlands. The custom in these lands wasn’t to ask too many questions, though, so after a brief conversation with the deputy who was warding the village gate that day the stranger was allowed in and directed to the sole inn, a compact two-story structure named The Whispering Willow.
The place was starting to get crowded, as the village residents came to the inn to enjoy a warm drink, good food, and friendly camaraderie with the end of the day’s labors. They were a young crowd, mostly male, as those with families tended to spend their evenings in the company of their kin. There was some curiosity toward the stranger from the assembled gathering, but he replied to their questions with only curt replies, ate his dinner quickly, and retired early. Speculation about the traveler kept the evening’s activity going for a little longer than usual, but in the end the farmers returned to their homes, and the innkeeper and his family closed down for the night. Other than the stranger, the only other guests of the inn that night was a young married couple, residents of the town who were having the roof of their house repaired after suffering damage in a late-winter storm.
In his room, a small but comfortable chamber in one corner of the inn’s second story, Lashkar Gah sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for the village to settle down into a night’s sleep. He was nervous, but also excited, impatient as the minutes ticked slowly by. The saddlebags he’d brought up to his room sat unpacked atop the tiny round table in the corner of the room, along with a lamp, turned low so that its glow only barely reached him.
Lashkar Gah was not his real name, or at least was not the name he had been born with. Inside the privacy of his own thoughts, he’d stopped using that old name, discarded it along with the other trappings of that once-life. His new name meant “speaker of lies” in one of the ancient languages of Faerûn, and now it fit him like a glove.
He waited, fidgeting slightly. He started a litany, a dark prayer that he muttered in a harsh whisper, but could not focus long on the dire pronouncements that were part of that chant. To steady himself he crossed to the saddlebags, and quietly dug something out of one of them. It was a lacquered wooden box, about as long as his forearm, with its edges bound in brass. He ignored the hasp and instead turned the box over, pressing slightly in two places with his fingers. At his touch the bottom of the box fell open, revealing a shallow hidden compartment underneath. Two items fell out; a flat disk about a palm across, and a tightly wound vellum scroll. He caught the scroll, but the disk escaped his grasp and clattered on the top of the wooden table. Even in the faint light of the lamp, the ensign etched onto the thin metal plate was instantly obvious, a black sunburst with a jawless skull floating within.
The Dark Sun.
Lashkar Gah looked around his room, a look of worry briefly crossing his features before he took hold of himself. The sound had not really been that loud, and in any case the innkeeper and his family were likely fast asleep by now. And even if someone did stir within the inn this night—how could any of them hope to challenge him? Even without his armor and his blade, he was more than a match for a dozen of these rural yokels, two dozen perhaps. With an uneven laugh, he took up the icon and placed it in his pocket.
He fingered the amulet around his neck, dangling against his chest under his coat. He sat down again, and waited. The night was quiet, broken only occasionally by the sound of a barking dog somewhere in the village, or the whisper of the night breeze under the eaves of the inn.
Finally, it was time.
Lashkar Gah rose and crossed to the table. He paused to brighten the lamp incrementally, just enough so that he could clearly read the writing on the scroll as he laid it upon the table. Then he opened the box again—this time lifting the lid normally—and took out the three vials inside the padded interior.
He drank the first two potions quickly. He glanced at the third vial—if it turned out that his mission tonight failed, he was supposed to drink that one. Quickly, he took up the vial and shoved it into another pocket.
The twin elixirs took effect, and had an observer been present he might have noticed that something changed in the way the man carried himself, as if he’d suddenly grown more imposing, his presence swelling to dominate the room. His demeanor also seemed more sure, his motions confident, as he sat down at the table and peered at the writing on the scroll.
Without hesitation, he began to read. The spell upon the scroll was beyond his abilities, but it was written on the scroll three times, in case he proved unable to complete the reading successfully on his first efforts. Assuming he did not kill himself with a mishap, of course. He did not know which member of his order had written the scroll, but he had successfully completed the spell in a test, and that had been enough for his superiors to entrust him with this mission.
His lips twisted into a sneer even as he continued to utter the complex syllables of the spell. He knew the real reason, of course. He was expendable, and if he failed, or was even captured, he would not be able to reveal too much about the larger plots of which he was just a simple cog.
The reading went on, and on. The writing on the scroll didn’t seem that long, but he repeated passages, changing the inflections, forming a web of sounds that he drew out into a deeper, more complex lattice of divine power. The ritual was a lengthy one, and his head hurt with the strain of it, but he had done it once, and seen it done other times, and he knew that he could do it.
Finally, he was done. He looked down at the scroll. He had finished the reading, and nothing had happened. Cursing silently, he recognized the word that he had mispronounced on the final pass, voiding the magic.
There was nothing to it but to start again on the second writing of the spell. The light of the lamp had faded, its supply of oil nearly depleted. He considered going downstairs for more oil, but decided not to risk it. What if the innkeeper, or his wife, was up late? Instead he paused to cast a minor spell, summoning a magical light that he placed upon the failing lantern. Once again the dark syllables flowed around him, seeming overly loud even though he kept his voice to a whisper.
Even before he finished he could feel the power building, and he exulted at the flowing of power. He completed the spell, his success banishing his exhaustion, and as the spidery words scribed on the scroll flared and vanished, he turned to his right, directing the magic to an empty space by the foot of the bed.
His light spell started to fade, and he hastily cast another one, banishing the shadows that had quickly gathered around him. All but one, that is. As the light brightened again it outlined a dark, wavering form, hovering in the air just a pace away, its eyes bright pinpricks of light that shone with a dark, twisted malevolence as they fixed upon his face. For a moment the thing wavered in the light, then, eagerly, it reached for him.
Lashkar Gah did not hesitate. “Hold,” he said, hastily drawing out the symbol of the Dark Sun from his pocket. “You are mine,” he said, as he stood. The chair scraped back noisily as he rose, but he was no longer worried about such minor details. If he failed to gain control of the shadow he’d created, things could go very badly very quickly.
But he felt the amulet around his neck flare with a surge of power, bolstering his attempt to gain control over the creature. He felt like laughing—with the amulet, and the boost to his charisma granted by the potion he’d consumed, his ability to control undead was as great as that of Karak himself. Still, there was a moment of uncertainty as the shadow drifted slightly closer, trembling as if uncertain what to do, but then it drew back within itself, compliant.
“What... wantss... living... mansss...” The shadow’s voice was like a cold wind through a graveyard, barely more than a whisper.
“Listen carefully,” the cleric of Cyric said, confident now that the hard part of his mission was finished. It was still possible that he would not survive the night, but at least the mandate given him by his superiors—and his dark master—would be fulfilled.
Careful to keep his instructions simple, he told the creature what he wanted from it.
The undead creature quavered, its glowing eyes flaring in anticipation.
Black Bard
First Post
True gift...
I'm glad that after being bestowed with 5 weeks of delightful reading I'm receiving such a boon...And it's only 2 days since I finished Book VI!!!
I would have posted earlier, but I'd rather finish reading to comment anything... And now, what can I say??
It's wonderful!! I really like your style, and I think everyone will agree with me when I say that you know how to "get a hold" on your readers...
Anyway, Travels is a great story, and I'm anxious to see how our heroes will fare in this new book...
Congratulations!!!
I'm glad that after being bestowed with 5 weeks of delightful reading I'm receiving such a boon...And it's only 2 days since I finished Book VI!!!
I would have posted earlier, but I'd rather finish reading to comment anything... And now, what can I say??
It's wonderful!! I really like your style, and I think everyone will agree with me when I say that you know how to "get a hold" on your readers...
Anyway, Travels is a great story, and I'm anxious to see how our heroes will fare in this new book...
Congratulations!!!
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We've started book VII!
Nice start, Lazybones... I have a scary feeling I know what that cleric is up to -- we'll see if I'm right.
Great to see this awesome storyhour back in regular updates. Your storyhour and Sepulchrave's are my two favorites by far.
P.S. -- Will we see a Rogue's Gallery update soon with the new stats for our heroes?
Nice start, Lazybones... I have a scary feeling I know what that cleric is up to -- we'll see if I'm right.
Great to see this awesome storyhour back in regular updates. Your storyhour and Sepulchrave's are my two favorites by far.
P.S. -- Will we see a Rogue's Gallery update soon with the new stats for our heroes?
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Lazybones
Adventurer
Welcome aboard, Black Bard, and thanks to all for the kudos. I can honestly say that it's the reader feedback that has kept this story going as long as it has. Well, that and a very boring job.
More stage-setting and bad-things-a-happenin'...
* * * * *
Book VII, Part 2
The city of Elturel, perched on a bluff overlooking the slow-moving River Chionthar below, slept a quiet and peaceful sleep.
A spring storm had come and gone that day, and the streets were slick with puddles gathered in dips in the roads and in the lee of the buildings. A thick bank of clouds still hung over the sky, so the city was all shadows and indistinct lumps in the darkness of the night.
In the working-class district of the city, night hung heavily over the dark streets and narrow alleys. Under the wise rule of the High Rider, Lord Dhelt, the city could not be said to have a true slum, but here the streets tended to be narrower, the buildings in a poorer state of repair.
Light and the sound of booted footsteps broke the night, their source resolving into a sextet of armed men clad in the livery of the High Rider. The patrol moved swiftly through the streets, their hard eyes darting into every crack and corner, for all that their vision could press little further than the radius of their torches. The streets were still, and no footpad or burglar scattered at their coming this night. Continuing their watch, the six men moved efficiently through the streets, their light finally fading as they rounded a corner onto another narrow avenue.
As the last lingering ray of light faded, several shadows emerged from the shelter of a nearby alley. At first, the three looked like malevolent undead, shades that sought the warm touch of the living, but as they moved further into the street, it became clear that they were just men, clad in dark, hooded cloaks that muted any details of their form. They were carrying large, box-shaped objects, wrapped in thick cloths that dangled out below them. As they moved into the street, jostling those objects, faint sounds could be heard from within.
“This is a bad business,” one of the men said under his breath. The words weren’t intended to travel, but the man in the lead apparently heard, for he spun abruptly.
“Silence!” he hissed. The original speaker lowered his gaze and did not reply.
The leader gestured, and the two others turned in opposite directions, heading down the street. Within a few moments, both had been swallowed up by the night, vanishing back into the shadows.
The first cloaked figure paused, then crossed the street to where another alley ran into utter blackness. He did not need to see to know where this alley led; it backed onto a narrow courtyard that backed onto a busy inn, and two adjacent three-story tenements that each housed perhaps a hundred laborers, crowded into apartments that were built to contain perhaps half that number. Elturel was a prosperous city, especially with the coming of the spring trade, and like many cities its demand for cheap labor outpaced its ability to provide housing for them.
The figure did not enter the alley, but bent down and laid his burden down in its mouth. With a sudden movement he drew back the covering, revealing a large wire cage. The light was too poor to make out more than a writhing, moving mass within, but the squeaking sound that was now audible was a sufficient identifier for its contents.
Moving quickly, the man undid the front of the cage, darting back carefully as the score or so of rats exploded into the alley. A few started back toward him, but a few stamps of his feet drove them back in the direction of their fellows. He carefully checked the cage for stragglers, then snapped the gate back in place and took up the cage again. He moved quickly back to the far side of the street, disappearing back into the alleyway from which he had come. There was no need to wait for his companions; he knew that others were watching, and if they failed at their tasks, there would be no traces left behind for the authorities to find.
Smiling grimly to himself, the agent found the doorway in the darkness and vanished back into the building from which he’d come, still moving quickly. By the time dawn came, he hoped to be well away from Elturel, a fat purse speeding him along his way.
* * * * *
Dawn broke on the Western Heartlands, the sun rising swiftly over the eastern horizon, shining through the clouds for the first time in several days, promising a brighter day than the last few dreary ones as a spring storm had passed through on its long march south.
The settlement didn’t even have a name, just one of the scattered clusters of farmhouses that dotted the plains along the eastern edge of The Reaching Woods. The settlement had the look of a military outpost, the buildings squat blockhouses fashioned from thick logs with narrow windows that resembled arrowslits. The buildings were connected by similarly heavy fences, forming a courtyard in the center that contained a well and a small outdoor workshop covered by a sloping slate roof. Even the outbuildings, the animal pens and barns, seemed to huddle close to the outer walls of the central structures, as if seeking shelter from the dangers of the world outside.
As the first rays of the morning sun hit the settlement, they should have illuminated its members already well into their morning chores. Instead, the area in and around the buildings was relatively quiet, with no sounds of activity. Even before the light brightened enough to clearly discern the signs, it was clear that something was wrong; the smell of smoke and burned flesh hung in the air, and the main gate to the settlement hung open, dangling drunkenly with one of its hinges torn free from its threshold in the thick wooden fence.
The morning light also revealed a dark figure, clad in a heavy fur cloak that draped down over the hind quarters of his horse, a thick sword at his belt and a crossbow slung across his saddlehorn. He watched the settlement impassively, waiting.
Finally a single figure emerged from the settlement, and started toward the waiting rider. The dawn revealed the stranger as a monstrous humanoid creature, standing easily seven feet in height, with reptilian features dominated by a pair of sweeping wings that erupted from his back, and gaping draconic jaws. The reptile-man was clad in armor that was built to accommodate the unique features of his frame, and bore a variety of weapons, including a wicked morningstar and a pair of curving swords at his belt. As it exited the settlement it scanned the exterior, as if looking for something, then it turned and hurried to join the rider.
“Did you check everything, Varex?” the rider asked. His voice was deep, authoritarian; the voice of a man used to having his orders obeyed.
The reptile-man looked as though he could have crushed the man’s head with a single squeeze of its massive, clawed hand, but he nodded in deference to the human. “Nothing living remains in that place,” it reported.
“Did you leave the sigil, where it would be found?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Lord Jeilu, as well as the Undying One, will be pleased.”
“Then we will get the magic, that which was promised.”
“Indeed you shall, Varex, all that was promised, and perhaps more. Come. The others have already departed, with the captives. Once we have established a trail far enough to the north, they will break off and make their way back into the wood. I know that you do not want to miss what happens when they reach the rendezvous...”
The dragonkin warrior did not respond, but its eyes flared eagerly, and it licked its lips with a rough, forked tongue. It followed the rider as he spurred his horse and rode off to the north, leaving the empty settlement behind.
More stage-setting and bad-things-a-happenin'...
* * * * *
Book VII, Part 2
The city of Elturel, perched on a bluff overlooking the slow-moving River Chionthar below, slept a quiet and peaceful sleep.
A spring storm had come and gone that day, and the streets were slick with puddles gathered in dips in the roads and in the lee of the buildings. A thick bank of clouds still hung over the sky, so the city was all shadows and indistinct lumps in the darkness of the night.
In the working-class district of the city, night hung heavily over the dark streets and narrow alleys. Under the wise rule of the High Rider, Lord Dhelt, the city could not be said to have a true slum, but here the streets tended to be narrower, the buildings in a poorer state of repair.
Light and the sound of booted footsteps broke the night, their source resolving into a sextet of armed men clad in the livery of the High Rider. The patrol moved swiftly through the streets, their hard eyes darting into every crack and corner, for all that their vision could press little further than the radius of their torches. The streets were still, and no footpad or burglar scattered at their coming this night. Continuing their watch, the six men moved efficiently through the streets, their light finally fading as they rounded a corner onto another narrow avenue.
As the last lingering ray of light faded, several shadows emerged from the shelter of a nearby alley. At first, the three looked like malevolent undead, shades that sought the warm touch of the living, but as they moved further into the street, it became clear that they were just men, clad in dark, hooded cloaks that muted any details of their form. They were carrying large, box-shaped objects, wrapped in thick cloths that dangled out below them. As they moved into the street, jostling those objects, faint sounds could be heard from within.
“This is a bad business,” one of the men said under his breath. The words weren’t intended to travel, but the man in the lead apparently heard, for he spun abruptly.
“Silence!” he hissed. The original speaker lowered his gaze and did not reply.
The leader gestured, and the two others turned in opposite directions, heading down the street. Within a few moments, both had been swallowed up by the night, vanishing back into the shadows.
The first cloaked figure paused, then crossed the street to where another alley ran into utter blackness. He did not need to see to know where this alley led; it backed onto a narrow courtyard that backed onto a busy inn, and two adjacent three-story tenements that each housed perhaps a hundred laborers, crowded into apartments that were built to contain perhaps half that number. Elturel was a prosperous city, especially with the coming of the spring trade, and like many cities its demand for cheap labor outpaced its ability to provide housing for them.
The figure did not enter the alley, but bent down and laid his burden down in its mouth. With a sudden movement he drew back the covering, revealing a large wire cage. The light was too poor to make out more than a writhing, moving mass within, but the squeaking sound that was now audible was a sufficient identifier for its contents.
Moving quickly, the man undid the front of the cage, darting back carefully as the score or so of rats exploded into the alley. A few started back toward him, but a few stamps of his feet drove them back in the direction of their fellows. He carefully checked the cage for stragglers, then snapped the gate back in place and took up the cage again. He moved quickly back to the far side of the street, disappearing back into the alleyway from which he had come. There was no need to wait for his companions; he knew that others were watching, and if they failed at their tasks, there would be no traces left behind for the authorities to find.
Smiling grimly to himself, the agent found the doorway in the darkness and vanished back into the building from which he’d come, still moving quickly. By the time dawn came, he hoped to be well away from Elturel, a fat purse speeding him along his way.
* * * * *
Dawn broke on the Western Heartlands, the sun rising swiftly over the eastern horizon, shining through the clouds for the first time in several days, promising a brighter day than the last few dreary ones as a spring storm had passed through on its long march south.
The settlement didn’t even have a name, just one of the scattered clusters of farmhouses that dotted the plains along the eastern edge of The Reaching Woods. The settlement had the look of a military outpost, the buildings squat blockhouses fashioned from thick logs with narrow windows that resembled arrowslits. The buildings were connected by similarly heavy fences, forming a courtyard in the center that contained a well and a small outdoor workshop covered by a sloping slate roof. Even the outbuildings, the animal pens and barns, seemed to huddle close to the outer walls of the central structures, as if seeking shelter from the dangers of the world outside.
As the first rays of the morning sun hit the settlement, they should have illuminated its members already well into their morning chores. Instead, the area in and around the buildings was relatively quiet, with no sounds of activity. Even before the light brightened enough to clearly discern the signs, it was clear that something was wrong; the smell of smoke and burned flesh hung in the air, and the main gate to the settlement hung open, dangling drunkenly with one of its hinges torn free from its threshold in the thick wooden fence.
The morning light also revealed a dark figure, clad in a heavy fur cloak that draped down over the hind quarters of his horse, a thick sword at his belt and a crossbow slung across his saddlehorn. He watched the settlement impassively, waiting.
Finally a single figure emerged from the settlement, and started toward the waiting rider. The dawn revealed the stranger as a monstrous humanoid creature, standing easily seven feet in height, with reptilian features dominated by a pair of sweeping wings that erupted from his back, and gaping draconic jaws. The reptile-man was clad in armor that was built to accommodate the unique features of his frame, and bore a variety of weapons, including a wicked morningstar and a pair of curving swords at his belt. As it exited the settlement it scanned the exterior, as if looking for something, then it turned and hurried to join the rider.
“Did you check everything, Varex?” the rider asked. His voice was deep, authoritarian; the voice of a man used to having his orders obeyed.
The reptile-man looked as though he could have crushed the man’s head with a single squeeze of its massive, clawed hand, but he nodded in deference to the human. “Nothing living remains in that place,” it reported.
“Did you leave the sigil, where it would be found?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Lord Jeilu, as well as the Undying One, will be pleased.”
“Then we will get the magic, that which was promised.”
“Indeed you shall, Varex, all that was promised, and perhaps more. Come. The others have already departed, with the captives. Once we have established a trail far enough to the north, they will break off and make their way back into the wood. I know that you do not want to miss what happens when they reach the rendezvous...”
The dragonkin warrior did not respond, but its eyes flared eagerly, and it licked its lips with a rough, forked tongue. It followed the rider as he spurred his horse and rode off to the north, leaving the empty settlement behind.
djrdjmsqrd
First Post
LB!
Greetings all,
Just thought I would pop in with my two-cents and say thank you for continuing the efforts of this thread, great job all.
Always, your friendly wallflower,
Djordje
Greetings all,
Just thought I would pop in with my two-cents and say thank you for continuing the efforts of this thread, great job all.
Always, your friendly wallflower,
Djordje
Black Bard
First Post
Part 2...
I wonder what those rogues are up to unleashing such a plague of rats in Elturel... But I can smell trouble, that's for sure...
And finally the "Great Alliance" begins to play the game... I can sense an even greater problem here...
With all this evil growing up, someone would ask: " Where are our heroes??"
Anyway, great post!!!
I wonder what those rogues are up to unleashing such a plague of rats in Elturel... But I can smell trouble, that's for sure...
And finally the "Great Alliance" begins to play the game... I can sense an even greater problem here...
With all this evil growing up, someone would ask: " Where are our heroes??"
Anyway, great post!!!
Lazybones
Adventurer
Heh... about a month ago, I spent an entire staff meeting coming up with ideas on how to screw with the Western Heartlands. A lot of those notes ended up in my book VII outline. As for the heroes, we'll get to them very shortly, but first, the last of the "setting the stage" posts, as we visit another famous Faerunian site, and are reintroduced to some guest stars from an earlier chapter:
* * * * *
Book VII, Part 3
Long rays of afternoon sunlight sparkled as they passed through the multi-paned windows situated along the cantilevered bases of the sloping roof of Twilight Hall, laying down lines of brightness along the smooth, polished wooden floor.
Twilight Hall, the headquarters of the Harpers, was formed of wood and stone that seemed to blend together in smooth harmony. The Hall was a compound of structures, really, situated on the edges of the prosperous city of Berdusk, but its distinguishing feature was the large central hall, a building constructed by talented artisans who’d invested a part of themselves its making, and there were many who said that magic had aided them in that work. The place had the look of a hunting lodge, albeit one crafted for giants, but it was also solid, built as if to withstand a siege. In fact, the structure had in fact served in such a defensive role several times in Faerûn’s tumultuous history, and blood had been shed on those smooth wooden floors in the past.
At most times, the main hall was a busy place, filled with comings and goings, as well as people just taking their rest. Comfortable couches and leather-upholstered armchairs lined the walls, along with bookcases that contained volumes collected from all over the Realms. Music and stories produced by famous bards were often heard here, accompanied many times by the boisterous noise of men and women engaging in games of chance or tests of mental or physical skill.
But this afternoon, Twilight Hall was quiet, a somber air hanging over the place, and only a single occupant filled the large open space of the main structure. At one end of the hall stood a long table of polished blueleaf, surrounded by two dozen chairs of expert and elaborate craftsmanship. Seated at the table was a single individual, a woman well into her middle years, a look of concentration on a face that was still attractive, if currently lined with the weight of heavy concern. She was apparently engaged in writing letters, her pen dancing across a sheet of parchment as she swiftly added lines in a smooth, flowing hand. To the side, propped against an adjacent chair, stood a mandolin, a bow and quiver of long arrows, and a longsword, forgotten for the moment but within easy reach. The woman herself wore a simple green tunic that could not entirely hide the glimmer of silvery mail links underneath.
She did not look up as two newcomers entered the hall, even though the sounds of their boots upon the floor were clearly audible. They were an odd pair, who wore the dust of the road and other signs of a long journey just completed. The first was a silver-haired moon elf, clad in a simple but functional outfit of layered greens and browns. He carried a composite longbow nearly as tall as he was, itself fashioned from a wood that looked at first glance as if it was silver itself, especially when he walked through the shafts of sunlight. His companion was a tall, bulky warrior of mixed blood, a half-orc with a pair of battleaxes strapped to his back and wearing a chain shirt under a thick fur vest.
The pair crossed the hall and came to a stop just a few paces from the table and the woman bard. As the sound of their footsteps faded she finally looked up, and a worn smile creased her features.
“Lariel, Gorath, it’s good to see you. I only wish it was under better circumstances.” She rose, and embraced each of them in turn.
“We heard the stories, along the road,” the elf said. “And saw the faces of the people here in the city.”
The woman turned her gaze out toward the hall. The place was quiet, empty, but it was clear that she was seeing something else, a memory of a tenday past, when the hall had been full not of people celebrating and relaxing, but injured people in rows, tended to by clerics as they lay in cots, some barely able to lift their arms high enough to call for help. Her brow tightened.
“Cylyria, are you all right?” the elf asked, concern written clearly in his voice.
The woman nodded. “It was bad, but it could have been much worse.” She gestured toward the table, and the three of them sat down.
“It started in Elden’s Pond, a little village less than a day’s walk from here, to the south along the Aldoon Trail.”
“I know the place,” Lariel said, and his companion nodded with a grunt.
“It was late in the day when a merchant caravan coming up from Greenest stopped in the village. They’d intended to just stop briefly, to water their horses and put some food in their men before pushing on to Berdusk, but the village was quiet, and no one came out to greet them. What they found...”
With an angry shake of her head, Cylyria gained control of herself and continued. Underneath the obvious strain on her there was an iron resolve, an edge that was appropriate for one of the highest leaders of the Harpers. “They were attacked when they entered the village inn. It was a cloudy day, so a few of them even came outside, to assault the wagoneers. We were lucky that even one was able to escape, and the undead did not pursue, uncomfortable even in the pale light that filtered down through the clouds.”
“The surviving merchant rode hard to Berdusk, and raised the alarm. The sun was already setting by the time he arrived, but we rallied everyone we could, and rode south. I was all too aware the with darkness the creatures could spread out, cover a lot of ground, and there are other villages, scattered communities radiating out for leagues around the city.”
“We encountered them halfway to Elden’s Pond, moving in a single mass straight toward Berdusk. Hundreds of them. They must have killed every single villager in the place, to number so many.”
“Shadows,” Lariel said to himself, his own face a grim mask. “How could they take an entire village, without anyone sounding an alarm, or trying to escape? It would only take one, to find a horse, spread word...”
“Not smart,” Gorath said, his first contribution to the conversation. “Not completely mindless, but they’re not that smart.”
“Indeed,” Cylyria said. “That’s one of the things that keeps spawning undead from ravaging across Faerûn. The higher forms are more intelligent, but shadows are not known for coordinating their efforts so. In a way, they are almost feral, competing with each other to steal the life-energies that they crave so.”
Lariel shuddered.
“How many did we lose?” Gorath asked.
“Too many. Cel Marad. Galandros. Fezran Tor. A score of guardsmen from the city, brave men. The shadows forced us back, at first, and when we regrouped they had almost reached the walls of the city. We met them with everything we had—magic, clerical power. It was Coran Velos, the high priest of Lathander, who ultimately turned the tide. He charged into their midst, blasting them with divine energies, and when that was spent, cast spells of healing that tore apart the fabric of their warped existence. They swarmed on him like flies on a spilled pot of honey, but he continued to destroy them even as they drained his life away. He gave us the time to deplete their numbers, even at the cost of his own life.”
“But...” Lariel interjected. “Surely he could have warded himself against their negative energies...”
Cylyria shook her head. “By pure chance, he had not prayed for the spell that day. Several members of his congregation had taken ill, and he used his prayers to treat their sickness. We had no time to prepare, and if we had not had even the little warning that we did, those things would have fallen upon Berdusk in full force.” She did not have to elaborate; each of them knew the possibilities of what might have happened.
“I knew Coran,” Lariel said. “He was a good man.”
“We made sure that his soul was freed, to go on to its proper place in the Heavens,” Cylyria said. “We would not leave him to a cursed existence as an undead thing.”
“Troubled times all over,” Gorath noted.
“Yes,” Cylyria said. “The plague in Elturel, although it’s more or less contained since Dhelt quarantined the city. They say that he himself spent days in the stricken neighborhoods, curing the sick. Five city wells in Scornubel poisoned, with scores dying and many more seriously ill. Bandits have been raiding the eastern marches, taking on even well-armed caravans, and the Purple Dragons, who used to patrol the mountain passes and the eastern trade routes, have not ventured out of Cormyr for several years now, ever since the current troubles there began.”
“We heard that there have been slaving raids as well, up north,” Lariel said.
Cylyria made a disgusted face. “Yes, mostly isolated settlements, but they’ve been hit hard, and they didn’t leave much behind but bodies and scattered traces that all lead north. Some signs were found, though, that link the raids to the followers of Bane.”
“I thought that the Zhents were laying low in this region,” the elf commented. “From what I had heard, they’ve got their own internal problems, and their activities have always been focused on the Moonsea region in any case.”
“Banites,” Gorath spat, the word coming out as a curse.
“Darkhold has denied responsibility—why would they take slaves here, when there are no markets for them within thousands of leagues?”
“The Zhents have access to portals,” Lariel reminded her.
“Yes, I haven’t forgotten that, as if that little fiasco in the Dalelands last year wasn’t enough of a reminder. But somehow, I’m a little suspect. Everything that’s happened—it’s all too neat to be a coincidence, but it just isn’t the Zhents’ style.”
“If not the Zhents, then who?”
“At this point, we have all the usual suspects. The dark churches: Shar, Mask, Cyric, and a few others who haven’t been as active out here. The Iron Throne and the Shadow Thieves have been active on the Sword Coast for some time, but these sorts of things seem a bit ambitious even for them. Or it could be a fiendish plot; reports indicate that the practice of demon-worship is taking hold again among some of the humanoid tribes dwelling in the western mountains. It’s possible even that your friends from up north are involved in some way; I read your report on what they’re doing up in Ascore.”
“As far as we can tell, they’ve got a semi-permanent camp there, but they haven’t ventured far beyond the edge of the desert,” Lariel said.
“What you may not know is that one of them was killed in a warehouse in Elturel last year, in connection with that whole Cyricist arms-running operation.” Lariel and Gorath shared a look at that news, but said nothing.
“Divination wasn’t able to reveal any clues?”
“Only a few scattered bits of information. Whoever’s behind this has covered their tracks well, and they have some potent allies in high places to help shield them.”
“What does the Lords’ Alliance have to say about all this?”
“At the moment, the official line is that it’s just another bid for power by the Zhents. They may be right, especially if Fzoul’s been able to smooth over the internal dissention at Darkhold, but as I said, I have my doubts.”
“So you want us to gather information then, find out who or what is behind this,” Lariel concluded.
“I hate to admit it, but we are scattered. There are just too many things going on in the Realms right now, and many of our best agents are too deeply involved to pull out and bring back here to deal with this. And we’ve lost some good people in the last year, even before what the bards are already calling the Night of the Shadows. There are some others who perhaps, might be able to help... but we will have to see.”
Lariel stood, and Gorath was quick to follow. “We’ll do our best,” he promised.
“I know,” Cylyria said, hugging them both again before they stepped back away from the table. “Good luck to you, and may the luck of the Lady follow your steps.”
Lariel nodded, and the two Harpers left. Cylyria watched them go, and with a sigh returned to her place at the table, and the stack of letters that she still had to write before morning.
* * * * *
Book VII, Part 3
Long rays of afternoon sunlight sparkled as they passed through the multi-paned windows situated along the cantilevered bases of the sloping roof of Twilight Hall, laying down lines of brightness along the smooth, polished wooden floor.
Twilight Hall, the headquarters of the Harpers, was formed of wood and stone that seemed to blend together in smooth harmony. The Hall was a compound of structures, really, situated on the edges of the prosperous city of Berdusk, but its distinguishing feature was the large central hall, a building constructed by talented artisans who’d invested a part of themselves its making, and there were many who said that magic had aided them in that work. The place had the look of a hunting lodge, albeit one crafted for giants, but it was also solid, built as if to withstand a siege. In fact, the structure had in fact served in such a defensive role several times in Faerûn’s tumultuous history, and blood had been shed on those smooth wooden floors in the past.
At most times, the main hall was a busy place, filled with comings and goings, as well as people just taking their rest. Comfortable couches and leather-upholstered armchairs lined the walls, along with bookcases that contained volumes collected from all over the Realms. Music and stories produced by famous bards were often heard here, accompanied many times by the boisterous noise of men and women engaging in games of chance or tests of mental or physical skill.
But this afternoon, Twilight Hall was quiet, a somber air hanging over the place, and only a single occupant filled the large open space of the main structure. At one end of the hall stood a long table of polished blueleaf, surrounded by two dozen chairs of expert and elaborate craftsmanship. Seated at the table was a single individual, a woman well into her middle years, a look of concentration on a face that was still attractive, if currently lined with the weight of heavy concern. She was apparently engaged in writing letters, her pen dancing across a sheet of parchment as she swiftly added lines in a smooth, flowing hand. To the side, propped against an adjacent chair, stood a mandolin, a bow and quiver of long arrows, and a longsword, forgotten for the moment but within easy reach. The woman herself wore a simple green tunic that could not entirely hide the glimmer of silvery mail links underneath.
She did not look up as two newcomers entered the hall, even though the sounds of their boots upon the floor were clearly audible. They were an odd pair, who wore the dust of the road and other signs of a long journey just completed. The first was a silver-haired moon elf, clad in a simple but functional outfit of layered greens and browns. He carried a composite longbow nearly as tall as he was, itself fashioned from a wood that looked at first glance as if it was silver itself, especially when he walked through the shafts of sunlight. His companion was a tall, bulky warrior of mixed blood, a half-orc with a pair of battleaxes strapped to his back and wearing a chain shirt under a thick fur vest.
The pair crossed the hall and came to a stop just a few paces from the table and the woman bard. As the sound of their footsteps faded she finally looked up, and a worn smile creased her features.
“Lariel, Gorath, it’s good to see you. I only wish it was under better circumstances.” She rose, and embraced each of them in turn.
“We heard the stories, along the road,” the elf said. “And saw the faces of the people here in the city.”
The woman turned her gaze out toward the hall. The place was quiet, empty, but it was clear that she was seeing something else, a memory of a tenday past, when the hall had been full not of people celebrating and relaxing, but injured people in rows, tended to by clerics as they lay in cots, some barely able to lift their arms high enough to call for help. Her brow tightened.
“Cylyria, are you all right?” the elf asked, concern written clearly in his voice.
The woman nodded. “It was bad, but it could have been much worse.” She gestured toward the table, and the three of them sat down.
“It started in Elden’s Pond, a little village less than a day’s walk from here, to the south along the Aldoon Trail.”
“I know the place,” Lariel said, and his companion nodded with a grunt.
“It was late in the day when a merchant caravan coming up from Greenest stopped in the village. They’d intended to just stop briefly, to water their horses and put some food in their men before pushing on to Berdusk, but the village was quiet, and no one came out to greet them. What they found...”
With an angry shake of her head, Cylyria gained control of herself and continued. Underneath the obvious strain on her there was an iron resolve, an edge that was appropriate for one of the highest leaders of the Harpers. “They were attacked when they entered the village inn. It was a cloudy day, so a few of them even came outside, to assault the wagoneers. We were lucky that even one was able to escape, and the undead did not pursue, uncomfortable even in the pale light that filtered down through the clouds.”
“The surviving merchant rode hard to Berdusk, and raised the alarm. The sun was already setting by the time he arrived, but we rallied everyone we could, and rode south. I was all too aware the with darkness the creatures could spread out, cover a lot of ground, and there are other villages, scattered communities radiating out for leagues around the city.”
“We encountered them halfway to Elden’s Pond, moving in a single mass straight toward Berdusk. Hundreds of them. They must have killed every single villager in the place, to number so many.”
“Shadows,” Lariel said to himself, his own face a grim mask. “How could they take an entire village, without anyone sounding an alarm, or trying to escape? It would only take one, to find a horse, spread word...”
“Not smart,” Gorath said, his first contribution to the conversation. “Not completely mindless, but they’re not that smart.”
“Indeed,” Cylyria said. “That’s one of the things that keeps spawning undead from ravaging across Faerûn. The higher forms are more intelligent, but shadows are not known for coordinating their efforts so. In a way, they are almost feral, competing with each other to steal the life-energies that they crave so.”
Lariel shuddered.
“How many did we lose?” Gorath asked.
“Too many. Cel Marad. Galandros. Fezran Tor. A score of guardsmen from the city, brave men. The shadows forced us back, at first, and when we regrouped they had almost reached the walls of the city. We met them with everything we had—magic, clerical power. It was Coran Velos, the high priest of Lathander, who ultimately turned the tide. He charged into their midst, blasting them with divine energies, and when that was spent, cast spells of healing that tore apart the fabric of their warped existence. They swarmed on him like flies on a spilled pot of honey, but he continued to destroy them even as they drained his life away. He gave us the time to deplete their numbers, even at the cost of his own life.”
“But...” Lariel interjected. “Surely he could have warded himself against their negative energies...”
Cylyria shook her head. “By pure chance, he had not prayed for the spell that day. Several members of his congregation had taken ill, and he used his prayers to treat their sickness. We had no time to prepare, and if we had not had even the little warning that we did, those things would have fallen upon Berdusk in full force.” She did not have to elaborate; each of them knew the possibilities of what might have happened.
“I knew Coran,” Lariel said. “He was a good man.”
“We made sure that his soul was freed, to go on to its proper place in the Heavens,” Cylyria said. “We would not leave him to a cursed existence as an undead thing.”
“Troubled times all over,” Gorath noted.
“Yes,” Cylyria said. “The plague in Elturel, although it’s more or less contained since Dhelt quarantined the city. They say that he himself spent days in the stricken neighborhoods, curing the sick. Five city wells in Scornubel poisoned, with scores dying and many more seriously ill. Bandits have been raiding the eastern marches, taking on even well-armed caravans, and the Purple Dragons, who used to patrol the mountain passes and the eastern trade routes, have not ventured out of Cormyr for several years now, ever since the current troubles there began.”
“We heard that there have been slaving raids as well, up north,” Lariel said.
Cylyria made a disgusted face. “Yes, mostly isolated settlements, but they’ve been hit hard, and they didn’t leave much behind but bodies and scattered traces that all lead north. Some signs were found, though, that link the raids to the followers of Bane.”
“I thought that the Zhents were laying low in this region,” the elf commented. “From what I had heard, they’ve got their own internal problems, and their activities have always been focused on the Moonsea region in any case.”
“Banites,” Gorath spat, the word coming out as a curse.
“Darkhold has denied responsibility—why would they take slaves here, when there are no markets for them within thousands of leagues?”
“The Zhents have access to portals,” Lariel reminded her.
“Yes, I haven’t forgotten that, as if that little fiasco in the Dalelands last year wasn’t enough of a reminder. But somehow, I’m a little suspect. Everything that’s happened—it’s all too neat to be a coincidence, but it just isn’t the Zhents’ style.”
“If not the Zhents, then who?”
“At this point, we have all the usual suspects. The dark churches: Shar, Mask, Cyric, and a few others who haven’t been as active out here. The Iron Throne and the Shadow Thieves have been active on the Sword Coast for some time, but these sorts of things seem a bit ambitious even for them. Or it could be a fiendish plot; reports indicate that the practice of demon-worship is taking hold again among some of the humanoid tribes dwelling in the western mountains. It’s possible even that your friends from up north are involved in some way; I read your report on what they’re doing up in Ascore.”
“As far as we can tell, they’ve got a semi-permanent camp there, but they haven’t ventured far beyond the edge of the desert,” Lariel said.
“What you may not know is that one of them was killed in a warehouse in Elturel last year, in connection with that whole Cyricist arms-running operation.” Lariel and Gorath shared a look at that news, but said nothing.
“Divination wasn’t able to reveal any clues?”
“Only a few scattered bits of information. Whoever’s behind this has covered their tracks well, and they have some potent allies in high places to help shield them.”
“What does the Lords’ Alliance have to say about all this?”
“At the moment, the official line is that it’s just another bid for power by the Zhents. They may be right, especially if Fzoul’s been able to smooth over the internal dissention at Darkhold, but as I said, I have my doubts.”
“So you want us to gather information then, find out who or what is behind this,” Lariel concluded.
“I hate to admit it, but we are scattered. There are just too many things going on in the Realms right now, and many of our best agents are too deeply involved to pull out and bring back here to deal with this. And we’ve lost some good people in the last year, even before what the bards are already calling the Night of the Shadows. There are some others who perhaps, might be able to help... but we will have to see.”
Lariel stood, and Gorath was quick to follow. “We’ll do our best,” he promised.
“I know,” Cylyria said, hugging them both again before they stepped back away from the table. “Good luck to you, and may the luck of the Lady follow your steps.”
Lariel nodded, and the two Harpers left. Cylyria watched them go, and with a sigh returned to her place at the table, and the stack of letters that she still had to write before morning.
Broccli_Head
Explorer
Hey LB, love the way things are changing in your Realms!
IMC, already a major city in the Heartlands is in jeopardy. Thanks for inspiring me and other DMs to mess with status quo and canon!
IMC, already a major city in the Heartlands is in jeopardy. Thanks for inspiring me and other DMs to mess with status quo and canon!
