# Tales of the Darkened Land



## Nathan P. Mahney (Dec 21, 2007)

Ok, so this is my first attempt at a Story Hour.  I've just started writing these up for my own amusement, and thought that I might as well post them here as well.  What that means is that the campaign has been going a while, and the Story Hour begins somewhat in the middle of things - I've tried to catch things up where possible, without derailing the flow of events, but I'll give you a basic rundown anyway.

The premise of the campaign is this - some 500 years ago, the forces of evil won, and the Dark God slew the Light and scattered him across the world - and so the land was plunged into eternal night.  It's an uncivilized place, where monsters stalk and the player races cower in small gatherings, trying their best to survive.  There is supposedly Civilization to the north, but the campaign hasn't moved there yet.

The PCs live in Bastion, the last truly safe settlement in the Darkened Land.  It's a fortress that sits about fifty feet in the air, atop a tall pillar.  I started them with published adventures - they began as orc captives in The Scar from Dungeon Mag, and followed that up with Evil Unearthed, and then the surprisingly deadly Gorgoldand's Gauntlet (they lost two characters!).  After that was The Sunless Citadel, and from there it's been homebrews all the way - a return to the Scar to recover the Hand of the Light, the destruction of a wight sorcerer, a heavily modified Door to Everywhere from Dungeon Mag, a battle with a medusa shadowdancer, a demon-filled museum from ancient times called The Vault of Hope (still not completely explored), and the caverns below Bastion, where drow fought with orcs and the tomb of an elven paladin lay for the intrepid explorer.

So here we go with Part 8 below - The Tomb of Aldorious.


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## Nathan P. Mahney (Dec 21, 2007)

*CHAPTER VIII

THE TOMB OF ALDORIOUS

PART I​*
Gather around my friends, seekers of knowledge, historians, and lovers of a good tale alike, for I have a story for you like none other.  It is a tale of battle in the depths of the very earth, of baleful elves and things that should not be, of rotting flesh that yet lives in the service of the Light; but also of valor and persistance, the very qualities that give us all hope in this Darkened Land.  And also a tale of great import, a tale on which may rest the very doom of the land.

And who am I to tell this story?  Ask not my name, for it matters little.  It is enough that I have heard all the tales that were, and see all the tales that are.  These are not my adventures, but those of others, though who knows if I may yet play my part in the future?  Nevertheless, the players are varied, and I needs must introduce them.

See Kael the dwarf, barbarian of the plains!  His axe is ever red and hungry.  He seeks the weapon of his father, though to his rage it yet eludes him.

See Gordred, fell ranger!  Mort and Death he calls his twin blades, and aptly named they are.  All the animals of forest and field are his enemies, though none know why.  Who knows what thoughts dwell beneath his furrowed brow?

See Elrohir, elven mystic of the shadows!  He is new to this band, though his blood-soaked mace and mastery of the arts arcane have helped him prove his worth.  Yet it is not his readiness for battle that is in question, but his sinister nature.  Who can trust this elf, who makes all ill at ease?

Together these three, and many others, have had adventures and perils.  There have been dangers, and riches, and they have discovered secrets of the ancient world.  And yes, there has been death.  Comrades have fallen, and others stepped in to take their place.  But those tales are past, and need not be dwelled upon now.

These are our players in this drama, and for them it is a dark time indeed.  Bastion is their home, a haven in the skies.  But for how long?  A ravening army approaches, a horde of orcs and worgs and worse abominations, and it seems that Bastion is their target.  The caverns below Bastion were a weak point in the defenses, and so Elrohir ventured below with a band of loyal stalwarts.  And alas, none but Elrohir returned, whispering of orcs in the depths – and worse, pale-skinned elves of a sly and evil manner.  It mattered little that the orcs and elves were locked in battle, for the orcs soon turned their attention to Elrohir's group.  Many were the deaths that day, and saddest of all was that of Vandelle, a longtime friend and brother in battle, who proved no match for a savage ogre.  Also among the slain were Bu and Han, doughty guards of Bastion, and their deaths would prove of some importance despite their humble natures.

And so we join the tale, with Elrohir delivering the tidings to his comrades.  Wroth and ill-content were the people of Bastion, for Bu and Han had been well-loved, and these were not the first to die in company with Kael, Gordred and the rest.  One man especially took delight in seeing the party out of favour – this was Elmyr, proud and haughty, jealous Elmyr who hated them so.  Only gruff Corwyn took their side, and this was well, for he was Bastion's leader and could stay the hands of his people for a time.

There was much debate about the caves, and what should be done.  Elmyr's plan was to block the entrance with stones and rocks, to seal them against incursion.  But the adventurers liked this not, for they were certain that in the caves they would find the tomb of the paladin Aldorious for which they had long searched, and the treasure lying within.  Corwyn gave them his solemn word to stop Elmyr from sealing the entrance, though he could promise no other aid – the people of Bastion were full of righteous anger and the fear of death, and Corwyn himself feared to go should Elmyr usurp his leadership.  But two there were who did not fear, whose desire for blood and gold outstripped their dread of death's embrace.  Two who were new to Bastion, who had arrived among the many refugees fleeing the orcish army.  Two who stepped forth to take up arms!

See Qwan of the twin greataxes!  His mighty thews are such that he may wield with one hand that which takes a lesser man two.  He lives for battle, and then for the next, and the crimson spray in his mouth and eyes as his blades tear flesh and bone.

See Jah the cautious!  Ever is he ready for battle with his glaive, though rarely in the front lines where things rage at their hottest.  For why should he risk his neck when others are there to shield him?

Yes, I hear your words my friends, a tale of heroes this is not.  Not the manner of heroes you are used too, I wager.  But who knows what this world needs now with the Light dead and scattered, and all thrown over to the darkness?  Mayhap it is the ruthless and the bloodthirsty who will provide our deliverance.  Yes, mayhap it is.

This was the motley group that set out, through the secret door and down the deep shaft into the caves far below Bastion, citadel in the sky.  The caves were silent now, not ringing with the sounds of battle as they had been earlier.  By torchlight the group explored – Qwan and Kael taking point, Jah and Gordred next, with Elrohir as rearguard.

The first room they explored held naught but a rope, stretching from a hole in the ceiling to a hole in the floor.  This was the rope-and-bucket that went to Bastion's water supply, and most adventurers of heroic sort would have left it be.  But Gordred saw naught but opportunity, and furtively dropped something into the water – a poisoned mushroom!  Hated Elmyr was his target, for ever had those two been at odds, and little was Gordred to know the ramifications of his actions.

Their next task was to retrace Elrohir's steps, to the place where the previous expedition had met with its ill fate.  Soon they reached it, a massive cavern of bubbling mud pits and flat-topped pillars.  There were no signs of the battle, besides a few broken weapons and stains of blood, though presumably Bu and Han's remains still rested at the bottom of a mud pit where the orcs had dragged them.  But that was unimportant, for as soon as they entered the cavern a volley of crossbow bolts greeted them, screaming in the hot and sluggish air.  Drow elves, with their pale skin and red-lit eyes, skulking in the darkness!

One of the bolts struck true, and the glistening poison on its tip worked its way into Kael's blood.  But tough as mountain roots are the dwarves, and he did not succumb!  With bristling beard he raged into battle, and his compatriots followed.  The drow elves did not quail, but fought on in eerie silence with their tiny crossbows and wicked rapiers.  For they had another among their number, elven in form but with skin as black as the Deceiver's heart, and wings like those of the bat.  The blood of demons was in his veins, and eldritch powers were his to command.

The drow wizard called forth his magic, a focused beam of heat that singed Kael's beard and flesh.  Elrohir saw the danger, and with his bow and arrow struck true.  The wizard retreated with a feathered shaft in his thigh, cursing them all as 'filthy sun-dwellers'.  How long had these elves lived below the earth, that they knew nothing of our eternal darkness?  For 500 years and more has the long night lasted, ever to our despair.

The four drow that remained fought on, but their uncanny speed and deft blows could not match the savagery of Kael's axe, of Qwan's twin greataxes, of Mort and Death, and of Jah's glaive.  Three were slain, and the last chose death before dishonour, impaling himself on his own blade.  The first battle was over, and Gordred marked it in his own way, with a drow head impaled upon a rapier.

The adventurers were keen to pursue their quarry, the bat-winged wizard who had burned Kael with his magic.  But what they found was something else entirely.

The cavern was adorned with a wall-hanging that showed the symbol of the Deceiver, an open hand with a dagger on the palm.  Seated in an opulent chair was an old woman, her black skin wrinkled like a dry husk.  Thousands of tiny spiders swarmed over her, though she paid them little heed.  It was the adventurers that she fixed with her mordant gaze, and addressed with her voice as cold as death.

"Leave these caves now, pustulent worms, or you will serve Lolth as naught but food for her servants."

Jah saw these 'servants' now, for he chanced to look up and spy two spiders hanging from the ceiling, spiders the size of dogs with bloated bodies and fangs green with venom.

Negotiations were strained, and made worse by Kael's fears that they faced a drow matron, nightmare of his dwarven ancestors.  Things grew worse when Gordred's mouth got the best of him – he called the drow a whore, an insult not even the most depraved of beings will sit idly for.  The priestess rose and flourished her wicked scourge as the tiny spiders on her body buzzed angrily.

Even so, Elrohir was faster.  With words of power he called forth a jet of flame from his palms that engulfed the drow.  The flames rolled over her without effect, but her pets did not share the same arcane resistance – the tiny spiders fell from her body, shrivelled and blackened.

The larger spiders dropped from the ceiling, and from a side-passage stepped the drow wizard, his bat-wings wrapped about him like a cloak, spewing deadly gouts of flame from his mouth.  Gordred raced to attack him, Mort and Death whirring.  But glory was not to be his this day.  The priestess drew forth a small, straight piece of iron, gripped it firmly, and called forth the power of Lolth.  Numbing cold seeped into Gordred's bones, freezing him in place, helpless.

Kael, Qwan, Jah and Elrohir made short work of the spiders, but there were deadlier foes to be fought.  The drow wizard plucked a small piece of spider web from his robes even as he intoned the magic phrases.  Then he blew on the web and it gusted forth, growing and spreading, engulfing the adventurers in its sticky strands.  Kael suffered the worst, unable to escape entanglement with his bulky dwarven frame.  Though he could not move he still let loose his rage, shouting to his ancestors and chopping wildly with his axe.  The others were able to move still, hacking and forcing their way slowly to freedom, even as the priestess set about Kael with her enchanted scourge.  Elrohir was the first to gain freedom, only to be laid low straight away – a blow from the drow's scourge wracked him with crippling pain that let him do naught but writhe and twist on the floor.

But theirs was not the gravest danger, for Gordred still lay gripped in the paralysing strands of Lolth's power, with a blood-hungry drow before him.  The wizard drew forth his rapier with dreadful deliberation before neatly running Gordred through the chest.  It ought to have been death for the fell ranger in that moment, but by a miracle the blade missed every vital point, did not sever artery or organ.  Who knows what divine providence saved him in that moment?  Not I, my friends.  Mayhap it was just luck, mayhap it was the fickle will of the gods, or mayhap the Void was forgetful of his duties that night.  Whatever the reason, Gordred lived, and he shook off the dread magic that held him immobile.  And there he stood with Mort and Death, bleeding from the chest, eyes red with the lust for vengeance.  Down came Mort, and down came Death, and when both came up again they ran red with the wizard's blood, and Gordred the fell ranger was satisfied.

Thus the tide was turned, as Kael, Qwan and Jah broke free of the web and took the fight to the priestess.  Her life ended on the point of Jah's glaive, and this battle was over.

Though battered and weary, there was still booty to be had.  The wizard wore a spider-shaped brooch of silvery metal, a ward against the magic missile spell, and this item was taken by Jah.  Also possessed by the wizard was a spellbook, bound in a chitinous black hide and festooned with cobwebs that grew back instantly when brushed away.  Elrohir took this, eager to plumb its mysteries.  There were also two deep blue potions, imbued with the power of healing.  Lastly was the drow priestess's scourge, a dreadful thing tipped with the claws of a ghoul.  Jah took this also, though it seemed that none had much desire to wield the evil weapon.

Elrohir's keen elven senses alerted him to a concealed passage behind the tapestry.  It spiralled down into darkness, but the adventurers decided that it was best left for another time.

And so the adventurers decided that it was time for them to rest, and they returned to Bastion, their bodies heavier with treasure and their souls lighter with victory.  Corwyn was eager learn of their exploits, and just as eager to tell them that Elmyr, among others, had come down with some kind of malady.  Dire Gut Fever is what Corwyn called it, but Gordred knew the truth – his poison had reached its target.  But little did he know that as Elmyr lay doubled up in his chamber, vomiting and shitting on the floor, his hated foe was placing the blame in the correct place.  For such as Elmyr must always lay blame to others for their misfortunes, and who more deserving of his blame than Gordred, who had so plagued him in the past?

The adventurers had paid the price of victory in a heavy toll of blood, especially Kael, Gordred and Elrohir.  Without a cleric of their own they were forced to seek the aid of Chanis, Bastion's zealous priest of The Flame.  But Chanis was ever mindful of his flock, and the deaths of Bu and Han, not to mention Bastion's former leader Thorvin, had stoked his wrath to life.

"Aid I will give you without charge, for you work for the good of Bastion," he said.  "Yet too many have died in your company.  Take this oath of blood, and I will call on the power of The Flame to heal your wounds.  Swear that you will not cause more deaths among my people.  But know this!  If you break your oath, I will wreak holy vengeance upon you with fire and steel and the power of the Burning God.  Do you accept?"

Gordred scorned this offer, preferring to rely on the recently-discovered healing potions.  Kael and Elrohir accepted, and they were gifted with The Flame's succor, their wounds completely healed.

The rest of the darktime they spent resting while Berrick studied their newfound magical objects.  The hateful scourge, trusted by none, was gifted by Jah to Corwyn.  The mysterious Collectors would be arriving soon, as they did every year, providing grain in exchange for items of arcane power.  And mayhap the scourge could be used in Bastion's defense, for what use is grain when all are dead?  For this Corwyn was most grateful, and assured the adventurers that they would be always welcome so long as he remained leader.

*TO BE CONTINUED...*


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## Nathan P. Mahney (Dec 21, 2007)

*CHAPTER VIII

THE TOMB OF ALDORIOUS

PART II*​
And so at moonrise, as darktime ended and the night began, the adventurers once more set off into the caves, for there were many more passages to explore, and possibly more drow and orcs lurking about.  Qwan, however, remained behind, and who knew the reasons?  For this hulking warrior was silent on the matter.

The twisting tunnels were strewn with signs of battle, dead orcs with crossbow bolts in their throats, and drow elves hacked and ripped to pieces, some half-eaten.  In one long cavern to the east of the caves there was an iron door, locked and impassable, and beyond the lockpicking skills of both Elrohir and Jah.  More dead bodies lay here, but to the south not all was dead – the sounds of guttural merriment were signs of life indeed!

Forewarned by these raucous shouts, Kael moved ahead to scout, his dwarven eyes unhindered by the darkness.  And in the next cavern, a fateful cavern indeed, he saw the orcs!  Four of them around a campfire there were, as well as a large and malevolent wolf, and all were engaged in happy conversation.  A halfling's corpse was roasting on a spit over the flames, and if Elrohir had been watching then he would have recognised one of his ill-fated companions.

The sight of the orcs fuelled Kael's deep ancestral rage, and he charged into the room.  He cleaved an orc through the chest, killing it instantly, but then the others were on their feet, twin axes at the ready.  And two of these were great in stature, for it was they who had finished Elrohir's companions, and they were mightier than they had been.  They hurled their axes at Kael in unison as the great worg-wolf savaged him with his jaws.  The dwarf suffered great wounds, but his red rage and mighty constitution kept him standing, and kept his axe swinging.

His companions heard the clamour and came to his aid, Jah with his glaive and Elrohir with bow and arrow.  Gordred tried to push his way through the press of battle, a move that proved foolish.  One of the orcs smote him mightily across the head, and Gordred collapsed to ground, his life hanging by a slender thread.  The battle tipped this way and that, with neither side gaining the advantage, until finally the tides turned – Kael clove the worg's head in two as Jah drove his glaive into an orc's throat.  Elrohir slipped by to force a healing potion down Gordred's throat, and slowly he was restored to health.  The two remaining orcs fell quickly, but the danger was not past.

Kael stood amidst the corpses, his axe and beard slippery with gore, the powerful rage of his barbarian clan pulsing inside him.  But with no more enemies left to slay, and suffering from many terrible wounds, his rage ran its course.  Without it his wounds were too much to bear, and the dwarf dropped to the floor with the bodies of his enemies.  Only the quick thinking of Elrohir, and the use of another healing potion, saved him from death.

With Elrohir's comrades avenged, the adventurers turned their thoughts to loot, as is their custom.  It was with great elation that they found many of the treasures lost in the last foray, especially the mighty Star of the Morning.  But the elation was short-lived, for the uniforms of the orcs was sure proof that the orcish army had discovered the caves below Bastion.  An upward-sloping tunnel lead from the cavern, but the adventurers thought it best to clean out their current level first.

Gordred, Elrohir and Kael were all on the verge of collapse, and so it came time for rest.  This time they made camp in the caverns, near the locked door they had been unable to open earlier.  Elrohir took this time to study his spellbook for an incantation that might open the door, while the rest stood guard or slept uneasily.

And as Jah stood his turn at watch, a strange and unnatural creature stole into camp invisible and unseen.  Jah caught sight of it as it materialised, an odd assortment of rubbery white arms on a bag-like body, all balanced on a single powerful leg.  It voiced it's alien cry - "YIP YIP, MOMP MOMP" – and hopped forward to snatch at Jah's backpack.  Jah managed to strike the thing first, and it disappeared back from whence it came, another in a long line of mysteries yet unanswered.

The rest of the dark time passed without incident, and Elrohir tried his opening spell upon the door.  Alas, it too was powerless, and the door remained impassable.

With but one level passage unexplored, they decided to press on despite the wounds that plagued them.  They went down two flights of stairs, and the air became thick and moist, and laden with a nameless dread.  At last the passage opened into an enormous cavern, with an underground lake at one end and a set of large stone doors at the other.  Soft chittering echoed about the cavern, and the furtive movements of bats could be made out upon the ceiling.

There was also a smaller passage to the south, and it was here that the adventurers explored.  It opened into two small rooms, one a bedroom and the other for storage, and both shattered by unknown forces long ago.  The storeroom held naught but a chest, and in this chest a frayed and coiled rope.  This they ignored.  The bedroom held an item of much greater interest – the journal of Bastion's cryptkeeper!  The book was moldy and stained, mostly illegible, but that is the sad toll of years on many a fine tome, my friends.  Even so, a few passages remained legible, and it was Elrohir who read them aloud in his fine elven manner.

"This is the first," he said.  "_'...Lord Bayle has taken his life from despair.  The siege has become more than his heart could bear, and I blame him not.  Shameful his act was, but still will he be interred with honour in the tombs, until such time as his body may be returned...'_  There it ends, but there is more further on, here.  _'...I have taken to paddling in the lake.  The water is cold, but it refreshes me in the morning, and is a welcome distraction from war.  Tirren says I am a fool, but I scoff at his warnings...'_  And yet more!  _'...Barran Thar came by again today, seeking knowledge for something he calls the Vault of Hope.  What is he planning?'_ Barran Thar?  The name is familiar..."  And though it did not come to him in that moment, later Elrohir would remember where he had seen the name – in the Vault of Hope, that strange and deadly museum discovered through the magic portal-painting in Bastion.
  "There are two more entries.  The first reads thus: _'...and thus Aldorious, great paladin and last lord of Bastion was laid to rest in his tomb with the axe Orcsplitter.  I would lay this weapon in hiding that some great warrior may one day claim it, rather than see the blade destroyed by our foes.  The armies of the Dark God swell below our walls, and there is no hope for victory now.'_ Aha! Aldorious was the name of the paladin whose tomb we seek, is it not?  It seems the end of our quest draws nearer!  This is the final entry. _'...We have taken Orogg of Thar, legendary orcish warrior, and even now the lice-blown dog rots in our dungeons.  He tried to escape last night, but he was too stupid to know that the door opens only for a man of the Bastion Guard.'_  That is all – the rest cannot be made out."

And so they puzzled over this new information, but little could be made of it.  There was little left to do but continue exploring.  The stone double doors in the cavern were large and featureless, with no hinges to be seen.  Predictably, they could not be opened, and so the lake became their final option.

The waters were still, but shone with an odd, unnatural glimmer.  As they drew nearer, the adventurers saw its source – a skeleton lay at the bottom of the lake, a key clutched in its bony fingers.  The key shone with eldritch light, temptingly.  Could such a thing be unguarded?  Of course not, but Gordred wasted no time on such thoughts – without hesitation he dived into the chill waters and swam toward the prize.

The key was bright and golden, and came free of the skeleton's grasp with little trouble.  But then a dark shape appeared in the corner of Gordred's eye, approaching nearer and nearer, its form and nature indiscernible.  Gordred turned and swam for shore, lungs bursting, racing his dread pursuer for his very life.  And just as he burst from the lake the thing rose silently behind him, dripping water from its tentacled jaws, pincers flexing on the end of powerful arms.

Slowly the nameless thing clutched Gordred in its embrace, wrapping its tentacles around his body and his face, worming them into his mouth.  Its venom seeped into him, horrid and cold, sapping the very strength from his bones, and once more luckless Gordred lay helpless for the battle.  He was at the mercy of the horror's chewing mandibles, paralysed, but horridly aware as the thing began eating him alive.

Not content with but a morsel, the thing attacked, and proved more than a match for its foes.  First Elrohir, then Kael fell beneath its blows, and only Jah and his glaive stood between the adventurers and a terrible death.  Doggedly he rained down blow after blow upon the nameless lobster-thing, until finally its shell cracked and was pierced, oozing thick and black.  Silently the thing sank below the water, releasing Gordred from its jaws.  It was still alive, waiting and watching, mayhap to play a greater part in tales of the future.

With Gordred hovering on death's doorstep, the adventurers returned to Bastion for rest and solace.  Elmyr was ready to give neither – he had recovered from his illness, and mocked the adventurers for their sorry state.  Chanis was in a more forgiving mood, and healed the party, though he required Gordred's oath still.  This time the fell ranger gave it, though whether he intended to honour it is a tale for another day.

Again the adventurers returned to the caves, and the impassable double doors.  The key fit the lock, and they pushed open easily.  The room beyond was lined with pillars, each carved with spirals that depicted spirits rising to the heavens.  A door to the north there was, engraved with the sunburst symbol of the Light.  To the south another door, engraved with the skull symbol of the Void.  More double doors lead east, engraved with the image of a warrior with his arms crossed over his chest.

The sunburst door opened into a small temple, with pews, an altar, and a funeral bier.  An air of peace and holiness pervaded the air, and Gordred and Elrohir were especially unsettled.  A silver bowl rested on the altar, full of a clear and wholesome water.  The adventurers partook of this holy water with little regard for the sanctity of the place, emptying it into flasks, and moved on.

The skull door opened into a similar temple, but here the bowl was clay, and filled with damp and stinking earth.  The funeral bier was occupied – a skeleton lay upon it with a tarnished silver sword upon his breast.  The sword bore the crest of Bastion on its pommel, and at this Elrohir became intrigued.  He reached out with trembling hand and broke the sword from its holder's grasp.  It came away with a harsh snap, for the skeleton's hands were still attached.  They were prised free easily enough, however, and left with their original owner – though why such propriety in the face of blatant grave robbery is beyond me I fear!

The double doors were last, and they too opened with the shining key.  The room beyond had passages exiting to the north and south.  Upon the wall was a tapestry, a traditional depiction of the Light standing over the Darkness, his blazing sword held high and his foe cowering and defeated.  Yet this was different – the Darkness was depicted as five identical beings, and this the adventurers had never seen before.

The adventurers moved on, heading north at Jah's insistence.  It turned right, and came to a tomb to the north. _'Here lieth Bereg, first hero of Bastion,'_ it said, _'slain in the year 2012 AS.  We must follow his example of sacrifice.'_  Perhaps wary now of the consequences of grave-robbery, or perhaps under the spell of conscience, they left the tomb alone and continued.

They soon came to another, and this one not so still and restful.  It said: _'Here lieth Ingvar, third hero of Bastion, slain in the year 2013 AS.  He died in madness, but lived in honour.'_ But that was not urgent, for above the tomb stood Ingvar himself, a hollow apparition with pleading eyes.  "Tell me!" he screamed, though his voice sounded as though from a great distance away.  "Tell me who won the war!"  And there was great trepidation, for in that pleading tone was the hint of death and madness.

The adventurers debated for a time which war was meant, and in this we learned fellows should judge them not too harshly, for outside our walls the tide of history has swept all knowledge of the old times away.  Though surely the great War of Nightfall is told in tales the world over, even in the shattered lands that our heroes hail from?  Even so, the adventurers were confused, and in their memories they thought of the Eternal Battlefield which they had once visited – a vast plain where the dead wage war still, living and dying and living again for all of time.

"The war is still waged," said Elrohir. "With yet no victor."

"Then there is hope!" cried the spectral warrior.  "There is still hope for the Light!"  And with that the spirit vanished, his voice receding with a contented sigh.  And yet its deathly presence lingered, sensed but not seen, and so the adventurers continued on, unsure of what they had achieved.

The passaged turned south, with another set of double doors to the east.  The adventurers sensed that there goal was near – the Tomb of Aldorious which had for so long eluded them.  With hearts both excited and fearful, they opened the doors and stepped forth to meet their fates.

The tomb of Aldorious stood upright in the centre of the room, and Aldorious's body was visible inside, radiant and untouched by the years.  He looked exactly as his ghost had appeared when he implored the party to avenge his death, though none of the present adventurers had been there for that particular tale.  An axe was gripped in his hand, and even from a distance it radiated with power.  Four warrior statues flanked the coffin, their heads downcast.  On a bier in front of the coffin was another corpse, this one rotted and eyeless.

As the adventurers cautiously entered the room, the eyeless corpse rose from the bier jerkily.  "Who comes to claim the great axe Orcsplitter?" it intoned.  "Speak lest thee be judged."

The adventurers hastily gave their introductions, unsure yet of what this judging would entail.

"Wilt thou stand beneath my holy smite and be judged, and thus prove if thou art truly worthy to wield yon axe?"

The adventurers consented, none wishing to test their mettle against this foe if such was not needed.  The corpse-knight bowed his head, and then a blue fire lit his empty sockets.  Suddenly the air around the adventurers burst forth with holy power, a power good and pure and deadly to the wrong kind of man.

Jah and Kael were blasted, and staggered, but still they stood resolute.  Elrohir and Gordred were sent sprawling to the floor, burned to the core of their dark souls.  This was the manner of the judging, and all had failed, for one who was truly worthy would have emerged unscathed.

But Kael could not accept this judgment, and strove to prove his worthiness by way of his axe-blade.  Into battle he charged alone, hewing the knight's dead flesh with little effect.

"Truly I am sorry that this duel could not be one of honour," said the corpse-knight, "but I must defend the tomb to the utmost of my power."  With this he pointed his sword to one of the statues, and it lumbered to life, stepping from its podium with a sharp crack.

Kael battled on, pummeled by stony fists, sliced by ancient blade, and yet he swung his axe again and again.  It did no good, and soon he knew he would fall, though his dwarf's heart shuddered to admit it.

"Go your way and you will be spared," said the knight, even as he swung his sword at the dwarf.  "For I defend only the axe, and need not pursue."

And so Kael left the field of battle, weary and forlorn, his hands aching in vain to wrap around the hilt of mighty Orcsplitter.  But all was not lost!  In an event that neither fate nor the gods could have foreseen, Jah thought of another bearer for the axe: loyal Corwyn, who lead Bastion with such simple nobility.  Perhaps he would prove worthy?

Before returning to Bastion, there were two more smaller tombs to explore.  One read thusly: _'Here lieth Elestal, second hero of Bastion, slain in the year 2012 AS.  She died that we may hope.'_ Once more the adventurers exercised caution, and chose not to defile this tomb.

The last was open, the seal smashed.  Inside lay the bones of a fallen warrior, with a warhammer of adamantine beside them.  Jah snatched the hammer, and finally the grave-robbing ways of these fellows got the best of them.  A roiling black cloud swirled from the bones, gibbering madly.  The insane chatterings penetrated their minds, threatening yet fascinating.  Gordred was the only one who succumbed, and he stood transfixed.  Finally overwhelmed by the night's many terrors, the adventurer's fled this apparition, dragging Gordred behind them until he awoke from the trance. 

Back in Bastion, Corwyn proved reluctant to leave Bastion, as he still feared Elmyr's ambition.  And yet, his desire to bring aid to Bastion was strong, and when Elrohir and Gordred offered to remain behind to watch Elmyr, Corwyn agreed to give his aid.  With Jah and Kael at his side, he ventured forth into the depths.

The way to the Tomb of Aldorious was open, and they reached it with no danger.  Again the corpse-knight issued his challenge, and his call for judgment.  At this Corwyn faltered – for the horror of the living dead was something beyond his experience.  But then he found heart, in the promise of death for his people, and his brother, and his little niece, and he stepped forth to face the knight's judgment.  The knight bathed him in holy power, and it washed over Corwyn without effect.  And in that moment his soul was revealed, simple yet noble, and humble above all.

"You are pure of heart," said the corpse-knight. "And I may rest at last."  And so he did, sinking back onto his funeral bier, never to rise again.

Corwyn took the axe Orcsplitter from the tomb with shaking hand, and held it aloft.  Torchlight flashed along it, lingering on the brass dwarf's head that sat atop the haft.  And then, to the astonishment of all, that head spoke!

"Ach laddie, ye've woken me up from the long sleep at last, aye?  Well, I'm thirsty, that I am.  Soak me in ale for the night, will ye?  It does an old axe good, it does.  And then me thirst'll be slaked for real – with the blood of orcs and gobs, aye!"

And then the axe fell silent, but Corwyn could feel the sentience that lingered within the blade, and he already sensed the beginning of a great kinship.  Holding it reverently, he lead the way back to Bastion.

And what of Elmyr?  He confronted Elrohir and hated Gordred, of course, backed up by his gang of cronies, but naught was exchanged but bitter words.  And yet, there was the promise of more to come – the promise that Elmyr would have the last laugh.

Thus our tale ends, with Cormyr appearing before his people, Orcsplitter held high.  Kael and Gordred stood at his side, as did Elrohir and Jah, and surely bloodthristy Qwan was in the crowd to see the outcome of the quest he had abandoned.  "This is Orcsplitter!" shouted Corwyn gruffly.  "Forged in olden times for one purpose – splittin' orcs, head and chest and all!  The orcs are comin' by their hundreds, like we ain't never seen before, and hope was a meagre thing for us, that it was.  But now we've got some!  With this axe, we've got hope!  We'll send those greenskin bastards back where they came from, or send 'em to hell!"

"Aye!" shouted Orcsplitter.  "Aye, we'll carve them from belly to breastbone and oil ourselves in their blood, we will, haha!"

And Bastion erupted with a mighty cheer, the like of which had not been heard for centuries – for the first time these people had cause to believe that the darkness would not triumph.


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## Nathan P. Mahney (Jan 1, 2008)

CHAPTER IX

*TREASURE OF THE SHROUDED ONE*

PART I​
So you have returned, eh?  Is it more tales you seek?  I have them, more than you could hear in ten lifetimes. 

Yes, I know why you are here – it is the stories of Bastion you would hearken to, of the citadel in the sky and the band of adventurers that dwell there.  Never fear, for mine is not to ask the reasons why – I am a teller of tales, and so I will tell them when you ask, for there are few left who still seek my knowledge.  So sit, and be at ease, as I regale you with the quest for the treasure of the Shrouded One.

Ah, but that is not exactly where the story begins is it?  Let me think.  When last you came, I told you of the discovery of Orcsplitter, legendary axe and bane of the orcish folk.  Bastion's leader, Corwyn, now had it in his possession, a fortunate thing with the army of orcs on the march toward them.  Corwyn and the axe had bonded well, united in their drive to slay the greenskins, and now they were mustering the people, crafting weapons and storing food.  Preparing for a bloody siege.

But that was in the future, and not yet of importance to our so-called heroes.  Their minds were occupied with the loose ends in the caverns below Bastion, as well as a mysterious temple to the south.

But who was there amongst this unstable band?  For their roster changes often, and many have their own agendas that prevent their constant aid in adventuring.  Gordred there was, fell ranger of the woods.  Also Jah the Cautious, roguish wielder of the glaive.  Elrohir was there also, mysterious in his arcane elven ways.  And lastly Qwan, bloodthirsty axeman.  Kael the dwarf had been with them on their last quest, but now he retired to his rooms in silence – deep were his troubles after being judged unworthy of Orcsplitter, and deep was the anguish that lurked behind his melancholy brow.

Though their number was reduced to four, the adventurers were undeterred, and set forth into the darksome caverns below Bastion.  Silence reigned, and the carnage of recent battles in the caves seemed never to have been – bodies of drow and orc had been cleared away, and only a splash of blood here and there remained to tell the tale.  But in one cavern, where before they had battled a black-skinned drow priestess of Lolth, there still hung a tapestry with her symbol, an open hand with a dagger on the palm.  And behind that tapestry was a passage that spiralled down into the horrid depths below.

In single file they ventured into the deep places, guided by the light of Elrohir's sunrod - a crystal shard of elven make, said to contain a portion of the essence of the Light himself.  The tunnel twisted and turned, ever downward, ever deeper.  For an hour they explored it, with oppressive stone weighing heavier over their heads with each step, until finally the silence was broken.  They heard the murmur of soft voices, a scream, and the delighted laughter of many.

Jah advised a cautious approach, but still the party pressed on, perhaps buoyed by recent victories.  But as they neared the voices they forgot the sunrod shining forth from Elrohir's belt.  The voices ahead grew wary, then silent, and the party knew that the very thing they staked their lives upon in this dread darkness had given them away.  But ever undaunted, they went grimly onward, ever onward.  Say what you will of the moral standing of this band, but their courage and perseverance is without question!

What they saw waiting in the huge cavern before them was the stuff of nightmares.  Row upon row of pale-skinned demon-elves, the drow of the underdark, nearly a hundred all told.  Many had tiny crossbows levelled at our heroes, tipped with wicked venom.  Between these drow, and on the walls to the side, and scurrying on the ceiling between the stalactites, were spiders of every size, evil and bulbous.  One drow stepped forth, skin and hair as white as death, as thin and deadly as an assassin's blade.

"Strangers, here in the realm of the drow," he said, speaking the Common tongue with fluency.  "Though there is one I recognise."

And so there was – the ranger Gordred had been with the band that had encountered this drow some weeks ago, beneath the Sunless Citadel.  He remembered the drow elf's name – Azanoth.

"What brings you into our domain?" said Azanoth.

"We are merely exploring," said Jah.  "And did not know that you claimed these tunnels as your own."

"Ah, what irony," said Azanoth.  "For weeks ago I was just exploring, and this ranger and his companions barred my path to the surface.  Now you do the same, and I am in your path with companions of my own.  And you have not answered my question, for every exploration has a purpose."

"Orcs," said Jah.  "We are scouting the caverns below our settlement, to make certain that no more of them still lurk here."

"You will find no orcs here," said Azanoth.  "We have seen to that most thoroughly, and therefore we have given you aid.  Perhaps, then, you can aid me.  By the order of my mistress, and almighty Lolth, we come to the surface in search of something.  A hand of glass, that pulses with an inner light.  Do you know of it?"

Indeed, the party did know of it.  Gordred's old companions, many of them now deceased, had discovered the Hand in a vault in the Temple of the Light some miles to the southwest, hidden at the bottom of a great ravine.  Even now the Hand lay dormant in Elrohir's backpack, an object that the drow would readily kill for.  The party all glanced furtively towards the elf, and saw him trembling with a barely restrained fury – the ancient hatred between elf and drow, stoked by the fires of a long-forgotten yet still-remembered betrayal, was burning hot within him.

"Tell me again," said Azanoth, "what you know of this artifact?"

"Nothing but the legends," said Jah.  "The Darkness slew the Light in the War of Nightfall, and scattered his pieces to the corners of the world.  Some say they can still be found, hidden or guarded, and will convey a righteous power to those who find one of the pieces."

The lie fell easily from Jah's tongue, and into Azanoth's ears with similar ease.  He had no inkling that the very thing he sought was but a few feet from his grasp.

"And what of your mistress?" Jah inquired.  "Can we not speak with her?"

"Alas, she is dead," said Azanoth with a smile.  "Slain in the tunnels above, maybe by orcs.  And maybe by others."  And in this Azanoth was more correct than he knew, for it was this very party that had visited death upon the drow elf priestess that had commanded this expedition.

"Then may we not leave?" said Jah.  "For we do not mean to intrude upon your realm any further, and know nothing more of that which you seek."

"Do not be so hasty," said Azanoth.  "For no one leaves the realm of the drow without some form of payment."  And with that Azanoth gestured into the throng, summoning a drow in robes of flowing black.  He whispered unknown words into the wizard's ears, and then the wizard began to cast a spell, mouthing the arcane phrases and tracing runes of power in the air before him.

And that was when Elrohir could hold back his hate no longer.  With the speed of the elves he nocked and loosed an arrow.  But the wizard was faster, and completed his spell first – a simple dweomer for the detection of magical auras, that caused the eldritch items carried by the party to glow faintly.  It availed him nought.  Elrohir's feathered shaft pierced the wizard's eye, leaving him a corpse twitching jerkily on the cavern floor.

"SIEZE THEM!" cried Azanoth.  "LET THEIR LIVING CORPSES ROT ETERNALLY IN THE BELLY OF LOLTH!"

And so the party raced back through the tunnel, pursued by the demon-elves of the depths.  The drow elves matched them for speed, but the chase was long, and elves have never been renowned for their powers of stamina.  With sheer fortitude and rugged constitution the party outran their foes, and climbed the ladder back to Bastion amidst a meagre volley of crossbow bolts.

The party returned to Bastion unscathed but weary.  They had seen what lurked in the caves, and knew them now to be lost, a gloomy spider-haunted place of pale and bloodthirsty elves.  A place now fallen to the darkness far below.

_*TO BE CONTINUED...*_


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## Nathan P. Mahney (Feb 10, 2008)

CHAPTER IX

*TREASURE OF THE SHROUDED ONE*

PART II​
With the caves taken, and Corwyn's attention now turned to sealing them away, the party was free to pursue other matters.  Some days ago a hunter of Bastion, Ardan by name, had returned from the south, with tales of a hidden temple and the fabulous treasures therein.  Ardan had not ventured inside, or so he said, but upon the steps near the entrance he had found a bracelet of solid gold.  The bracelet was etched with the symbol of a skull, set with an orb of blackest jet in its open jaws.  It was a symbol of The Void, god of mystery and death.  The Shrouded One.

The people of Bastion were not about to set foot in such a place, but the promise of an unknowable death in the Shrouded One's domain was never something to deter a true adventuring spirit.  And so the party went to see Ardan, to ask that he draw them a map to this darksome place.

They found the man with Elmyr, for Ardan was one of his frequent companions.  Elmyr was his usual inhospitable self, glowering at his rivals as they made their request to his crony.  Ardan was uncertain whether to aid the enemies of his chosen leader, but a nod from Elmyr silenced his doubt.  As Ardan drew the map, the smallest of smiles played across Elmyr's mouth.  For who knew what fate might befall these adventurers in such a temple?  And who knew in that moment what other plans were unfolding in Elmyr's inscrutable mind?

The adventurers had their map, and so they set off into the benighted forest after riding the platform from Bastion to the ground on clanking chains.  They ventured south via the Old Road, its cracked and jumbled stones a reminder of civilisations past.  Just weeks ago this part of the forest had been the domain of the barrow wights, the restless dead.  But now the wights were scattered and leaderless, for the adventurers had slain their sorcerer-king on a previous quest and banished his hateful spirit from the world.

The journey took but a few hours, the map leading the party to a steep ravine. Backed up against the cliff wall of the ravine they saw the temple, shrouded in darkness and silent as a shadow.  The stone building had but one entrance, a great stone door with steps leading up to it, flanked by a series of columns that reminded them of a funeral procession.

The adventurers scrambled down the ravine, Gordred leading the way with his mastery of the wild.  He approached the doors with foreboding, as his companions stayed back.

And then danger struck, not from the temple itself, but from an unexpected quarter: the forest itself!  A great brown bear crashed toward Gordred, trees splintering beneath its mighty limbs.  It bellowed with rage before charging, its eyes full of a strangely murderous intent.

Gordred drew Mort and Death with glee, for the killing of animals was something he most cherished.  His comrades were beside him quickly, perhaps relieved to be facing so normal a foe, and not some nameless horror from the temple.  They surrounded the bear, darting around its lumbering swipes, raining blow after blow upon its shaggy frame.

Elrohir reached down for his mace, which he bathed in the blood of his foes every night to augment its eldritch power.  But something gripped his mind, and instead he drew forth a silver sword that he had looted from a tomb in the caverns below Bastion.  He charged the bear, but his attacks were clumsy and without grace, for the weapon had been cursed long ago.  But in his own mind the sword was perfect, the ultimate instrument of death, and he himself had reached his pinnacle as a warrior!

Despite this, the battle went first in the favour of our heroes, as they greatly outnumbered their foe.  But then from above came a flaming streak, a fiery arrow that scorched Elrohir across the midriff.  The elf gazed high seeking this new enemy, and with the powerful eyes of his ancient race he saw a shadowy figure perched at the top of the ravine.

The figure rained arrows of fire down upon the adventurers as they continued their furious battle with the bear.  Though it was a fearsome beast, and more than a match for four normal men, it proved no challenge for these four.  Mercilessly they hacked it down, Jah striking the killing blow from the back ranks with his glaive.

The beast lay dead, but there was no time to ponder this attack, no time to wonder at the presence of a creature untainted by the darkness of the forest.  The shadow above continued with its hail of arrows, and with no recourse for attack they made for the shelter of the temple.  None could fathom who this figure might be, though Elrohir, ever hateful of his dark kindred, thought that perhaps the drow had tracked them down somehow.  He was not to know that the truth was something far more insidious, far more evil.

The temple doors opened easily, swinging inward with no sound at all.  The entrance room was still and cold, the air laced with the smell of damp earth and rot.  Wooden doors, splintered and mildewed, led to the left and right, and there was an archway in the wall ahead.  On either side of these were two open-mouthed skulls carved into the wall, each clutching a large round obsidian stone between its teeth.  Here was treasure ripe for the taking, if any were brave enough to prise these night-dark jewels from their homes!  But Jah was ever wary, and warned his companions away – for would it not be better to clear the place of other dangers first?  The others agreed, and they pressed on, but they were not to return for this prize later.  Other events came later that would drive all thought of these gems from their minds.

The door to the south opened into a wide passage that soon turned left.  A skeleton in tattered black robes lay on the floor, half-melted in a puddle of greenish ooze.  The smell was acrid, and once again Jah opted for caution.  A strip of his cloak he dipped into the slime, only to see it eaten away almost instantly.  The adventurers shunned the ooze and investigated the skeleton no further, choosing to follow the passage instead.

At the end was a wooden stand, and upon it sat a closed book bound in featureless black.  Elrohir ran his hand across it, and felt the familiar texture of skin.  On some strange whim he drew his dagger and cut a line across the cover.  The material parted easily, and blood seeped freely from the open tear, until it closed over some moments later.  The others showed no interest in this ineffable work, and Jah was especially leery of further investigation.  But the grimoire held some strange fascination for Elrohir, and with eager hands he opened it to scan its pages.

No one knows just what he read, but he perused it for only a few seconds before slowly closing the cover, his face an ashen mask.  He would speak of the book no further, but from that moment on Elrohir looked always over his shoulder, convinced that the servants of the Void stalked him just out of sight. Always watching.  Always waiting.

The adventurers returned to the entrance, and this time explored the archway to the east.  It opened into a huge room with a vaulted roof.  Featureless pillars ran the length of the room, flanking plain black carpet that was riddled with holes.  At the east end of the room was a large statue, depicting a man in robes with his face hidden.  An open stone coffin rested up against it, with a body inside, and the robed figure had its arms around the coffin as though holding it in an embrace.  They approached with care, skirting along the north wall.  As the flickering torchlight illuminated the coffin, they saw that the body was wrapped in a funeral shroud and holding a ceremonial dagger.

Elrohir stepped forth, his fascination for the trappings of evil undimmed by his recent brush with the unknowable.  His attention was fixed on the coffin, and neither he nor his comrades saw the creature until it struck.  Swooping down from its perch near the top of a pillar, the stone-skinned monstrosity flew past Elrohir, gouging him across the back with its claws.  Before the elf could react the creature was beyond his reach, perched again near the ceiling with fingers dug deep into the pillar.  It fixed Elrohir with a baleful stare, and now the adventurers saw it well.  As a devil from the Abyss it appeared, with fangs and claws, wings and horns, but with a skin of hardest stone.  A gargoyle, vicious predator sprung from the shadow-haunted ruins of old.

With a snarl the gargoyle swooped again, but this time Elrohir was ready, and he dealt it a vicious blow with his silver sword.  Despite its curse, the sword's innate power pierced the gargoyle's skin, and it crashed to the floor.  His companions moved to his aid, but another gargoyle swooped in behind them, catching Gordred in a slashing fury of teeth and tail, horn and claw.

Gordred, his body gashed and bloody, retaliated with Mort and Death.  Mort was but a normal blade, and could not pierce the gargoyle's flesh; it turned aside in a shower of scraping sparks.  Death was of more potent stock, guided by the holy power of the Light, and the gargoyle shrieked as it was slashed across the face.  Qwan waded in with his twin great-axes, and though they were naught but steel, they were effective still, driven by his mighty thews and lust for battle.  They did not cleave the gargoyles as an enchanted weapon might, but still the wounds they inflicted were not insignificant.

Jah had found his glaive of little use, and hung back from the battle, unsure of how to aid his allies.  But it was he that saw the cloaked figure hovering at the edge of the torchlight, a masked man with a scimitar at his hip and a small crossbow in his hand.  As the battle with the gargoyles raged on, the figure levelled the crossbow at Jah, loading and firing it in the smoothest of motions.  Jah jerked his head aside, and the quarrel's fletching flicked hard against the side of his neck.  Had he not reacted in time, he knew – the shot would have killed him instantly.  The figure voiced a muffled curse as he fended off Jah's return blow, and fled the room with unnatural speed.

The gargoyles were destroyed, crushed beneath the blows of Death, and Elrohir's mace, which he bathed in blood every night to awaken its hunger.  Elrohir bled from several wounds, but Gordred was worse, his clothes soaked crimson and his face pale.  Rest and healing was what they required, but no healing was to be had, and none fancied a night of rest in a temple of the dead.  They left the coffin and the body inside, and decided to return to Bastion.

The moon was still high when they ventured outside, the air crisp and cold.  The body of the bear they had slain was gone.  As the adventurers neared the ravine's exit, a familiar streak of flame fell from the sky.  It missed its targets, but more soon followed, and the companions scrambled up the gravelly slope as flaming arrows fell all about them.  The shadowy figure flew overhead, wings blotting out the stars.  But as they left the ravine, the attacks ceased, and the figure flew back to the temple.  The party continued, bloodied and weary, reaching Bastion just as the moon fell below the horizon and darktime began.

The mood in Bastion was grim, and Corwyn had little time to spare to listen to the party's tales.  Chanis, High Priest of the Flame, was free with the healing powers of his god, for he had taken oaths from Gordred and Elrohir, and considered them as part of his flock.  Fresh and invigorated after a darktime's rest, they left Bastion for the temple the next night.  Little did they realise that Elmyr had not been seen by them during their stay, had not been there to mock their misfortunes as he usually did.  Such little things are oft unnoticed, and who knows what may have transpired differently had they realised?  But such things are not for me to know, my friends!  I am the chronicler of things that were, and little concerned with things that might have been.

The temple lay dark silent as the adventurers returned, with no fiery arrows from above to greet them.  With great haste they explored the rooms they had earlier ignored, and found a spiral staircase descending below the earth.  Gordred led the way as they followed the twisting path.

The adventurers emerged into a huge cavern, too large to be seen completely by the light of their torches.  The air had a faint acidic tang that burned their nostrils.  They explored along the north wall, and discovered there a skull carved into the stone, with water gurgling from the mouth into a pool below.  As always, Jah cautioned his fellows against drinking from it.  He was distrustful of all things, and especially so when hints of the undead were involved.  They moved on, leaving the fountain undisturbed.

A passage opened up to the left, and the adventurers explored it.  They found a room with four large cages, rusted but intact, and an iron door leading onward.  Three of the cages each held a corpse, flesh rotting beneath ragged black robes.  Jah reached through the bars of the first cage with his glaive, and thrust it into the body.  It lay motionless.  He repeated the action with the second, and this time the corpse gave a twitch as the glaive stabbed it.

Qwan it seems had no fear of the dead, and he entered the cage to investigate further.  He coiled the mighty muscles of his leg and kicked the corpse in the ribs.  It twitched again, and so he lifted his boot once more.  And then the putrid thing leaped to its feet, slavering madly in its hunger for the living.  The other two corpses rose jerkily also, bursting through the cage doors to feast.

To Qwan it mattered not whether his axes cleaved the living or the dead, and even though he fought in the cage alone his foe fell quickly.  Twin axes sliced downwards, and what was once undead became dead in truth.  The other two ghouls fought his comrades, who were not so fast to triumph.  And then the iron door flew open, and a virulent stench assaulted the chamber.  Another ghoul pounced through, malevolent and fearsome, more powerful by far than its brethren.  The heroes retched and gagged on its noisome stench, but all of them managed to keep fighting.

Elrohir was beset on both sides, with a ghoul clawing at his front and the ghast at his back.  The ghoul dug its nails into his arm, nails that burned with the cold of the grave.  But Elrohir was an elf, with a spirit more powerful than mortal man, and the cold affected him not.  But then the ghast latched onto his throat with clammy fingers, and this was a deathly touch that not even an elf could resist.  He fell limp, and the ghast dragged him back into its lair.

Gordred had long hated the undead, though none knew what traumatic events from his past had brought this hate about.  But Gordred knew the ways of the walking dead, and knew how to fight them.  He and Qwan held the ghouls at bay, as Jah rushed into the lair of the ghast to rescue Elrohir.

The rack, the manacles, and the pincers and tongs lining the wall made no secret of the room's function – for it was a torture chamber in days of old.  Of more importance was the iron maiden in the corner, for the ghast had dragged Elrohir's unmoving frame near to it and already placed him inside.  Jah charged as the ghast prepared to close the door and impale his friend on its wicked spikes, and had he wielded a shorter weapon he might have been too late!  But again the glaive proved its usefulness, and the ghast died its second death upon the lethal blade.

And then Jah saw the cursed silver sword in Elrohir's unmoving hand, and an idea came to him.  Tying a rope to its pommel he ran from the room, past Qwan and Gordred who had finished destroying their ghoulish foemen.  The sword clattered behind him as he raced back up the stairs to the wide passage where the skeleton lay half-melted in green slime.  He dragged the cursed blade into the puddle of ooze, and watched in satisfaction as the silver was eaten away, until nothing of it remained.  By the time Elrohir awakened to realise that his beloved new sword was gone, the weapon had been melted and the curse lifted.

Jah returned to the party and they continued their exploration of the larger cavern.  As they edged southwards along the wall, they came to a passage leading to the south, and the acidic tang in the air grew stronger.  With no other options but to continue, they pressed on into the twisting tunnel.

The adventurers had entered a warren of twisty little tunnels, all alike.  Jah it was who was entrusted with the task of mapping this labyrinth, and as the heroes made their way through the twists and turns his map came to make no sense at all.  They attempted to retrace their steps, to discover where they may have erred, but the tunnels they found did not match those that they had entered by.  The air grew heavier with the burning reek, and the tunnels were strewn with the bones of the dead.  The heroes were lost, disoriented, and Jah's frustration mounted with every step.  Would they join the dead in this place, left as nothing but bones and forgotten by the tides of history?

Stretched to the breaking point, Jah forgot his caution and started to follow the stinging acid scent.  Deeper and deeper they ventured into the labyrinth, until the burning almost choked them.

And then they saw it.  At the heart of the maze it lay, a roiling blob of putrescent yellow, sickening to the eye.  It lashed out with a tentacle of pure slime, and Gordred was burned by its touch.  As his companion fell back Jah thrust his glaive into the ooze, but was shocked at the result.  The yellow blob split in two up the centre, and now the heroes were faced with two foes that were smaller in size, yet no less deadly.

Jah chose that moment to flee, running from the cavern to a passage behind the party.  But then his course veered to the right, and another tunnel entirely, and though he did not seem to notice his companions did see his strange action.  Even so, the heat of battle was no time for such things, and they fought on.

Elrohir pushed his companions aside and stepped to the front.  He drew forth a slender wand of blackened bone.  "Angrim!" he cried, and the wand shot forth a jet of flame.  The oozes quivered in agony beneath the scorching blast, and though they lashed out repeatedly in their rage they could not withstand the barrage of arcane fire that followed.  Soon enough they were little more than blackened lumps on the stone floor, and Elrohir stood victorious with his fellows.

With no loot to be had the adventurers turned their attention to Jah, and the strange way he had altered his flight from the battle.  They soon deduced that there was some alien force in the tunnels, something that disoriented them and fooled their sense of direction.  They pushed on, and found that now they could will themselves forward without fear of becoming lost.

Soon they found a strange round chamber, an arena ringed with wooden benches.  At the far end of the room was a portal, and beyond it a crashing sea of ooze beneath a lightning sky.  The air of doom was palpable, and they new in their hearts that here the priests of the temple had wrought there own destruction.  None of the adventurers fancied further exploration, and so they journeyed on.

At last they came to a final wooden door, and entered.  Inside a glass cabinet in the centre of the room, they saw a magnificent golden statuette depicting a robed man in a cowl, its base encrusted with glittering rubies.  Scattered around the statuette was a pile of other coins and gemstones, and near that a small hole in the floor.

But though the treasure was magnificent, it was not that wondrous hoard that held their attention.  Near the north wall a circle of salt was scattered on the floor.  Pacing inside the circle was a vicious demonic mastiff, its deep black coat disappearing into nothingness wherever it touched the shadows.  It's eyes glowed red and hungry, with a malevolence not of the earthly plane.

That Jah was a cautious man I have told you before, but the sight of gold was always something to tempt him.  With little thought to the consequences he hefted his glaive, and smashed the glass cabinet to pieces.

As the glass shattered a howling wind filled the room, gusting forth from the hole in the floor.  The circle of salt was scattered, and the shadow mastiff bound forth from its prison, prepared to wreak vengeance on all present for its long captivity.

Qwan and Gordred leaped to the attack, but found their blows ineffective.  For where the beast touched the shadows it seemed not to exist, and no blade could then cut its flesh.

And then the mastiff howled.  It was a sound of ancient terror, of elder days when the Dark One would call the Wild Hunt and ride the world of mortal man with his ravening pack before him.  Stricken with ancestral fear, Qwan of the mighty thews, Gordred the fell ranger, and Elrohir the mysterious turned tail and fled, back into the tunnels and with no power of will to stop themselves becoming lost.  Only Jah remained, his mind alone capable of resisting the dark fears of the ancients.

And then he appeared in the chamber, the masked figure that had earlier stalked the adventurers.  Jah's heart quailed, and he thought all was lost, but still he fought on, striking the mastiff in futile hope with his glaive.  But the masked man did not attack.  He made for the treasure, and lifted the golden statuette in his arms.  And as he neared the exit of the room he stopped and turned, and ripped off his mask with a triumphant gesture.  Jah saw the hated, sneering face, that had so mocked the adventurers in the past.  He saw Elmyr!  And then the man was gone, off into the tunnels with a speed greater than any normal man.

But Jah had greater concerns, as the mastiff's jaws snapped at his face.  Jah leaped back, trying his best to keep the beast at a distance so that he could bring his glaive to bear.  And then finally he struck a telling blow, piercing the beast in a place where it touched the light of his torch.  He followed again, and then a third time, a mighty strike that thrust into the mastiff's open jaws, bursting forth from the back of its head.  The creature was dead, and it slumped to the ground, then melted away into the shadows.

Quickly Jah scooped up what treasure remained, and raced from the room.  He was after Elmyr, though there was little hope that he could match the man's pace.  And as expected he was too late.  Jah opened the temple doors just in time to see Elmyr in the arms of a winged female, a naked woman of fiendish beauty.  She beat her wings, and the two of them lifted into the air, Elmyr laughing in victory.

As the adventurers slowly overcame their fear and gathered together once more, they vowed that Elmyr would face justice.  They would return to Bastion, and wrest the truth from their hated rival.  Jah had a plan, and needed only the consent of Corwyn to enact it.  And so they began the journey, to a confrontation whose outcome was uncertain, with a foe more deadly than they had ever suspected.


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