Travels through the Wild West: Books V-VIII (Epilogue)
- Thread starter Lazybones
- Start date
Black Bard
First Post
Great update, Lazy!!
As always, you amuse us with your characters... The elemental weird was superb!!
Just a note: I miss Cal's journal entries...
As always, you amuse us with your characters... The elemental weird was superb!!
Just a note: I miss Cal's journal entries...
Lazybones
Adventurer
Book VIII, Part 11
“Well, now what do we do?”
Benzan’s question hung there in the air for a moment. The four companions stood on the broad shelf of stone that jutted out from the summit of the peak, a stone’s throw from a cliff that would be the first obstacle in a difficult climb down. Behind them, up the steep slope a few hundred yards, the shadowed opening of the Oracle’s Shrine loomed like a great mouth in the side of the mountain. But the four did not look back; their gazes, rather, were turned toward the vast expanse of peaks and valleys that ran off to the distance to the northwest. They were high enough that they could see, through a gap between two distant peaks, the flat expanse of the Giant’s Plain. Beyond that, although it was too distant to see, they knew lay the Sea of Fallen Stars to the north, and to the west, the city-states of the Western Heartlands.
And their destination, in another mountain range and another dark place held deep within the fastness of mother Toril.
“Well, there’s no need to march back through all of that, not now,” Dana said. She glanced down at Cal, who had a thoughtful look on his face. “With Cal and myself both now able to teleport, we can return instantly to any locale that is well-known to us.”
“So we can return to Iriaebor... or even directly to...”
Benzan didn’t have to finish his statement; they all knew the place of which he spoke. The prospect of getting it all over with, right now, sent a sudden thrill that was part anticipation, part dread, through each of them.
Cal, however, shook his head. “We need to prepare.” He glanced up at Dana, but while her expression was dark, she did not contradict him. She above all of them felt the press of passing time, felt personally the dread of each moment longer that Delem was kept confined to the prison in which his soul was bound. Cal knew that she felt a burning guilt at their leaving Delem there as long as they had, long enough for the transformation that had created the... being... that they had confronted in that underground lair. They had spoken of it, on the few occasions when they could bring themselves to confront those feelings, and while the mystic wanderer objectively acknowledged the fact that there was nothing that they could have done differently, that did little to salve the open wounds of guilt that surfaced in moments of doubt and fear, moments that came to all of them whenever they let their guard slip.
They were all looking at the gnome now, who despite his diminutive stature and harmless appearance, had so often served as their leader. “We should split up,” he told them. “I will go to Silverymoon, with Lok. There are things that I left there, and the resources necessary to prepare some scrolls and some other items that we will need. And after that, I can take Lok to visit his people—the Underdark interferes with teleportation, but the urdunnir settlement is near enough the surface that I should be able to take us at least close to their community.”
The genasi warrior nodded, grateful that Cal knew him well enough to anticipate his request.
“Waterdeep,” Benzan said. He met Dana’s gaze, the young woman nodded in understanding. “We’ll need more information, about what we can expect,” she went on, developing Benzan’s suggestion. “And there’s a church near the city that I should visit, and an old friend who might be able to help.”
“I will also send word to Cylyria,” Cal suggested. “We’re going to need help, from what the Oracle told us. Someone has to remain behind, take custody of the statue, start the closing of the Portal once we pass through.”
Their eyes turned toward Benzan, and the tiefling swallowed under their scrutiny. “Whatever needs to be done,” he said, absently patting the pouch at his waist.
“How long?” Lok asked.
“We must move quickly, but should not rush our preparations. We will get only once chance... a tenday, perhaps...”
“All right,” Dana said. “Should we meet in Iriaebor, or travel directly...”
“I would think that would be up to you, Dana,” Cal said gently.
For a moment, indecision warred in the young woman’s expression, only to harden with determination. “Give all that’s happening there right now, it might be better to just go directly,” she finally said.
Cal nodded. “Contact me with a sending at highsun in nine days,” he told her. “By then, we’ll have a better idea of what we need to do.”
The gnome looked at each of his friends in turn. “All right then! It sounds like we have a plan. I think you all have at least an idea of what we will face; don’t hesitate to do whatever you can to prepare. And in a tenday...”
“In a tenday,” Benzan said. He extended his hand and grasped Cal and then Lok’s hands, followed by an embrace from Dana. “Good luck,” she whispered, when she bent low to hug Cal.
“And to you,” he whispered back. Then the two groups parted, opening a small space between them on the ledge. They looked at each other for a moment longer, and then the two spellcasters each started their incantations.
The two groups shimmered, and then vanished, leaving behind only the bare expanse of windswept rock.
“Well, now what do we do?”
Benzan’s question hung there in the air for a moment. The four companions stood on the broad shelf of stone that jutted out from the summit of the peak, a stone’s throw from a cliff that would be the first obstacle in a difficult climb down. Behind them, up the steep slope a few hundred yards, the shadowed opening of the Oracle’s Shrine loomed like a great mouth in the side of the mountain. But the four did not look back; their gazes, rather, were turned toward the vast expanse of peaks and valleys that ran off to the distance to the northwest. They were high enough that they could see, through a gap between two distant peaks, the flat expanse of the Giant’s Plain. Beyond that, although it was too distant to see, they knew lay the Sea of Fallen Stars to the north, and to the west, the city-states of the Western Heartlands.
And their destination, in another mountain range and another dark place held deep within the fastness of mother Toril.
“Well, there’s no need to march back through all of that, not now,” Dana said. She glanced down at Cal, who had a thoughtful look on his face. “With Cal and myself both now able to teleport, we can return instantly to any locale that is well-known to us.”
“So we can return to Iriaebor... or even directly to...”
Benzan didn’t have to finish his statement; they all knew the place of which he spoke. The prospect of getting it all over with, right now, sent a sudden thrill that was part anticipation, part dread, through each of them.
Cal, however, shook his head. “We need to prepare.” He glanced up at Dana, but while her expression was dark, she did not contradict him. She above all of them felt the press of passing time, felt personally the dread of each moment longer that Delem was kept confined to the prison in which his soul was bound. Cal knew that she felt a burning guilt at their leaving Delem there as long as they had, long enough for the transformation that had created the... being... that they had confronted in that underground lair. They had spoken of it, on the few occasions when they could bring themselves to confront those feelings, and while the mystic wanderer objectively acknowledged the fact that there was nothing that they could have done differently, that did little to salve the open wounds of guilt that surfaced in moments of doubt and fear, moments that came to all of them whenever they let their guard slip.
They were all looking at the gnome now, who despite his diminutive stature and harmless appearance, had so often served as their leader. “We should split up,” he told them. “I will go to Silverymoon, with Lok. There are things that I left there, and the resources necessary to prepare some scrolls and some other items that we will need. And after that, I can take Lok to visit his people—the Underdark interferes with teleportation, but the urdunnir settlement is near enough the surface that I should be able to take us at least close to their community.”
The genasi warrior nodded, grateful that Cal knew him well enough to anticipate his request.
“Waterdeep,” Benzan said. He met Dana’s gaze, the young woman nodded in understanding. “We’ll need more information, about what we can expect,” she went on, developing Benzan’s suggestion. “And there’s a church near the city that I should visit, and an old friend who might be able to help.”
“I will also send word to Cylyria,” Cal suggested. “We’re going to need help, from what the Oracle told us. Someone has to remain behind, take custody of the statue, start the closing of the Portal once we pass through.”
Their eyes turned toward Benzan, and the tiefling swallowed under their scrutiny. “Whatever needs to be done,” he said, absently patting the pouch at his waist.
“How long?” Lok asked.
“We must move quickly, but should not rush our preparations. We will get only once chance... a tenday, perhaps...”
“All right,” Dana said. “Should we meet in Iriaebor, or travel directly...”
“I would think that would be up to you, Dana,” Cal said gently.
For a moment, indecision warred in the young woman’s expression, only to harden with determination. “Give all that’s happening there right now, it might be better to just go directly,” she finally said.
Cal nodded. “Contact me with a sending at highsun in nine days,” he told her. “By then, we’ll have a better idea of what we need to do.”
The gnome looked at each of his friends in turn. “All right then! It sounds like we have a plan. I think you all have at least an idea of what we will face; don’t hesitate to do whatever you can to prepare. And in a tenday...”
“In a tenday,” Benzan said. He extended his hand and grasped Cal and then Lok’s hands, followed by an embrace from Dana. “Good luck,” she whispered, when she bent low to hug Cal.
“And to you,” he whispered back. Then the two groups parted, opening a small space between them on the ledge. They looked at each other for a moment longer, and then the two spellcasters each started their incantations.
The two groups shimmered, and then vanished, leaving behind only the bare expanse of windswept rock.
Black Bard
First Post
Hey Maldur,
It isn't that bad... I think Sigil would be an even worse place to go... Afterall, Benzan may have some "welcoming" parents in Hell, don't you think?
It isn't that bad... I think Sigil would be an even worse place to go... Afterall, Benzan may have some "welcoming" parents in Hell, don't you think?
Lazybones
Adventurer
Book VIII, Part 12
The tenday passed swiftly for the two groups of companions. Fixed on their preparations, they tried not to think about what awaited them at the end of that stretch of days, but in hung over everything they did and said regardless of their intentions.
Dana and Benzan returned to Waterdeep. Dana was willing to accompany Benzan on the visit that had drawn him back to the City of Splendors, but when he hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable, she understood and let him be. Part of being there for someone, she’d come to understand, was knowing when that person had to be alone, and giving them the space they needed.
So they parted for a few days, with Benzan spending some time with his infant daughter, while Dana traveled quickly to the nearby community of Greenfields, and the temple of Selûne there. Her friend, the aged elven cleric Seral, welcomed her warmly, and when she shared the nature of her impending mission with him, the priest immediately offered both a friendly ear and the resources of his church to her.
Dana spent the next few days in contemplation and prayer, but also took the time to collect ingredients for a few potions, combining her clerical experience with the lore that she’d collected since she had started walking the path of the mystic wanderer. She also spent some time at Seral’s scrying font, and finally attended to one further task, something she’d promised herself that she would do as soon as they’d decided upon their current course.
Cal and Lok spent their tenday equally busy. They traveled first to Berdusk. While Twilight Hall was warded against teleportation magic by all save those who knew the inner secrets of the Harpers, Cal remembered several other locations in the city well enough to travel there with his spell. Cylyria was once again unavailable, off as she often was on some undefined business of the Harpers, but Cal left a message for her with one of the priests of Deneir. After a quick night’s rest in one of the local inns, the illusionist-bard transported them to the vicinity of Lok’s urdunnir community, to a cave where the four of them had spent some time recovering from a violent encounter on their first visit to the region. They could have hazarded a direct transport, but Cal knew that the Underdark had a strange effect on such types of magic, and they risked a greater delay in the case of a mishap.
Their fears were misplaced, as they arrived safely. They found the shaft that led down to the urdunnir town easily, for although the season had changed since their last visit, the course was seared into Lok’s memory as if they had made that trip just days past rather than the better part of a year. To their surprise, however, some things had indeed changed since that trip.
The crevice that led to the shaft had been widened, and a marked trail that had clearly seen recent traffic led into its depths. The twisting crawlspace they recalled had been replaced by a narrow but easily traversed descent cut with stone steps, and at the bottom of the crevice, rather than the empty depths of the shaft they’d expected to find, they instead encountered an elaborate lift, attached to the roof of the shaft by a heavy pulley assembly. The work was of quality; Lok examined it and nodded to himself, reassured.
Unsure of what they would find, the pair boarded the lift and descended into the shaft. The winch that operated it responded easily to Lok’s strength, and in a short time they had reached the level of the urdunnir city. There, finally, their questions were answered.
The urdunnir had not been idle in the time since Lok had left them. A heavy stone gate warded the tunnel at the bottom of the shaft, but it swung readily open as the two wayfarers reached it, granting them entrance to the underground community. The urdunnir greeted Lok and his companion warmly, and by the time that the two entered the town proper, a goodly portion of the town’s inhabitants had gathered to meet them. Cal was surprised to see a number of shield dwarves among their number, and even more so when one greeted him by name. That familiar figure turned out to be Gaera, a priestess of the dwarven goddess Berronar Truesilver that they had met in their liberation of the fortress of Caer Dulthain from the ogre armies that had taken it. The orcs and ogres had departed following the destruction of the ghour demon that had dominated them, and the shield dwarves had returned to reclaim their outpost. To their surprise, it had been the urdunnir who had established the first contact with their surface kin, demonstrating how significant Lok’s impact had been upon the normally isolationist stone-dwarves.
Or perhaps, it had been their subjugation at the hands of the duergar that had taught them the lesson that they could no longer afford to seal themselves off from the surrounding world.
In any case, the relationship between the two groups was a cordial one, and mutually beneficial. The urdunnir, using their special gifts of working with stone and metal, had greatly speeded the restoration of Caer Dulthain, while in turn the shield dwarves had generously provided supplies to aid in the recovery of their underground neighbors. With the lift in place, transit between the two communities was fairly easy, and each side maintained ambassadors with the other.
After the initial greetings, Lok and Cal were invited to meet with the surviving elders of the urdunnir community. Gaera attended this meeting as well, testifying to her status as an important guest here. Most of the more powerful clerics and mages had not survived the experience of slavery under the duergar, and her talents were particularly precious given the real threats that still lurked in the treacherous Underdark.
Lok’s initial mood was one of embarrassment, for his departure from his homeland had been sudden and swift, leaving even his personal possessions behind here as Benzan’s accidental wish had drawn him into Undermountain. But the urdunnir only dismissed his apologies, saying that they had known all along that he was well, and would someday return.
“Gol Stonefinger told us that you had been called away on an important quest, and that your work here had been completed,” the elders told him. At his look of evident confusion, one added, “Ah, we had forgotten, you departed before Gol was touched by the hand of the Keeper of Secrets. Come, we will show you.”
The two adventurers were brought to a small but warmly adorned chamber, where a stout dwarf waited for them. The broad figure was bent with age, his still-thick arms and his bald skull crossed by the scars that were a memory of the harsh experience of slavery. He looked up as they entered, and they saw that his eyes were thick and milky, evidence of blindness.
“Gol,” Lok said, softly, kneeling at the old man’s feet, clasping his arm softly with a powerful hand.
“Lok,” the old man said, his voice cracking like old stone under a weight. “I told them you would come.” He coughed, and it was clear by the sound that his life clung reluctantly to the shell of his body. Lok glanced up at Gaera, but the cleric only shook her head.
“I survived the ordeal of our people, but my strength is now depleted,” the old dwarf said. “I did not know why I was spared, when younger and stronger dwarves perished by the score, but now I understand. He had one final task for me. I did not know when he first called, but now I understand.”
“Understand what, Old One?” Lok asked.
“You have been touched, my boy,” the old dwarf said, and such was the intensity of his stare that it seemed that he might indeed see, despite his obvious blindness. “You rescued your people from their plight, but there is still a greater task marked for you, a test that lies beyond the liberation of a single soul.”
Lok shifted his gaze to Cal for a moment, but the gnome looked equally puzzled. “How do you know these things?” the genasi asked.
The old dwarf coughed again. “He spoke to me in dreams, told me to await your coming. I told them, told the elders that you would come on the eve of a great and perilous journey. They did not believe me, not at first!” He laughed, and the sound trailed off into another stale wheeze. Gol smiled, though, animated by the fruition of whatever strange mandate had driven him. “But when I went to the forges, and took up the old hammer of Koth Kot’chorlok, then they believed! Even as my eyesight faded, my blows struck truer, and I felt the power flow through my hands into the metal...”
Gol patted Lok on the arm. “They are in your chambers. Take them, and use them well. We have done all we can.”
The old dwarf leaned back, sagging as exhaustion came upon him. A younger dwarf, clearly an attendant, eased him back into his bed, and ushered him out of the chamber.
“What did he mean, ‘they are in your chambers?’” Cal asked, when they had left.
“Your weapons and armor,” one of the elders said to Lok. “Gol speaks truth; we thought you would have wanted us to use them, but he insisted that they be kept for your return. And we know not how Gol did what he did, but rest assured that your gear is even more effective, and will protect you well against whatever it is that you must face.”
The two adventurers enjoyed the hospitality of the urdunnir that night, but in the morning Cal memorized his teleportation spell once more and transported to Silverymoon, promising to return for Lok at the end of the tenday. Lok spent his time working with his people, learning of the deeds they had accomplished since his departure, and sharing his own stories with them. He visited his old forge, and tested his old axe and mail, finding that Gol’s words were true, that his equipment was better than it had ever been. He also spent time with Gaera, whose own drive and commitment to her people were in many ways a reflection of the genasi’s own personal philosophy.
Cal, meanwhile, went quickly about his business in Silverymoon. The hasty arrangements he’d made on his departure had left his old laboratory intact, if dusty. Silverymoon was a city well-accustomed to the presence of powerful mages, and he was easily able to locate the resources he needed. For several days he spent dawn to dusk working at his old desk, scribing scrolls and crafting a new magical wand.
Thus the four companions spent their time engaged in those final activities that they needed to complete, and the days followed quickly one upon the other. Finally, as the appointed time for their reunion approached, they turned their thoughts more directly to what lie ahead.
And the night before Cal’s departure to recover Lok, a voice spoke within his head, bringing a message, and a change of plans.
The tenday passed swiftly for the two groups of companions. Fixed on their preparations, they tried not to think about what awaited them at the end of that stretch of days, but in hung over everything they did and said regardless of their intentions.
Dana and Benzan returned to Waterdeep. Dana was willing to accompany Benzan on the visit that had drawn him back to the City of Splendors, but when he hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable, she understood and let him be. Part of being there for someone, she’d come to understand, was knowing when that person had to be alone, and giving them the space they needed.
So they parted for a few days, with Benzan spending some time with his infant daughter, while Dana traveled quickly to the nearby community of Greenfields, and the temple of Selûne there. Her friend, the aged elven cleric Seral, welcomed her warmly, and when she shared the nature of her impending mission with him, the priest immediately offered both a friendly ear and the resources of his church to her.
Dana spent the next few days in contemplation and prayer, but also took the time to collect ingredients for a few potions, combining her clerical experience with the lore that she’d collected since she had started walking the path of the mystic wanderer. She also spent some time at Seral’s scrying font, and finally attended to one further task, something she’d promised herself that she would do as soon as they’d decided upon their current course.
Cal and Lok spent their tenday equally busy. They traveled first to Berdusk. While Twilight Hall was warded against teleportation magic by all save those who knew the inner secrets of the Harpers, Cal remembered several other locations in the city well enough to travel there with his spell. Cylyria was once again unavailable, off as she often was on some undefined business of the Harpers, but Cal left a message for her with one of the priests of Deneir. After a quick night’s rest in one of the local inns, the illusionist-bard transported them to the vicinity of Lok’s urdunnir community, to a cave where the four of them had spent some time recovering from a violent encounter on their first visit to the region. They could have hazarded a direct transport, but Cal knew that the Underdark had a strange effect on such types of magic, and they risked a greater delay in the case of a mishap.
Their fears were misplaced, as they arrived safely. They found the shaft that led down to the urdunnir town easily, for although the season had changed since their last visit, the course was seared into Lok’s memory as if they had made that trip just days past rather than the better part of a year. To their surprise, however, some things had indeed changed since that trip.
The crevice that led to the shaft had been widened, and a marked trail that had clearly seen recent traffic led into its depths. The twisting crawlspace they recalled had been replaced by a narrow but easily traversed descent cut with stone steps, and at the bottom of the crevice, rather than the empty depths of the shaft they’d expected to find, they instead encountered an elaborate lift, attached to the roof of the shaft by a heavy pulley assembly. The work was of quality; Lok examined it and nodded to himself, reassured.
Unsure of what they would find, the pair boarded the lift and descended into the shaft. The winch that operated it responded easily to Lok’s strength, and in a short time they had reached the level of the urdunnir city. There, finally, their questions were answered.
The urdunnir had not been idle in the time since Lok had left them. A heavy stone gate warded the tunnel at the bottom of the shaft, but it swung readily open as the two wayfarers reached it, granting them entrance to the underground community. The urdunnir greeted Lok and his companion warmly, and by the time that the two entered the town proper, a goodly portion of the town’s inhabitants had gathered to meet them. Cal was surprised to see a number of shield dwarves among their number, and even more so when one greeted him by name. That familiar figure turned out to be Gaera, a priestess of the dwarven goddess Berronar Truesilver that they had met in their liberation of the fortress of Caer Dulthain from the ogre armies that had taken it. The orcs and ogres had departed following the destruction of the ghour demon that had dominated them, and the shield dwarves had returned to reclaim their outpost. To their surprise, it had been the urdunnir who had established the first contact with their surface kin, demonstrating how significant Lok’s impact had been upon the normally isolationist stone-dwarves.
Or perhaps, it had been their subjugation at the hands of the duergar that had taught them the lesson that they could no longer afford to seal themselves off from the surrounding world.
In any case, the relationship between the two groups was a cordial one, and mutually beneficial. The urdunnir, using their special gifts of working with stone and metal, had greatly speeded the restoration of Caer Dulthain, while in turn the shield dwarves had generously provided supplies to aid in the recovery of their underground neighbors. With the lift in place, transit between the two communities was fairly easy, and each side maintained ambassadors with the other.
After the initial greetings, Lok and Cal were invited to meet with the surviving elders of the urdunnir community. Gaera attended this meeting as well, testifying to her status as an important guest here. Most of the more powerful clerics and mages had not survived the experience of slavery under the duergar, and her talents were particularly precious given the real threats that still lurked in the treacherous Underdark.
Lok’s initial mood was one of embarrassment, for his departure from his homeland had been sudden and swift, leaving even his personal possessions behind here as Benzan’s accidental wish had drawn him into Undermountain. But the urdunnir only dismissed his apologies, saying that they had known all along that he was well, and would someday return.
“Gol Stonefinger told us that you had been called away on an important quest, and that your work here had been completed,” the elders told him. At his look of evident confusion, one added, “Ah, we had forgotten, you departed before Gol was touched by the hand of the Keeper of Secrets. Come, we will show you.”
The two adventurers were brought to a small but warmly adorned chamber, where a stout dwarf waited for them. The broad figure was bent with age, his still-thick arms and his bald skull crossed by the scars that were a memory of the harsh experience of slavery. He looked up as they entered, and they saw that his eyes were thick and milky, evidence of blindness.
“Gol,” Lok said, softly, kneeling at the old man’s feet, clasping his arm softly with a powerful hand.
“Lok,” the old man said, his voice cracking like old stone under a weight. “I told them you would come.” He coughed, and it was clear by the sound that his life clung reluctantly to the shell of his body. Lok glanced up at Gaera, but the cleric only shook her head.
“I survived the ordeal of our people, but my strength is now depleted,” the old dwarf said. “I did not know why I was spared, when younger and stronger dwarves perished by the score, but now I understand. He had one final task for me. I did not know when he first called, but now I understand.”
“Understand what, Old One?” Lok asked.
“You have been touched, my boy,” the old dwarf said, and such was the intensity of his stare that it seemed that he might indeed see, despite his obvious blindness. “You rescued your people from their plight, but there is still a greater task marked for you, a test that lies beyond the liberation of a single soul.”
Lok shifted his gaze to Cal for a moment, but the gnome looked equally puzzled. “How do you know these things?” the genasi asked.
The old dwarf coughed again. “He spoke to me in dreams, told me to await your coming. I told them, told the elders that you would come on the eve of a great and perilous journey. They did not believe me, not at first!” He laughed, and the sound trailed off into another stale wheeze. Gol smiled, though, animated by the fruition of whatever strange mandate had driven him. “But when I went to the forges, and took up the old hammer of Koth Kot’chorlok, then they believed! Even as my eyesight faded, my blows struck truer, and I felt the power flow through my hands into the metal...”
Gol patted Lok on the arm. “They are in your chambers. Take them, and use them well. We have done all we can.”
The old dwarf leaned back, sagging as exhaustion came upon him. A younger dwarf, clearly an attendant, eased him back into his bed, and ushered him out of the chamber.
“What did he mean, ‘they are in your chambers?’” Cal asked, when they had left.
“Your weapons and armor,” one of the elders said to Lok. “Gol speaks truth; we thought you would have wanted us to use them, but he insisted that they be kept for your return. And we know not how Gol did what he did, but rest assured that your gear is even more effective, and will protect you well against whatever it is that you must face.”
The two adventurers enjoyed the hospitality of the urdunnir that night, but in the morning Cal memorized his teleportation spell once more and transported to Silverymoon, promising to return for Lok at the end of the tenday. Lok spent his time working with his people, learning of the deeds they had accomplished since his departure, and sharing his own stories with them. He visited his old forge, and tested his old axe and mail, finding that Gol’s words were true, that his equipment was better than it had ever been. He also spent time with Gaera, whose own drive and commitment to her people were in many ways a reflection of the genasi’s own personal philosophy.
Cal, meanwhile, went quickly about his business in Silverymoon. The hasty arrangements he’d made on his departure had left his old laboratory intact, if dusty. Silverymoon was a city well-accustomed to the presence of powerful mages, and he was easily able to locate the resources he needed. For several days he spent dawn to dusk working at his old desk, scribing scrolls and crafting a new magical wand.
Thus the four companions spent their time engaged in those final activities that they needed to complete, and the days followed quickly one upon the other. Finally, as the appointed time for their reunion approached, they turned their thoughts more directly to what lie ahead.
And the night before Cal’s departure to recover Lok, a voice spoke within his head, bringing a message, and a change of plans.
Black Bard
First Post
And a cruel cliffhanger indeed!!
A lot meanier than any "battle" cliffhanger...
Lazy, you are such an evil guy...
A lot meanier than any "battle" cliffhanger...
Lazy, you are such an evil guy...
Lazybones
Adventurer
10,000 views... woohoo! Thanks to all the readers who have put Travels into the upper echelon of ENWorld Story Hours.
* * * * *
Book VIII, Part 13
On the morning of the final day of the tenday that they had allotted themselves, the four companions, newly reunited through their teleportation magics, walked into the compound of Twilight Hall in Berdusk. The sentries on watch nodded politely at them, but made no move to interfere with their progress; they were expected.
At this early hour—for the sun had still not fully broken the eastern horizon—there were few out and about in the vast open yard that stretched between the flanking buildings. Two hulking structures dominated the courtyard, the great hall of the Harpers to their right and the multiwing expanse of the temple of Deneir to their left. A good half-dozen other structures rounded out the complex, but while each might have served for a goodly-sized inn in a village, here they were eclipsed by the storied structures that adjoined them.
The companions headed directly for the great hall. This early, the full heat of the day had not yet arrived, and a morning breeze stirred up eddies of dust in their wake. There was a tangible feeling in the air, a sensation of anticipation that each of the companions felt keenly. Of course, it was likely that the feeling followed them, rather than being tied to this place. The appointed hour for the culmination of their chosen quest had drawn near.
“So you don’t know what she wants?” Benzan asked Cal, who was moving quickly enough so that even the much longer-legged tiefling had to hurry to keep up.
“Well, I left word of our need before we departed on our separate errands,” the gnome replied. “I would assume that she has arranged for the help we require.” He didn’t have to elaborate; all of them had deciphered enough of the Oracle’s message to understand that they would need to leave someone behind, to take custody of the demon statuette and begin the process of closing the extra-planar gate behind them.
There was no one warding the portals that led into the great hall, and the doors themselves were partially open, so the companions went ahead and entered the structure. Their boots clacked slightly on the polished wooden floor of the foyer as they moved ahead into the large open space of the main hall. For its size, that long chamber felt warm and comfortable, with the hardwood paneling of the walls covered with decorative hangings, and plush carpeting covering the floor along the edges of the chamber where padded armchairs were scattered among bookcases and writing desks. The peaked ceiling, a good thirty feet above, was buttressed by thick rafters of squared blueleaf, from which dangled lanterns that glowed brightly even despite the sunlight that stabbed down from the windows high along the eastern wall.
The hall was occupied by a considerable gathering of perhaps thirty people, some of whom looked up as the four newcomers entered. They were quite a diverse collection of people, representative of most of the major races of Faerûn, including humans, elves, dwarves, gnomes, halflings, and even a broad-shouldered half-orc. One or two even showed signs of more exotic ancestry, planetouched much like Lok... or Benzan. Many wore the robes of the clergy of Deneir, but others showed armor under their cloaks, and a wide variety of unusual weapons and gear—the “uniform” of the adventurer. They were gathered around a pair of large tables that had been moved into the center of the hall. One of the gathered people the companions instantly recognized, and as she turned toward the entry she caught sight of them and smiled.
“Ah, welcome,” Cylyria told them. “Please, join us.”
The companions came forward, aware that suddenly the scrutiny of everyone on the room had fixed on them, and the background conversations had ceased. “We did not mean to intrude upon your gathering,” Cal began.
“Nonsense! You are, after all, the reason why were are all here!” At their look of surprise, the bardess went on, “When you asked for help, we went into action. Though we are used to secrets, I am afraid the reason for this assistance spread more quickly than you might have liked. Please do not be alarmed; those here, at least, can be trusted to keep your mission secure. All wished to meet you, and wish you well as you set upon this most difficult of quests. Perhaps it is the storyteller in all of us who follow the Harp... such a tale is irresistible to such as we.”
She gestured them forward, and the others closed in around, forming a respectful ring of observers as the Harper Lady directed them to the tables. Each was draped with a clean white cloth, and covered with a variety of items, gear readily recognized by the experienced companions.
“For us?” Cal asked. When Cylyria nodded, the gnome added, “When we asked for your aid... I mean, we are grateful, but we did not expect...”
“We cannot take full credit, friends, though the Harpers did facilitate. I personally sent out a few inquiries upon receiving your message, and it is your own fame—and the good deeds you have done—that returned most what you see here.”
She indicated a small cluster of tiny metal flasks, each emblazoned prominently with a familiar icon: the eye-and-hand of Helm. “Lord Dhelt sends these, saying that he well remembers the aid provided by a certain quintet two years ago,” Cylyria explained. “A dozen potions of cure serious wounds, which potency I am sure you are well acquainted.”
She next directed their attention to some broad cloth belts, bandoliers really, each woven with about a dozen cloth loops. “These belts will come in handy; we use them to store potions and scrolls within easy reach. When you expect to go into danger, the seconds you save finding the healing potion you need can be the difference between life and death.”
“A simple, yet practical, idea,” Cal said.
“Speaking of scrolls, these were sent from Waterdeep by means of a magical messenger, by none other than one of the Masked Lords of that fair city.” She gestured toward a small stack of leather cylinders, scroll cases, bound together by a length of cord. “I suspect this individual must have had some advanced notice of your need, for there is more here than could have been quickly produced in the brief time since my communication. She sent this, as well.”
Cylyria picked a small, lacquered wooden box off the table, and offered it to Cal. Cal already knew its source, even before he studied the familiar crafting; the Masked Lords were supposed to be anonymous, but Cylyria had betrayed her knowledge of the sender by her use of the preposition “she”. The gnome quickly found the hidden catch, and the lid of the box popped open. Inside rested a slender wand of ebony polished so that it almost seemed to glow in the lanternlight. There was also a brief note, which Cal quickly scanned.
My dear Balander,
I cannot say that I am fully enthusiastic about your current plan, but I know that you must follow the course that you believe is right. I know that you will not embark upon this journey unprepared, but I hope that the scrolls I sent to Cylyria will prove of some small aid. This wand may also prove useful; you no doubt already know that demons are highly resistant to most forms of energy, but they have weaknesses. This device is fully charged, and infused with a variant of Melf’s old spell that I came up with on my own. Good fortune, and come back to us safe; the Calloran family cannot afford to lose more of its sons.
Alera
The remaining items were more mundane, but no less useful. Some enchanted arrows, non-magical healing kits, compact and carefully packed provisions that would keep fresh for weeks in Cal’s magical backpack or Lok’s bag of holding.
“I’m starting to feel more optimistic about our chances,” Cal said, emotion thick in his voice. “Thank you, all of you.”
“I have not forgotten your original request,” Cylyria said. She gestured toward the far side of the gathering, and one of the observers came forward. He was clad in a nondescript tunic and trousers over high-topped boots, and while there was something immediately familiar about him, it took them a few moments to recognize him. Finally, though, Benzan’s eyes widened in memory.
“Fariq! What in all the hells are you doing, here of all places?”
“‘Lord’ Fariq, then,” Cal exclaimed. “When we first met you, at that party at Lord Dhelt’s keep in Elturel...”
“Indeed, I remember it well,” the swarthy Cali
e said with a grin, offering a clipped bow and a formal nod of his head that was belied by the wink he shot them as he straightened. “At your service, again.” While he’d had a thick accent when he was introduced to them on that occasion, now his Chondanthan was smooth and clear.
“I thought you were an agent of the Pasha in Calimshan,” Benzan said. “An ‘ambassador, merchant, and spy,’ I think that our host said, after that brief meeting.”
“Good memory,” Lok said.
Fariq only laughed, a genuine and full sound that boiled up from deep within. “One of the first things you’ll learn if you hang around these folk, is that nothing is ever as simple as it first seems!”
Cylyria shook her head wryly. “Fariq is all that you said, Benzan, but he’s also a very useful member of our organization. Though I doubt he’d go quite so far as to actually label himself as such...”
“Nay, noble lady, I am pleased to affiliate myself with such a body... though the word ‘organization’ might be a bit too... descriptive for such as these.” Still trailing a laugh, he turned back to the companions. “But as it is... I heard of your plight, and as I have a brief time before duty draws me back to the south, I have volunteered to accompany you on the first stage of your expedition.”
Dana looked dubious, and Benzan made no effort to hide his feelings. “You’ve all but admitted that we cannot believe you, and we’re supposed to trust you with this...!”
Cal placed his hand on the tiefling’s arm. “If Cylyria vouches for him, I’m sure he will be suitable,” he said. “And it’s not as if we’re asking him to actually go with us, to...”
He trailed off, and there was a noticeable pause, as if no one wanted to openly annunciate what they all knew was the destination of the four adventurers.
Benzan, however, was still suspicious. “I assume you know how to handle yourself.”
Fariq was nonplussed by the tiefling’s manner. “Indeed, sirrah; in addition to a mastery of verse, lyric, and dance, my skills extend to a meager proficiency in both the blade and spell.” He twirled the hilt of a short dirk at his belt, the hilt shielded by a twist of golden metal that formed a protective hand-guard.
Benzan eyed the weapon. “You’ll forgive me if I’m less than impressed.”
“Ah, but you did not heed my earlier words—that things are rarely as they seem.” And with that he drew the dagger, and displayed it with a flourish. And true to his statement, as the steel blade exited the scabbard, it seemed to grow, until by the end of the Calie’s movement, he held a full-length rapier in his hand.
“Perhaps we could spar some time—each test the other’s mettle,” Fariq said, a twinkle in his eyes as he resheathed his weapon.
“At the moment, we have a far more pressing business, I’m afraid,” Cal said. “And it is important, Cylyria; we have to make certain that... that the key does not fall into the wrong hands.
“Agreed,” she said. She made a slight gesture, and two others came forward. They were moon elves, a pair that looked alike enough to be brothers, with the pale features and dark hair common to that race. Both wore simple traveling clothes, like most of the others, but they way they moved spoke of mail underneath, and the swords at their belts bore hilts clearly worn by frequent use. They were silent, but bowed as Cylyria introduced them.
“Eloren and Valdis are Harper Scouts,” she said. Between their abilities and Fariq’s... skills... you can rest assured that your backs will be covered when you use the Portal.”
“Thank you,” Cal said, nodding to the two elves, “but we may encounter some difficulty, transporting so many to our destination...”
“Fear not, friend gnome!” said Fariq. “For I possess an answer to that tricky puzzle as well!” He did not elaborate, but seemed to enjoy the possession of his secret, and Cylyria seemed to trust him well enough, so they let it drop.
“And finally, there is one thing that I have for each of you,” Cylyria said. She turned and accepted a small cloth package from one of the priests of Deneir. Unwrapping it carefully, she revealed four small silver pins. The companions were familiar with them; they’d encountered them before, on the body of their friend Ruath, and more recently, carried by their erstwhile companion Lariel. The pins were shaped in the form of a harp, and beyond serving as symbols of the Harpers, bore a potent enchantment that hid the wearer from casual magical detection.
“If those are like one Lariel carries, they will be very useful indeed where we are going,” Cal said. “I only hope that we are worthy to wear them.”
“Now, this doesn’t mean we’re like... members, does it?” Benzan asked, as Cylyria handed him his pin. The bardess laughed, but Benzan’s frown persisted as he looked down at the pin. “I do not mean to offend, Lady, but this symbol can draw the wrong sort of attention in some places.”
“We are used to having to keep them concealed, Benzan,” she said. “They will work just as well pinned to the inside of a garment, as long as they are close to your body.”
Lok took his and simply hooked it to a strap of his armor. “I’ll wear mine with pride,” he said. “There may be a thousand tales and rumors, but from those Harpers I have had the fortune of meeting, you are all right in my book.”
Cylyria finally came to Dana, and for some reason a sad look crossed her features as she held up the last pin. It was a bit tarnished, battered, and looked older than the others.
“This... this one belonged to my late husband...”
“I cannot—” Dana began, but Cylyria forestalled her with a shake of her head, as she took the mystic wanderer’s hand in both of hers, pressing the pin gently into her palm.
“He would have wanted you to have it, would have supported the aid that we have given you. Your mission is important, even beyond the specifics of your own personal quest. What happened here in the west over the last season... Those on the Outer Planes must be made to understand that Faerûn is not their playground.” As she spoke, her words took on a tone of iron, but they softened again as she smiled, a tear forming at the edge of one eye. “The pin bears a special property, beyond the nondetection effect. It is a potent aid to the follower of a god of Good, reinforcing the connection between that individual and the planes where those beings reside. Those who travel the Planes know that sometimes their destinations can interfere with that bond that grants them their power, and can otherwise scramble magic.”
Dana nodded, remembering their experience on the Isle of Dread.
“This will help you maintain your link to the goddess,” Cylyria said, closing Dana’s hand around the small pin. Reluctantly, it seemed, she drew back.
“We have given you what aid we can,” she said, in a louder voice directed at all in the room. “From here, the road is yours alone, though our prayers and goodwill shall go with you.”
“I will need to rest and recover my teleportation spell,” Cal said. “So if the Wandering Fool still has our rooms available—”
“If I might suggest, you should stay here for today, and depart tomorrow morning,” Cylyria said. “That would give us time to talk; there is a fair amount of demonlore gathered here, in the minds of all those present. Here, at least, there is no danger, and you may put your burden down for at least one night. You may as well be well rested and as prepared as you can be, for the morrow.”
Cal nodded, bowing graciously.
“Thank you.”
* * * * *
Book VIII, Part 13
On the morning of the final day of the tenday that they had allotted themselves, the four companions, newly reunited through their teleportation magics, walked into the compound of Twilight Hall in Berdusk. The sentries on watch nodded politely at them, but made no move to interfere with their progress; they were expected.
At this early hour—for the sun had still not fully broken the eastern horizon—there were few out and about in the vast open yard that stretched between the flanking buildings. Two hulking structures dominated the courtyard, the great hall of the Harpers to their right and the multiwing expanse of the temple of Deneir to their left. A good half-dozen other structures rounded out the complex, but while each might have served for a goodly-sized inn in a village, here they were eclipsed by the storied structures that adjoined them.
The companions headed directly for the great hall. This early, the full heat of the day had not yet arrived, and a morning breeze stirred up eddies of dust in their wake. There was a tangible feeling in the air, a sensation of anticipation that each of the companions felt keenly. Of course, it was likely that the feeling followed them, rather than being tied to this place. The appointed hour for the culmination of their chosen quest had drawn near.
“So you don’t know what she wants?” Benzan asked Cal, who was moving quickly enough so that even the much longer-legged tiefling had to hurry to keep up.
“Well, I left word of our need before we departed on our separate errands,” the gnome replied. “I would assume that she has arranged for the help we require.” He didn’t have to elaborate; all of them had deciphered enough of the Oracle’s message to understand that they would need to leave someone behind, to take custody of the demon statuette and begin the process of closing the extra-planar gate behind them.
There was no one warding the portals that led into the great hall, and the doors themselves were partially open, so the companions went ahead and entered the structure. Their boots clacked slightly on the polished wooden floor of the foyer as they moved ahead into the large open space of the main hall. For its size, that long chamber felt warm and comfortable, with the hardwood paneling of the walls covered with decorative hangings, and plush carpeting covering the floor along the edges of the chamber where padded armchairs were scattered among bookcases and writing desks. The peaked ceiling, a good thirty feet above, was buttressed by thick rafters of squared blueleaf, from which dangled lanterns that glowed brightly even despite the sunlight that stabbed down from the windows high along the eastern wall.
The hall was occupied by a considerable gathering of perhaps thirty people, some of whom looked up as the four newcomers entered. They were quite a diverse collection of people, representative of most of the major races of Faerûn, including humans, elves, dwarves, gnomes, halflings, and even a broad-shouldered half-orc. One or two even showed signs of more exotic ancestry, planetouched much like Lok... or Benzan. Many wore the robes of the clergy of Deneir, but others showed armor under their cloaks, and a wide variety of unusual weapons and gear—the “uniform” of the adventurer. They were gathered around a pair of large tables that had been moved into the center of the hall. One of the gathered people the companions instantly recognized, and as she turned toward the entry she caught sight of them and smiled.
“Ah, welcome,” Cylyria told them. “Please, join us.”
The companions came forward, aware that suddenly the scrutiny of everyone on the room had fixed on them, and the background conversations had ceased. “We did not mean to intrude upon your gathering,” Cal began.
“Nonsense! You are, after all, the reason why were are all here!” At their look of surprise, the bardess went on, “When you asked for help, we went into action. Though we are used to secrets, I am afraid the reason for this assistance spread more quickly than you might have liked. Please do not be alarmed; those here, at least, can be trusted to keep your mission secure. All wished to meet you, and wish you well as you set upon this most difficult of quests. Perhaps it is the storyteller in all of us who follow the Harp... such a tale is irresistible to such as we.”
She gestured them forward, and the others closed in around, forming a respectful ring of observers as the Harper Lady directed them to the tables. Each was draped with a clean white cloth, and covered with a variety of items, gear readily recognized by the experienced companions.
“For us?” Cal asked. When Cylyria nodded, the gnome added, “When we asked for your aid... I mean, we are grateful, but we did not expect...”
“We cannot take full credit, friends, though the Harpers did facilitate. I personally sent out a few inquiries upon receiving your message, and it is your own fame—and the good deeds you have done—that returned most what you see here.”
She indicated a small cluster of tiny metal flasks, each emblazoned prominently with a familiar icon: the eye-and-hand of Helm. “Lord Dhelt sends these, saying that he well remembers the aid provided by a certain quintet two years ago,” Cylyria explained. “A dozen potions of cure serious wounds, which potency I am sure you are well acquainted.”
She next directed their attention to some broad cloth belts, bandoliers really, each woven with about a dozen cloth loops. “These belts will come in handy; we use them to store potions and scrolls within easy reach. When you expect to go into danger, the seconds you save finding the healing potion you need can be the difference between life and death.”
“A simple, yet practical, idea,” Cal said.
“Speaking of scrolls, these were sent from Waterdeep by means of a magical messenger, by none other than one of the Masked Lords of that fair city.” She gestured toward a small stack of leather cylinders, scroll cases, bound together by a length of cord. “I suspect this individual must have had some advanced notice of your need, for there is more here than could have been quickly produced in the brief time since my communication. She sent this, as well.”
Cylyria picked a small, lacquered wooden box off the table, and offered it to Cal. Cal already knew its source, even before he studied the familiar crafting; the Masked Lords were supposed to be anonymous, but Cylyria had betrayed her knowledge of the sender by her use of the preposition “she”. The gnome quickly found the hidden catch, and the lid of the box popped open. Inside rested a slender wand of ebony polished so that it almost seemed to glow in the lanternlight. There was also a brief note, which Cal quickly scanned.
My dear Balander,
I cannot say that I am fully enthusiastic about your current plan, but I know that you must follow the course that you believe is right. I know that you will not embark upon this journey unprepared, but I hope that the scrolls I sent to Cylyria will prove of some small aid. This wand may also prove useful; you no doubt already know that demons are highly resistant to most forms of energy, but they have weaknesses. This device is fully charged, and infused with a variant of Melf’s old spell that I came up with on my own. Good fortune, and come back to us safe; the Calloran family cannot afford to lose more of its sons.
Alera
The remaining items were more mundane, but no less useful. Some enchanted arrows, non-magical healing kits, compact and carefully packed provisions that would keep fresh for weeks in Cal’s magical backpack or Lok’s bag of holding.
“I’m starting to feel more optimistic about our chances,” Cal said, emotion thick in his voice. “Thank you, all of you.”
“I have not forgotten your original request,” Cylyria said. She gestured toward the far side of the gathering, and one of the observers came forward. He was clad in a nondescript tunic and trousers over high-topped boots, and while there was something immediately familiar about him, it took them a few moments to recognize him. Finally, though, Benzan’s eyes widened in memory.
“Fariq! What in all the hells are you doing, here of all places?”
“‘Lord’ Fariq, then,” Cal exclaimed. “When we first met you, at that party at Lord Dhelt’s keep in Elturel...”
“Indeed, I remember it well,” the swarthy Cali
e said with a grin, offering a clipped bow and a formal nod of his head that was belied by the wink he shot them as he straightened. “At your service, again.” While he’d had a thick accent when he was introduced to them on that occasion, now his Chondanthan was smooth and clear. “I thought you were an agent of the Pasha in Calimshan,” Benzan said. “An ‘ambassador, merchant, and spy,’ I think that our host said, after that brief meeting.”
“Good memory,” Lok said.
Fariq only laughed, a genuine and full sound that boiled up from deep within. “One of the first things you’ll learn if you hang around these folk, is that nothing is ever as simple as it first seems!”
Cylyria shook her head wryly. “Fariq is all that you said, Benzan, but he’s also a very useful member of our organization. Though I doubt he’d go quite so far as to actually label himself as such...”
“Nay, noble lady, I am pleased to affiliate myself with such a body... though the word ‘organization’ might be a bit too... descriptive for such as these.” Still trailing a laugh, he turned back to the companions. “But as it is... I heard of your plight, and as I have a brief time before duty draws me back to the south, I have volunteered to accompany you on the first stage of your expedition.”
Dana looked dubious, and Benzan made no effort to hide his feelings. “You’ve all but admitted that we cannot believe you, and we’re supposed to trust you with this...!”
Cal placed his hand on the tiefling’s arm. “If Cylyria vouches for him, I’m sure he will be suitable,” he said. “And it’s not as if we’re asking him to actually go with us, to...”
He trailed off, and there was a noticeable pause, as if no one wanted to openly annunciate what they all knew was the destination of the four adventurers.
Benzan, however, was still suspicious. “I assume you know how to handle yourself.”
Fariq was nonplussed by the tiefling’s manner. “Indeed, sirrah; in addition to a mastery of verse, lyric, and dance, my skills extend to a meager proficiency in both the blade and spell.” He twirled the hilt of a short dirk at his belt, the hilt shielded by a twist of golden metal that formed a protective hand-guard.
Benzan eyed the weapon. “You’ll forgive me if I’m less than impressed.”
“Ah, but you did not heed my earlier words—that things are rarely as they seem.” And with that he drew the dagger, and displayed it with a flourish. And true to his statement, as the steel blade exited the scabbard, it seemed to grow, until by the end of the Cali
e’s movement, he held a full-length rapier in his hand. “Perhaps we could spar some time—each test the other’s mettle,” Fariq said, a twinkle in his eyes as he resheathed his weapon.
“At the moment, we have a far more pressing business, I’m afraid,” Cal said. “And it is important, Cylyria; we have to make certain that... that the key does not fall into the wrong hands.
“Agreed,” she said. She made a slight gesture, and two others came forward. They were moon elves, a pair that looked alike enough to be brothers, with the pale features and dark hair common to that race. Both wore simple traveling clothes, like most of the others, but they way they moved spoke of mail underneath, and the swords at their belts bore hilts clearly worn by frequent use. They were silent, but bowed as Cylyria introduced them.
“Eloren and Valdis are Harper Scouts,” she said. Between their abilities and Fariq’s... skills... you can rest assured that your backs will be covered when you use the Portal.”
“Thank you,” Cal said, nodding to the two elves, “but we may encounter some difficulty, transporting so many to our destination...”
“Fear not, friend gnome!” said Fariq. “For I possess an answer to that tricky puzzle as well!” He did not elaborate, but seemed to enjoy the possession of his secret, and Cylyria seemed to trust him well enough, so they let it drop.
“And finally, there is one thing that I have for each of you,” Cylyria said. She turned and accepted a small cloth package from one of the priests of Deneir. Unwrapping it carefully, she revealed four small silver pins. The companions were familiar with them; they’d encountered them before, on the body of their friend Ruath, and more recently, carried by their erstwhile companion Lariel. The pins were shaped in the form of a harp, and beyond serving as symbols of the Harpers, bore a potent enchantment that hid the wearer from casual magical detection.
“If those are like one Lariel carries, they will be very useful indeed where we are going,” Cal said. “I only hope that we are worthy to wear them.”
“Now, this doesn’t mean we’re like... members, does it?” Benzan asked, as Cylyria handed him his pin. The bardess laughed, but Benzan’s frown persisted as he looked down at the pin. “I do not mean to offend, Lady, but this symbol can draw the wrong sort of attention in some places.”
“We are used to having to keep them concealed, Benzan,” she said. “They will work just as well pinned to the inside of a garment, as long as they are close to your body.”
Lok took his and simply hooked it to a strap of his armor. “I’ll wear mine with pride,” he said. “There may be a thousand tales and rumors, but from those Harpers I have had the fortune of meeting, you are all right in my book.”
Cylyria finally came to Dana, and for some reason a sad look crossed her features as she held up the last pin. It was a bit tarnished, battered, and looked older than the others.
“This... this one belonged to my late husband...”
“I cannot—” Dana began, but Cylyria forestalled her with a shake of her head, as she took the mystic wanderer’s hand in both of hers, pressing the pin gently into her palm.
“He would have wanted you to have it, would have supported the aid that we have given you. Your mission is important, even beyond the specifics of your own personal quest. What happened here in the west over the last season... Those on the Outer Planes must be made to understand that Faerûn is not their playground.” As she spoke, her words took on a tone of iron, but they softened again as she smiled, a tear forming at the edge of one eye. “The pin bears a special property, beyond the nondetection effect. It is a potent aid to the follower of a god of Good, reinforcing the connection between that individual and the planes where those beings reside. Those who travel the Planes know that sometimes their destinations can interfere with that bond that grants them their power, and can otherwise scramble magic.”
Dana nodded, remembering their experience on the Isle of Dread.
“This will help you maintain your link to the goddess,” Cylyria said, closing Dana’s hand around the small pin. Reluctantly, it seemed, she drew back.
“We have given you what aid we can,” she said, in a louder voice directed at all in the room. “From here, the road is yours alone, though our prayers and goodwill shall go with you.”
“I will need to rest and recover my teleportation spell,” Cal said. “So if the Wandering Fool still has our rooms available—”
“If I might suggest, you should stay here for today, and depart tomorrow morning,” Cylyria said. “That would give us time to talk; there is a fair amount of demonlore gathered here, in the minds of all those present. Here, at least, there is no danger, and you may put your burden down for at least one night. You may as well be well rested and as prepared as you can be, for the morrow.”
Cal nodded, bowing graciously.
“Thank you.”
Last edited:
Dungannon
First Post
If you add the views from all the Travels Story Hours, then you're in the top ten! (16437 at this posting).
And thanks for another outstanding character-driven update. The heroes are about to start the final leg of this adventure and it's good to see them get some "official" recognition from the "higher powers" of the Realms.
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