# Travels through the Wild West: Books V-VIII (Epilogue)



## Lazybones

Greetings!

Yes, it’s time for yet another thread of the ongoing _Travels through the Wild West_ storyhour, set in the wilds of Faerûn (and occasionally elsewhere).  Book IV ended with a rather dramatic plot development, so I’ve included a poll to open this thread and seek reader feedback on how you would like to see the ultimate fate of Delem handled in the story.  I can’t promise I’ll go with the majority, but I’m interested to hear what you think!

Tomorrow I’ll get up a summary of the plot thus far, and start with the prologue to Book V.  New readers can find links to the other books in my signature block at the end of each post, as well as a link to the Rogues’ Gallery thread (with character stats and progressions), and a link to my website (where the whole story is archived along with a lot of other 3e and non-3e stuff I’ve written).  

Thanks to all those readers who have commented on the story thus far, with a special shout out to Horacio, Maldur, and MasterOfHeaven, my most prolific posters!  Feedback, comments, and questions are always welcome, so keep it coming! 

Lazybones

* * * * * 

*Travels through the Wild West: A Forgotten Realms Story
Book V*


The Characters:
Lok: Earth Genasi/Half-Dwarf Fighter 8. The group’s front-line fighter, a virtual combat machine.  Fights with a _+2 frost battleaxe._

Balander Calloran (“Cal”): Rock Gnome Bard 4/Illusionist 5. The group’s informal leader, small in stature but large in bravery. Died at the end of Book I, but was brought back to life through the sacrifice of his companions. 

Benzan: Tiefling Fighter 4/Rogue 3/Conjurer 1. The Jack-of-all-trades, warrior, thief, magic-user, smart-ass. Winner (narrowly edging out Lok) of the “Favorite Character in TttWW Poll” I held on the Book III thread. 

Lady Dana Ilgarten: Human Cleric 3 (Selûne)/Monk 2/Mystic Wanderer 4. Joined the companions in Book II.  She is torn between her attraction to Benzan and her guilt over the recent death of Delem.


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## Horacio

Horacio has arrived!


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## Maldur

So have I !


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## wolff96

Good to see the start of the next book. I'm looking forward to seeing more of their adventures.

My vote was for the "Returns as a villain, warped by the abyss."

I think he's a GREAT candidate for the Acolyte of the Skin PrC from Tome & Blood...

Whatever happens, I'm looking forward to seeing more of this great story hour!


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## djrdjmsqrd

*New Book!*

Yes, it is I, the story hour lurker.  LB, great job writing up these adventures, really are getting better and better with time.  As it’s a new book, I have to post something.  Blah.  Got to love FR!

Djordje


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## MasterOfHeaven

Sigh.  I *knew* this was going to happen.  I always figured it would be too obvious if Delem was the one whose soul was "consumed by the fire, forever destroyed".  The only other one that makes sense for him is the "Bane Of Nations" one, and judging from the polls options I was right.  I guess Delem isn't one of the main characters anymore, he's just another villian.  I *really* liked Delem, too.  Sigh.  


None of the other characters are very interesting to me.  Nanoc was fun, but he died too.  Still, Lazybones writing style is good enough that I'll keep reading anyway.  But, it's like I'm watching Star Wars and Luke Skywalker dies in Episode II.  Ah well.


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## Lazybones

Here we go!

* * * * * 

Background (or, What Has Come Before)

(Book 1)

Four companions meet by chance at a desolate crossroads west of the city of Elturel, in the Western Heartlands of Faerûn.  Each of the four is a wanderer, by choice or by fate, and as they share a campsite upon an old ruin they are attacked, first by a group of brigands led by a dark cleric of Mask, and then by an ogre ghoul that had been entombed under the ruin.  

Brought together by shared danger and shared loot, the four travel eastward to Elturel, and reach the village of Dunderion.  There they are drawn into a posse organized by Kevrik Telwarden, the sheriff of the village.  The posse is tracking down a group of raiders who attacked a merchant caravan nearby and made off with captives that include among their number the daughter of a powerful nobleman.  They follow the trail to the camp of a bandit leader named Steel Jack, who leads a mixed group of humans and hobgoblins.  They defeat the bandit gang, but learn that the prisoners have already been taken elsewhere, into the Wood of Sharp Teeth.  Most of the posse returns to Dunderion, but Telwarden, the trapper Cullan, and the companions press on into the wood.  There they find a small fort hidden within the forest protecting a nearby silver mine.  Apparently a group of hobgoblins is using prisoners as slave labor to work the mines.  The small group of companions is able to liberate the mine and free the prisoners there, defeating most of the hobgoblin force in a great battle, but the hobgoblin leader, a cleric of dark gods, retreats back to the fort where the noblewoman prisoner is being held captive.  The companions, worried about what the cleric will do to his prisoner, hurry after in pursuit.  They overcome the few remaining defenders at the fort and confront the evil cleric, and are able to defeat him at the cost of Telwarden’s life.  Saddened by the loss of the brave sheriff, but with the prisoners safe, the companions return to Dunderion.  

They next travel to Elturel, where they are honored by Lord Dhelt for their efforts and feted by the wealthy merchant and noble elites of the city.  Clearly their troubles are not over, though, as assassins try to kill them right after an audience with the High Rider.  Lok is able to determine that the equipment used by the assassins is from the same source as that used by the hobgoblins in the forest, leading them to track down the source of the weapons—a smithy located there in the town.  

Their investigations at the smithy lead them to a warehouse along the city’s docks, where they find clues pointing them to one of the noble houses of Elturel.  They are also attacked by a shade assassin, whose strange powers nearly lead to their deaths.  After defeating the shade they decide to press on that very night to the estate of the nobleman who is apparently behind the whole thing—the raids, the mining operation, and the illegal trade in weapons and silver in Elturel itself.  They find the leader, all right, but it is not the nobleman, who was just a pawn, but a powerful cleric of the god Cyric.  They confront the cleric, who summons a demon to help him, and overcome him.  The cost is terrible, however, as Cal is killed in the battle.  

(Book 2)

The companions have uncovered an evil plot and defeated a mighty adversary, but the victory is hollow with the loss of their friend.  Lok, Benzan, and Delem elect to go to Baldur’s Gate, and seek a cleric with the power to raise Cal from the dead.  They travel swiftly down the River Chionthar, fighting off an attack by kir-lanan gargoyles along the way.  Once in Baldur’s Gate, they meet with the high priestess of Tymora, who agrees to raise the gnome—for a service.  The companions agree to escort an emissary of the church to faraway Chult, on some unrevealed errand.  

Cal is raised, and reunited again, the companions prepare for their journey.  They upgrade their equipment, but before they can leave, they are approached by the same young noblewoman they rescued from the hobgoblins in the Wood of Sharp Teeth.  The young woman, Lady Dana Ilgarten, asks to accompany the companions on their journey for reasons of her own, and they reluctantly agree.  

The companions depart from Baldur’s Gate on a sailing ship, the _Raindancer_, along with the Tymoran emissary, a halfing cleric named Ruath.  Near the Nelanther Isles they are attacked by pirates, who are repulsed after a desperate battle.  The ship limps back to Velen, where the companions are accosted by thieves seeking to relieve them of some of their extra loot.  Leaving a bunch of battered thieves behind, they continue their journey.  The ship is attacked by a flock of strange birds that shoot bolts of lightning on the next leg of their journey, but these too are repulsed.  After a stop in Memnon, the ship continues on the final leg of its journey.  

Unfortunately, a severe storm strikes the ship in the Shining Sea.  Sensing that the storm is unnatural, the companions are able to discover a strange gem emanating green energy in the ship’s bilges.  Unable to approach the gem without suffering ill effects, they decide to destroy it using spells and acid arrows.  They are successful, but breaking the gem releases a vortex of energy that knocks them briefly unconscious.  They recover to realize that the storm is gone—and that the clerics’ links to their patron gods have been dramatically weakened.  Confused, they make their way up to the deck of the ship, where they realize that the stars above are unfamiliar.  

(Book 3)

The battered ship sails to the east, where they eventually spot a large landmass to the east.  A hostile encounter with raiders on large outrigger canoes leads to further damage to the _Raindancer_, and with the ship taking on water the companions elect to bring the battle to the raiders.  They find the raider camp in a sheltered island cove, and after a brief but violent confrontation take the camp and begin repairs to the ship.  

Pressing on, they head toward the large landmass, which they’ve learned is named “The Isle of Dread” by the locals.  Before they can reach a landing site, however, the _Raindancer_ is attacked by a giant squid.  The companions drive off the creature, but not before the ship is damaged beyond repair.  The survivors pile into the ship’s lifeboats and travel on to the Isle, where they encounter a village of cautious but otherwise friendly natives. 

An audience with the village’s wise woman leads to a divination that reveals that the companions may be able to find a way home by traveling to the center of the island.  There, according to the tales of the villagers, lies the ruined civilization of their “gods” and a magical portal known as the Well of Worlds.  At this point only seven of the _Raindancer_ crew are left, and four of them, including the ship’s captain, agree to accompany the adventurers on this quest.

The trip into the interior reveals great dangers.  The companions are attacked by a Lernean hydra, and later by a group of strange cat-men that allow them to pass only after Lok defeats their leader in single combat.  Further on they find a group of lemur-like intelligent creatures named phanatons, who offer shelter and guidance to the party.  While in their treetop camp Delem confesses his growing feelings for Dana, only to be rebuffed by the young woman.  Stung, Delem feels the first stirrings of jealousy as he notes the way that Dana and Benzan are starting to grow closer.  

After a confrontation with a group of spider-sorcerers (araneas), the companions cross to the center of the island where a great plateau rises amidst a range of mountains.  They find a rope bridge crossing a deep gorge, but while crossing they are attacked by a flight of pteranodons.  Captain Horath, the brave captain of the _Raindancer_, falls to his death in the gorge.  Later that night, a pack of dire wolves assaults the group’s camp, and another crewmember is slain.  

The companions climb the solitary peak in the center of the plateau and into the crater within.  There they find another isolated village on the shores of a lake within the crater.  The villagers of Mantru are also friendly, but warn the companions of a group of cannibal tribesmen who dwell on an island within the lake. 

The island, however, is their destination, and the companions go there seeking the Well.  They defeat the tribesmen in an epic battle, and progress to the dungeons underneath the island.  There they confront a pair of deadly creatures known as kopru, whose mental powers allow them to turn the party members against each other.  The creatures are defeated, but only after the death of Ruath, the halfling cleric of Tymora.  The companions find the Well shortly thereafter, and return to Faerûn worn down by the hardships they’d suffered.  

(Book 4)

Passing through the Well of Worlds, the companions return to Faerûn.  Instead of returning to Baldur’s Gate, however, they find themselves in a desolate ruin in the farthest reaches of the North.  They immediately find themselves confronting a powerful lamia sorceress and her ogre guards, and win through only after a vicious battle.  Realizing where they are, the companions travel to Citadel Adbar, where they rest and recover.  While there, however, Lok has a vision of his people, the urdunnir, enslaved in the Underdark.  Believing that the vision is a message from the god Dumathoin, Lok resolves to travel to Caer Dulthain, the shield dwarf town where he was fostered, and seek out the nearby entrance to the Underdark where his people once lived.  After learning of this mission the dwarven elders of Adbar seek the aid of the companions in investigating rumors of a strong ogre force operating in that area.  With a new ally, a woman ranger named Jerral, they set out once again. 

On their journey, the companions learn that the northern mountains have fallen under the sway of a powerful alliance of several orc and ogre tribes.  After several confrontations they ultimately learn that this unprecedented alliance is the work of a powerful ghour demon.  They confront the demon, and while they are able to drive it off, it bears with it the unconscious form of Delem.  Along with prisoners freed from the iron mines of the ogres, they track the demon to the halls under Caer Dulthain, where they confront the beast in a dark chamber deep underground.  The demon is slain, but their victory is soured by the discovery of Delem’s ravaged corpse.  

The story continues from there…


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## Lazybones

Travels through the Wild West: Book V
Prologue


In a dark chamber situated deep under the surface of Toril, a shadowy figure stood waiting.  

The place was devoid of light, but the tall stranger suffered no inconvenience at that absence.  Had there been a torch or lantern present, an observer could have marked the black cloak that seemed to shimmer as it enveloped the figure, or the narrow features and ebon skin that marked him as one of the drow, the notorious bane of the Underdark.  He—for the stranger appeared to be male—seemed apart from his surroundings, his dark eyes hooded with the thoughts churning deep within.  

The sound of bootsteps became audible, drawing rapidly nearer from one of the several passages that opened off of the chamber.  The dark elf did not stir as the sound grew louder, finally resolving into the form of an armored dwarf that appeared in one of those dark entrances.

The dwarf—or more precisely, a dark dwarf, one of the race that called themselves the duergar—strode forward with confidence to confront the dark elf.  Her armor, painstakingly crafted for silence, made barely a whisper of sound as she moved, the interlocking plates of precious adamantine fitting together around her body like a second skin.  She carried a short, graven staff shod at both ends with cold iron, the tip making a slight clicking sound against the hard stone of the floor with each step she took.

The dwarf paused ten paces in front of the dark elf.  With his darkvision, he could read the scowl clearly on her features as she looked up at him.

“Greetings, Shemma,” the elf said companionably. 

“Why do you insist on wearing that form?” the dwarf replied, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice.  

The elf shrugged idly.  “It suits me.  But if it offends you…”

“Bah, it is of no import.  We have matters more pressing to discuss.”

“I understand that the production from the diggings has been down of late.”

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed slightly, and her gaze sharpened as if will alone would enable her to see into the mind of the other.  “I have long been saying that the number of slaves we have remaining is insufficient for the task.”

“Yes, you have.  And perhaps, if you had paid more attention to my suggestions regarding attrition, we would not be having this conversation now.”

“It was, and is, necessary to take steps to keep the slaves in check, properly… motivated.  But I am not here to offer justifications to you, Drax.  If we’re to keep to your schedule, we’re going to have to take steps.”

 “The schedule is not set by me,” the dark elf replied.  “It cannot be amended, especially not at this point.”

“Fine then.  We’ll need more slaves then, and that’s that.  Brute strength is enough for the grunt work, particularly in the mithral veins—those are still sound, and they should remain true long enough to suit our needs.  But those gemstones you need—we’ve had some good results from our divinations, but the information we’ve collected thus far suggests that we’re going to have to go deeper—far deeper—to get what you want.”

“And the urdunnir will not be up to this task?” the drow asked.  

“Perhaps.  But we cannot afford to lose any more of them, and they are coming to realize that.  It is making it difficult to deal with them.”

“Maybe it is time for me to make a visit to the diggings,” the elf suggested.  “Perhaps I can offer some alternative forms of… motivation, as you said.”

The dwarf nodded, the corners of her mouth twisting in a slight mockery of a smile.  “Very well, then.  But even so…”

“I leave the procurement of more slaves in your hands, Shemma,” the dark elf said with a dismissive wave of his hand.  “Perhaps that grim little assassin of yours, Grolac, and his little band…”

Shemma’s eyes narrowed yet further, until they were mere slits fixed on the dark elf.  She’d believed that Grolac’s talents had been kept secret, an ace in the hole kept as a reserve.  Another lesson learned in not underestimating her “ally” in this matter. 

“If there was nothing else?”  It was not quite a dismissal. 

The dwarf’s smile faded instantly into a hard grimace.  Without even a farewell, she turned and tromped off into the same dark passageway through which she had entered, making somewhat more noise in her leaving than in her arrival.

The dark elf watched her go.  His expression was like an obsidian mask, betraying nothing of the thoughts or feelings underneath.  He stood there, waiting, until even the echoes of the dwarf’s departure had faded. 

“You may come out now,” he finally said. 

In the empty darkness of the cavern above an even deeper shadow detached itself from the uneven crevices of the ceiling and drifted down to join the drow.  It resembled a man in shape and size, but its broad wings, scaled skin, and demonic visage betrayed the otherworldly origin of the newcomer.  A wickedly barbed tail that seemed to slash out reflexively at the air around it trailed behind its form as it landed on the floor and approached the dark elf from the side.  

“The cleric, she did not seem pleased,” the demon hissed, its voice a sibilant whisper that sounded like stone scraping on stone.  

“Shemma’s approval is of no importance.  That she and her people deliver on their commitments, that is what concerns me.”

“Her knowledge, her power… vital to the project.”

The dark elf looked down at the demon, which despite its height stood hunched over, its claws dangling down to scrape on the stone of the floor.  Something blazed in the elf’s dark eyes, and the demon drew itself down even further.  

“Shemma knows not to cross me,” the drow said, and there was a hint of warning in those words.  “She is ambitious, and self-serving, but she’s not stupid.”

“As you say, Great One,” the demon hissed in reply.  

“The device will be completed, and it will be ready at the appointed time,” the dark elf said, and there was no hesitation, no hint of doubt in the statement. 

The demon’s scaly head bobbed up and down, its forked tongue darting out to taste the air.  “As you say,” it repeated.  “Lord Tiamat will be pleased.”

The dark elf’s eyes narrowed as it stared down at the demon once more, and then, like the dwarf before him, he turned and departed via another of the dark passages that ringed the edges of the chamber.  The demon, ignored, followed belatedly behind, and soon silence fell once again over the dark place deep under the ground.


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## MasterOfHeaven

Isn't Tiamat a female Dragon/Goddess?  Or is this a different Tiamat?  Looking forward to seeing more, as always.


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## Lazybones

MoH: Well, she's female in Dragonlance, but I believe that Tiamat in the Realms was slain by Gilgeam of the Untheric pantheon during the Time of Troubles, then replaced by a red wyrm that ascended to take up her place.  I haven't gotten Faiths and Pantheons yet so my "version" as it pertains to TttWW may be a little a-canonical.  

P.S. Sorry your favorite characters fell victim to the vagaries of my plot.  The idea of killing off a major character came to me around the middle of Book 4; the story was getting a little stale to me and I wanted to throw a bomb into the middle of the plot to shake up a few new hooks.  I like Delem too, and I promise we haven't seen the last of him.  And of course, even if I did make him a "villain," it wouldn't be as a cookie-cutter bad guy (I've tried to avoid those in this story ).

Thanks for reading, all, and I look forward to giving you another exciting (hopefully ) book of _Travels._


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## MasterOfHeaven

As long as Delem does the following when he becomes a villian, I'll be happy:

1) Kill Benzan.  

2) Kill the rest of the companions.

3) Take over one of the more annoying nations/cities in Faerun that always seems to be untouchable no matter what anyone does, like say Silverymoon or Waterdeep.  

4) Become the most powerful NPC villian in the Forgotten Realms.

5)  Kill Kossuth and ascend to deity status as the new God Of Fire.

I don't really think that's too much to ask... 

Now, what I *expect* to happen is the following:

1)  Delem becomes the "Bane Of Nations", fights the companions once or twice, and either dies or manages to escape/ is shown mercy.  

2)  Benzan is consumed in the fire, destroyed forever.

3)  Lok ascends to godhood (Anyone familar with the story can see this coming a mile away)

4) Cal retires and dies in peace, surrounded by the generations.  


The only possible twist I see in those forthcoming events are Cal and Benzan switching places.  Lok and Delems destinies seem  set in stone, though.  It'll still be interesting to see how these events come about, however.  

But... garh, this is why I hate "prophecies" in novels/movies.  They ruin a lot of the suspense, since you can figure out certain events before they happen.  Just *once* I'd like to see the "mysterious prophecy by an unknown fortuneteller/blind prophet etc, etc." be total bogus.  Hint, hint.   

Like I said though, you write well enough that I'm going to keep reading regardless of what happens to the characters.  Good luck getting published someday, you certainly are better than many authors who I've read.


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## Lazybones

MoH:
Kill everyone?  Even Dana?  Man, that's cold .

Clearly you've read the whole story very thoroughly, although I must point out that the "bane of nations" part of the prophecy was just a _little_ different than you noted.  

Personally, I find foreshadowing and devices like the prophecy to be useful when writing genre fiction.  Sure, it's a little cliche, but aren't most elements of fantasy fiction?  For me it gave me a vague framework around which I could build later plot threads.  When I wrote that scene, I had no idea who would fit each role, and while your comments are very close to where I'm currently leaning, they could still change dramatically.  

I don't know, maybe I've read too much David Eddings... 

Also, keep in mind that I never said that each companion had to fulfill just one element of the prophecy.   In all likelihood, really, I'll probably never write the story long enough to get to all its elements.  If I don't get bored with the story, the readers will...

Anyway, thanks for reading, and I appreciate your taking the time to give detailed feedback.  

Part 1 of the story proper in a bit (it's just about ready, but it's been a busy morning at work for once!).  Until then, drop over and read my Neverwinter Nights tale (it's just a little comedy story I threw together last week): http://test.cyberstreet.com/showthread.php?s=&threadid=14989


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## Lazybones

Book V, Part 1

“Cal!” Dana screamed in warning, as the massive white form of the tundra yeti lunged forward and swept the hapless gnome into the grip of its powerful arms.  Cal struggled to escape, but the creature pulled him into a tight hug, the gnome all but vanishing into its thick white fur.  

Dana hefted her spear as she turned, only to see a second creature surging at her from the flank.  Apparently they had walked right into an ambush, as more of the creatures erupted from their cover within drifts of snow and leapt with ferocious intensity at the surprised companions.  

Dana spun with the spear, bringing the gleaming head of the ponderous weapon to bear.  While still not completely familiar with the weapon, she’d practiced extensively under the tutelage of Lok and Benzan over the days since they’d left Caer Dulthain, and she could feel the magical power surging in the weapon as she brought the head in line with the charging yeti’s chest.  The creature, however, moved with a speed that belied its bulk, and it dodged under the point of the weapon before Dana could adjust.  She tried to shift out of the way of its rush, but it managed to catch her with a sweep of one massive arm, pinning her under its weight even as its claws dug into her back.  She screamed in pain as the creature dragged her against its body, its arms wrapping around her in a grim hug much as its comrade had done to Cal.  For all its fur, the touch of the creature was like ice, and Dana could feel the heat draining from her body, even through the magical protection afforded by her cloak.  It was crushing her, killing her…

“Uhhh!” Dana cried, lurching up into a sitting position from where she’d been sleeping on the hard stone floor of the cave.  She looked around for a moment, the terror of her dream lingering for a long moment as she sat there, shivering.  The inside of the cave was cold, like a tomb, and she pulled her cloak around her.  The enchantment of the travel cloak kept out the chill of the mountains, but it could not banish the icy grip of the fear and grief that resided within her heart.

This was not the first time she’d awoken to nightmares over the past few nights.  At least this one had spared her the gruesome image of Delem’s ravaged corpse hanging on the wall of the demon’s lair within the dwarven cistern.  That image, she knew, would never fade, and each time it popped unwelcome into her mind she felt as though her heart would burst with the pain of memory.  

Her companions weren’t in the part of the cave they used for sleeping, but she did not worry on that account.  The loss of Delem had driven them even closer together, cementing the bond of trust that existed between them.  It was that bond that had kept them together in the aftermath of Delem’s death, and the uncertainty that had followed.  

It was hard to believe that only a week had passed since those deadly events, culminating in their second and final confrontation with the demon that was behind the gathering of orcs and ogres of the northern mountains.  After defeating the demon, they’d retreated from the halls of Caer Dulthain to the nearby mountain of Tor Drothgal, where Gaera and her dwarves had taken shelter.  With them they brought Delem’s corpse, carefully wrapped in an extra cloak to cover the terrible damage wrought upon his body by the demon.  Gaera told them what they already knew, that no mere _raise dead_ would work to bring him back to life with that gaping, empty hole in his torso.  So in the shelter of one of the dwarven tunnels they cremated him, bringing his ashes with them in the hope that somehow, a more powerful magic could be found to restore him to life.  

But another, more troubling thought had haunted Dana.  She remembered the sight of the demon’s warped spirit rising from its sundered body, and the brief flicker she’d seen within that roiling cloud in the instant before it faded back into the cursed depths of the Abyss.  A nagging suspicion followed her, so terrible that she could not bring herself to discuss it with the others, although they must have seen it too.  So they allowed themselves the belief—the delusion, perhaps—that Delem’s soul had traveled safely to the radiating glow of Kossuth’s divine flame, restored to peace in the afterlife of mortal existence.  It was all they could do, given their powerlessness to affect the outcome in either case. 

Jerral had left them, returning south with Gaera and the other freed prisoners to Citadel Adbar.  It remained to be seen if the defeat of the ghour would result in the collapse of the alliance of tribes that had so threatened the north, but at least they had encountered no more patrols since leaving the vicinity of Caer Dulthain.  Gaera had insisted that she would petition the elders of Adbar to send a force of dwarves north to reclaim the dwarven town, and with the determination with which she’d said it, Dana did not doubt that the dwarven cleric would find a way to return.  

Dana had wanted nothing more to return with them, any desire for new adventures or quests driven out of her by that grim image of her dead friend’s face, but she was bound to Lok by a promise and a commitment of friendship.  The genasi had grown, if possible, more intent upon his still-vague quest, and the urgency with which he pressed them still further north increasingly showed through his normally unreadable expression.  They could not know, and he did not share, the images that troubled his own sleep, images of his people suffering at the hands of a still-unidentified enemy.  The duergar that had overrun the urdunnir town were involved, that he knew, but he could not shake the persistent impression, a vague feeling at the edges of his visions, of a deeper, more powerful, more dangerous threat lurking in the shadows.  The strange voice that had called to him earlier did not revisit him, but he felt no less committed to its mandate for its absence.  

Dana crept quietly into the outer chamber of the cave.  Cal and Benzan were there, talking quietly near the narrow gap that led outside.  They were well above the treeline, so there was no fire, only the slightest flicker of their tiny portable stove as it struggled to heat their small metal teapot.  They looked up as she entered, and nodded in greeting. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Cal asked, his own eyes as haunted as hers. 

“No, not really,” she said, and their own expressions showed understanding.  She met Benzan’s eyes once, briefly, before he turned away.  

It was still awkward between them.  Dana’s feelings were all a jumble within her, and she was torn between her grief over Delem and her need for the comfort that Benzan might offer.  Her attraction to the tiefling now triggered in her a deep and abiding guilt, highlighted by the ambiguity of her relationship with Delem.  When they’d been recovering… after… in one of the hidden dwarf safeholds under Tor Drothgal, he’d remained close to her, silently offering his presence, perhaps needing her consolation as well.  He hadn’t been aggressive or pushy, and a part of her had wanted to respond, but something in his touch had reminded her of Delem, had torn open the still-fresh wounds she bore inside her.  She had turned away from him, preferring solitude to the confusion Benzan’s presence awoke in her.  He’d been hurt by her rejection, and hasty words had been since spoken between them, but now they seemed to have settled into an uneasy truce.  Yesterday, when they’d walked into the yeti ambush, it had been Benzan who had come first to her aid, turning his back on the creature facing him to attack the one grappling her.  He’d taken several serious wounds in the process, but he had not turned to protect himself until the yeti had released her and fallen bloody to the snow.  

Now it was just the four of them, and they were far indeed from any place of safety and security, heading still deeper into danger.  For the last three days they’d been staying in this cave, using it as a base as they explored the slopes of the massive mountain that Lok had named “the Maker’s Anvil,” located several days’ travel from Caer Dulthain.  It was here that the genasi had been found by the dwarves of Caer Dulthain as a child, on a battlefield littered with the remains of ogres and dwarves.  They were looking for something only dimly remembered from Lok’s childhood, an entrance to that dark realm that lay underneath the surface of Toril, the place whose name was spoken in hushed whispers by the folk who lived in the sunlit lands above.

The Underdark.

Thus far their search had not born much fruit.  They wouldn’t starve, not with Dana’s ability to create magical food, and they wouldn’t freeze, not with the magical protections they all carried.  The attack by the yeti was just the latest reminder of how dangerous these mountains were, however.  And although she knew only little about the fabled Underdark, what she had heard was enough for her to know that the dangers here were trifles in comparison to what they would find in the deep ways far under the sunlit surface of Toril.  

And yet they pushed on, bound to their friend as he pursued his own enigmatic mission.  

They were well equipped, at least, hopefully prepared for whatever lay ahead.  They’d found Delem’s magical items within a cache that the demon had stored within a crack in the cistern wall, and several other items as well.  Lok carried a new shield, a dwarf-forged item of blue-tinged steel that bore a potent enchantment, and Dana wore a pair of mithral bracers, which Cal identified as protective items that would help shield their wearer from attacks.  With luck the bracers would help compensate for the absence of Cal’s wand of _mage armor,_ now just a useless stick with its power depleted.    They’d also found a considerable treasure in coins, precious gems, and assorted jewelry, but after what had happened even Benzan had not been able to muster much enthusiasm for that horde.  They took what they could fit in the bag of holding, gave some of the remainder to the dwarves, and left the rest.  

The three sat silently, each lost in their own thoughts, until they heard the clink of metal on metal and Lok entered the cave.  The genasi’s plate armor was crusted with snow, indicating that yet another storm was settling over the shoulder of the mountain.  

“Another storm coming, it’ll hit tomorrow afternoon at the latest,” the genasi reported, confirming the evidence covering his armor.  

“Great,” Benzan said without looking up.  “And how are we supposed to find anything when we can’t see ten paces ahead of us?”

“We’ll make do, Benzan,” Cal said softly.  “If need be, we’ll wait until the storm passes.”

The tiefling looked up, and anger flashed in his eyes.  “For how long?  In case you haven’t noticed, it’s the dead of winter here, and I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling the cold even through our resistances and magical protections.  We don’t have fire, all we have to eat is Dana’s magical… pseudo-food, and there’s only the four of us against…”  His gaze shifted up to Lok, and he continued, “Against who knows what?  Certainly your ‘visions’ haven’t been able to tell us that!  Why don’t you tell them about all the fun things one can find in the Underdark, eh Lok?  And the four of us are just going to waltz right down there, free your people from an entrenched bastion of deep dwarves, and just walk right out?  It’s crazy, that’s what it is.  This is all crazy.”

For a long moment silence hung in the cave following Benzan’s rant, and none of them met each other’s gaze.  Finally, Lok stirred.  “I know that I haven’t been able to tell you very much…” he began.  

“No, it’s all right, Lok,” Cal said, forestalling him with an outstretched hand.  “I know you’ve told us what you could, and I know these ‘visions’ of yours have been pretty vague.  We’ve acted on less substantial information in the past, however.  Ultimately, it comes down to trust,” he finished, looking squarely at Benzan.  

“And friendship,” Dana said.  All of the complex feelings she’d kept bottled up inside came pouring out in anger as she turned on Benzan.  “Have you forgotten about that one?  Have you forgotten how they came to your aid against that cleric of Mask?  Yes, Cal told me about that story, about how you all met.  Or what about all the other times they stood beside you, fought with you, defended you…  Or all the times you insulted Delem, put him down, teased him, when all he ever wanted was to belong, to be a part of your group…”  She was shouting now, but it didn’t matter—felt good, actually, to let the stored feelings out.  “You… You’re nothing but a selfish, self-absorbed, mean-spirited, cruel, lying, dirty,…”

“Don’t forget bastard demon-spawn,” Benzan cut in, his voice like ice and his face as hard as stone.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Dana yelled at him.  “I’m not going to fall for that, ‘oh, I’m cursed, oh, I’ve got the tainted blood of an evil fiend, so what can you expect…’  I’ve told you before, you are who _you_ are, Benzan, not who or what your parents were.  You can’t blame anyone but yourself for the way you act, the things you say…”

She trailed off, feeling curiously depleted as she searched for more words to hurl at him.  The anger was spent, however, and she suddenly realized how ridiculous her outburst had been.  They were all looking at her, and Benzan had a strange look in his eyes that she couldn’t quite read.  She’d thrown down a gauntlet, but he didn’t respond, just sat there, looking up at her. 

She was belatedly aware that she was crying, the tears flowing in hot channels down the cold skin of her cheeks.  Suddenly unsure how to feel, she fled, turning and running back into the rear chamber of the cave.  

Alone again, she found herself shaking, and fighting back the tears that threatened to undo her thin veneer of self-control.  _Why did it have to be Delem?_ she asked of no one in particular.  “Why?” she repeated, out loud, fighting to keep that last image from crowding again into her thoughts, an unwelcome intruder that she knew she would never be free of. 

She felt his presence behind her a moment before he spoke.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “For all of it.  I didn’t really mean what I was saying—I apologized to Lok and Cal before coming here.  It’s just… all of what happened… I guess I just don’t know how to deal with it.”

“Looks like you dealt with it the same way I did,” she said, wiping away her tears as she turned to face him.  “By making a scene and making fools of ourselves in front of dear friends with a lot of patience.”

He stepped forward and took her in his arms, and she melted into his embrace.  “I’m sorry about before, too, back in the dwarven caves,” he said.  “I shouldn’t have…”

“Shh,” she said.  “It’s not… it’s not your fault.”

They just held each other for a long moment in silence.  “I miss him too,” he finally said.  

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.  At the same moment they both stepped back, breaking the embrace, not quite meeting each other’s gaze.  Then, almost reluctantly, he returned to the front part of the cave, leaving her alone once more.  

Sighing, she turned to gather up the rest of her gear.


----------



## Lazybones

Book V, Part 2

By the time that the overcast sky above had brightened with the murky light of the morning the companions had already departed the cave to begin their day’s search.  It was already snowing when they left, and the cold wind and dark skies promised much more before the day was through.  Hoping to beat the storm, they hurried their steps along the faint trails that crisscrossed the shoulders of the mountain.  

They moved over ground already familiar to them in the explorations of the previous few days, and after an hour turned onto a side track that took them into a deep, snow-choked ravine.  Lok was indefatigable as he drove on ahead, blazing a track for them through drifts of snow that sometimes reached higher than his head.  Soon they were feeling the cold even through their magical protections, but still they pressed on, following the genasi’s example.  

The snowfall intensified as they came up out of the ravine onto a broad plateau.  For a moment Lok just stood there, the falling snow forming a crust on his face and beard, but then finally he spoke.  

“This is the place, the battlefield where I was found.”

“It doesn’t look like a battlefield,” Benzan said, staring out over the wide field of pure white.  

“It’s been three decades,” Cal reminded him, moving forward to join Lok.  “Any idea of where we should start looking?” 

“It was a cleft deep within a cluster of boulders,” Lok said, already starting toward the sloping edge of the plateau to his right.  There, the relatively exposed face of the shelf gave way quickly to a series of gullies and stone-choked culverts, rapidly culminating in a nearly vertical stone face that rose up high above them.  Beyond that they could just see the vague outline of the mountain peak itself, its summit lost in the flurries of snow around them.  

The companions fanned out behind the genasi as he strode across the ancient battlefield, lost in memories of a time long past.  Benzan dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword, crossing to a boulder and digging through the snow to reveal something half-buried beneath the edge of the rock.  With some effort, he freed the item—an old waraxe, its blade cracked in two.  

“Looks like you were right,” he said to Lok.  “I can sense metal objects scattered throughout the area.”

“Dana, maybe you can use your _locate object_ spell to find this shaft Lok described,” Cal suggested.  

“I’ll try,” she replied, closing her eyes as she called upon the power of her goddess.  For a moment a look of pure bliss crossed her face as she touched the source of her divine energies, and then her eyes popped open with an excited gleam.  

“Yes, I think I sense it!” she exclaimed.  “Come on!”

She led them quickly across the snowfield to one of the stony crevices that ran back into the rock face.  She plowed through the snow clogging the entry, leaving the others behind as she vanished into a knot of large boulders piled high with drifts of snow.  

“Dana?” Benzan shouted, as he followed her in.

“I’m all right!” she replied, her voice echoing slightly from somewhere within the crevice.  Then she reappeared, standing up in a narrow slot between two stones the size of horses.  “There’s an opening down here, under the edge of the rock,” she said.  “It’s not very big, but I think I can squeeze through.”

“Be careful,” Cal warned, but she had already disappeared again into the gap.  He followed Benzan and Lok as they worked their way into the crevice, to where the two stones met.  Once he’d worked his way around the edge of the nearer stone, he could see the opening Dana had indicated, little more than a crack in the stone with darkness beyond.  He wondered how Dana could see anything down there, but then he saw a flickering glimmer of light from somewhere deep within.  

“The crack leads back twenty or thirty feet into the mountainside,” her voice drifted up to them.  “It’s pretty tight…”

“Lok and I are going to have a tough time fitting in there,” Benzan said.

“We’ll find a way to squeeze through,” Cal said absently, his attention fixed on the dark gap and the flickering of Dana’s light.

“I found it!” her triumphant announcement came back to them.  “There’s an opening here… it’s a shaft, leads straight down.  Seems to go a long way…”

“Maybe we’d better be careful,” Benzan said.  “There might be someone or something down there, that could hear her.”

Cal nodded.  “Come on back, Dana,” he called down into the opening.  As he listened to the noise of her making her way back through the tunnel, he glanced up at Lok.  “What do you think?”

“It seems right,” Lok said.  “Although I don’t recall much of my initial journey up here, I doubt that there would be more than one shaft that led up to precisely this battlefield.”

“So, this shaft leads right down to the urdunnir town?” Benzan asked.  “How far down is it?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” Lok said.  “A long way, I think.”

“Well, the power of my sword can carry me down,” Benzan said.  “And Dana’s got that spell of flight.  I imagine I could carry you, Cal; you’re not too heavy.  But what about Lok?”

“We’ll think of something,” Cal said, still distracted as he watched Dana reappear at the thin crack below. 

“It’s a tight fit, but I think everyone can make it,” she reported.  “Lok and Benzan might have to take off their armor, though—there’s a few low spaces where it might make a difference.”  

Cal looked at each of them in turn.  “Well?” he finally asked. 

Benzan took a deep breath.  “This is what we came here to do,” he said.  “Let’s do it.”

They paused just long enough to remove their armor, packing each component carefully in the bag of holding.  They added their packs and other gear, keeping only their weapons and other key items close at hand.  Once they were ready they started into the narrow crevice, with Dana taking the lead and Cal, who had a much easier time moving through the tight space, bringing up the rear.  Dana held a small object, a short stick tipped by the glow of a _continual flame_ that she had conjured during their down time in the cave.  

Dana helped Benzan and Lok by identifying the easiest route through the cramped confines of the crawlspace, but even so it took them a goodly amount of time to cover the thirty or so feet back to the top of the shaft.  By the time they had gathered around the dark opening, Benzan was sweating, and a haunted look appeared on his face.  

“What is it?” Cal asked him, seeing his distress.

“I’m not particularly fond of such closed-in places,” the tiefling said.  “Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.”

The shaft descended as far as they could see, and was perhaps ten feet across.  A faint breeze drifted up from below, indicating that the shaft opened onto other tunnels somewhere deep underground.

“Shall I go scout it out?” Dana asked.

“All right, but be careful,” Cal said.  “Fly back up if you see anything that looks like a tunnel or other exit below.”

With a nod, she cast her spell of flying, and like a dart shot down into the open space of the shaft.  The ring of light cast by the _continual flame_ allowed them to track her movements, but also made it clear that she would not surprise anything that might be lurking below.  

“I hope she listens to your advice,” Benzan said, fingering the hilt of his sword as if he might need to call upon its power of levitation in an instant.  

The light of the flame dwindled to a mere speck, as Dana dropped farther down into the depths of the shaft.  At least it seemed more or less vertical, as they could still clearly see the pinpoint of light even as the minutes crept on. 

“I think she’s coming back up,” Lok finally said.  And indeed the light was growing rapidly brighter, until they could clearly mark Dana’s form flying up toward them.  After another minute, she was hovering there right in front of them.  

“It’s quite a fall, but there’s a ledge with a tunnel jutting off from the shaft.  I couldn’t tell how far from the bottom it was, if there even is a bottom.”

“So have you thought about how you’re going to get us all down there?” Benzan asked, peering into the shaft.  “We’re not even close to having enough rope for the descent.”

Cal looked thoughtful.  “I’ve got an idea, but it’ll be a lot harder to get back up than it will be down to get down.  Dana, how’s the duration on your spell?”

“Plenty of time left,” she told him.  “I could make a few trips, easy.”

“Just one trip,” he told her.  “Benzan, use your sword to levitate down.  Dana can help align you to where the ledge is, since you can’t go back and forth.”

The tiefling looked at Cal penetratingly.  “I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking…”

“It’s the only way,” he insisted.  “Lok can’t fit inside the bag of holding, and if I’m not with him, I might miss the timing.”

“Um… what is it that we’re doing, exactly?” Lok asked, glancing down into the shaft and looking, for the first time that Cal could remember, decidedly uncomfortable.  

“We’ll use my spell of _feather fall_,” Cal explained.  “It can affect both of us, if we’re close together; it will only work for a little less than half a minute, though, and that’s not long enough to take us all the way down the shaft.  I thought we could have Dana fly down to a few hundred feet above the ledge, and then when we reach her, I could activate the spell—it only takes a single word of command.  Then we drift right down—Dana could give us a push if necessary to make sure we don’t miss the ledge.”

Lok looked down into the shaft again.  It was a long way down.  

“The other alternative would be for the three of us to fly down, check things out,” Benzan said to Lok.  “You could stay up here until we scouted out whatever’s below.”

Cal shot a sideways glance at the tiefling, a little surprised that he could be so clever.  He knew that Lok took pride in always being the first into danger, and that his casual implication would cut at the heart of Lok’s sense of responsibility. 

“No,” the genasi said.  “We’ll do it like Cal suggested.”

“Dana, if you please,” Cal said.  The mystic wanderer looked at him dubiously, but then she nodded and dove back down into the shaft.  

“Give me a few minutes to get down there,” Benzan suggested.  “If something goes wrong, my own _feather fall_ might be enough to stop you.” 

Cal nodded, and the tiefling placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, and dropped into the shaft.  He plummeted like a rock, not activating the sword’s power until he was already out of sight.  

Lok had closed his eyes and took a series of deep breaths.  It was unnerving for Cal, to finally see something that could shake the indefatigable genasi, and something as simple as a fall from a height.  Well, now that he thought about it, it was a pretty daring plan, and if for some reason the spell didn’t work properly…

“We’d better get going,” Cal finally said, before he could think himself out of his own idea. 

“All right, what do I do?” Lok asked. 

“Grab onto me, and then jump!”

And he did.


----------



## Horacio

Wow!

Book V is being a very intense one, from the beginning... as usual 

Thanks for this wonderful series of books, Lazybones!


----------



## Maldur

Nice, 
I wonder what they would be yelling : Geronimo seems inappropriate! 

Featherfall would generate a whole new BASE jumping crowd


----------



## Lazybones

What better way to start a new workweek () than by setting up another mass combat...

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 3

“Seems quiet,” Dana said, as they made their way deeper into the tunnel that ran back from the ledge.

“Yeah, but if anything’s back there, it no doubt knows we’re coming now, what with all that screaming,” Benzan noted wryly. 

Cal flushed slightly.  “Well, it _was_ an unusual experience,” he said, finally breaking out into a guilty grin as he glanced back in the direction of the shaft.  “Not something I’d want to try again right away, though.”

“No,” Lok said, tightening his grip on his axe as they moved on.  

Benzan took the lead, moving just beyond the edge of the light cast by Dana’s _continual flame_.  Here, in the dark tunnels, his skills were particularly handy, and cloaked with the power of his _ring of shadows_ he became virtually a part of the darkness.  His own vision was perfectly adapted to the dark, and he was also the most likely to detect any traps or other dangers that might lay in wait for them.  

But nothing but a deep, somber silence greeted them, the sounds of their footfalls on the stone echoing faintly on the hard stone that surrounded them.  The passageway leading in from the shaft traveled straight for nearly a thousand paces before it opened onto an intersection with corridors leading off in several directions.  They picked one at random, Cal marking their passage with a small piece of chalk.  

They passed a landing where stairs descended sharply down to a yet deeper level, but elected to explore a little further before descending.  The stone of the corridor walls, floor, and ceiling were all perfectly smooth, yet clearly not natural by the way that they met in crisp, even angles.  The stonework was plain, understated yet of quality work, and Lok ran his hand along the wall as they pressed deeper into the complex.  

And then, so gradually that they did not immediately notice it, they found themselves in the midst of the dwarven town.  The corridors widened, branching out and in and among each other in a rough approximation of streets and alleyways.  In between, the chambers of private dwellings were periodically situated, their stone doors so well crafted that it took some looking to detect where they were located on the wall.  Periodically they passed by larger side chambers, the flickering flames of Dana’s light barely illuminating pillared halls, long dry fountains, and other places whose function they could only guess at.  

And yet it was all silent, cold, empty.  

“It’s like one massive tomb,” Dana said, her voice sounding too loud in the empty corridors.  Once she’d spoken, however, she glanced over at Lok, a guilty expression on her face.  But the genasi, lost in a past beyond memory, did not appear to have heard her.  

Benzan came back from his point position, a wary look on his face.  “There’s something not right here,” he said, his eyes drifting into the shadows around them.  

“What is it?” Cal asked.  

“I’m not sure.  But there’s _something_ here…”

But the tiefling could not elaborate more, so it was with a vague but constant sense of alarm that they moved on, continuing their search.  They’d barely managed twenty paces, however, when Benzan forestalled them again with a raised hand. 

“Did you hear that?” he asked. 

“What?” Dana whispered, twisting her head around to catch whatever sound had caught Benzan’s attention.

“A faint scratching sound—it seemed to be coming from somewhere behind us, I think.”

They all listened, but the sound, if Benzan’s senses were accurate, was not repeated.  Once again they started out, but this time barely managed two steps before the sound came again, this time in front of them, and this time loud enough so that they all heard it.  

“I think we’d better find someplace defensible,” Lok said. 

“Any suggestions?  You were born here, after all,” Benzan said.

The genasi shook his head—his memories of the urdunnir town were too unfocused for him to be able to pick out specific details from the twisting labyrinth of passages winding around them.  Cal, however, led them toward one of the smaller side passages up ahead, and they turned off of the main corridor into another dark stretch of smoothly worked stone.  

Another sound became audible, a rasping hiss that trailed off before they could clearly identify it.  It seemed to come from right behind them, but when they turned around, there was nothing there.  

“Okay, not liking this,” Benzan said, nocking an arrow and putting a slight amount of tension on the string of his bow, ready to shoot at an instant’s notice.  

Cal reached down and quietly played a faint melody on his lyre.  The gesture was more than an effort at easing the tension, as the notes resounded with magical power and the invisible protection of _mage armor_ settled around the gnome.     

The corridor wasn’t very long, and soon a larger space became visible up ahead.  They emerged from the passageway into a broad, roughly square chamber with rounded corners.  Cal was the first to recognize that the place seemed to be some sort of audience chamber or theatre of some sort, from the way it was constructed.  To their left a broad stone dais, with three steps leading up to it and perhaps twenty paces across and deep, occupied one half of the chamber.  To their right they could see a number of long stone benches, most of which were pushed up against the edges of the room.  Two other exits were visible, one on the opposite wall and one on the wall to their right, and a gallery ran around the perimeter of the room, ten feet above the level of the floor.  Their light was just bright enough for them to make out the forms of more benches up there, clearly so that more viewers could observe what was going on down on the dais below.

“Maybe if we could get up there,” Benzan said, indicating the gallery.  He’d barely taken a few tentative steps into the room, however, when a long, keening hiss sounded from the darkness of the opposite passage on the far side of the room.  The tiefling drew back reflexively, drawing his bow and targeting that passage, although nothing emerged from the darkness—yet.  

“I heard something behind us!” Dana cried from the rear of the group, pushing the others ahead of her more fully into the chamber.  

“Only one option left,” Cal said, but he wasn’t all that surprised when sounds erupted from the final passage as well, the faint but unmistakable noises of multiple creatures moving closer.

“We were herded here,” Benzan said, the same realization setting in to all of them as they retreated back from the three dark passages onto the dais. 

“Maybe we can use those benches along the wall to build a rampart,” Lok suggested.  But even as he took a step toward them, they sensed movement at the mouths of all three of the chamber’s exits. 

Their time had run out.  

The shadowy forms moved slowly, almost reluctantly into the light, creeping low along the surface of the stone floor.  At first glance they looked like stout, gray-skinned dwarves, but only until the light reached their eyes.  Those eyes were bestial, glimmering pinpoints of twisted hunger.  Those eyes showed hatred, hatred of the companions and all living things that mocked their warped existence.  With them came a harsh, charnel smell, the cloying scent of death and decay that stung the nostrils and burned the lungs of the companions.

For these dwarves, once happy and productive residents of this community, no longer lived.  They were undead, cursed to walk among the living once again, to hunger after the warm flesh of those that had intruded upon their demesne.  

They poured in until two dozen had filled the main part of the chamber floor, and still more were coming from the dark trio of passageways.  

“Ghouls,” Cal whispered, just loud enough so that they could all hear him.  “Don’t let them touch you, if you can help it.”

Benzan, not taking his eyes off the knot of undead, opened his mouth to respond.  

But before he could speak, the horde of ghouls let out a keening cry as one, and swarmed up the dais toward them.


----------



## Lazybones

Book V, Part 4

As the ghouls—and by the stench that accompanied them, a few ghasts were among them as well—charged up the steps of the dais, the companions keenly felt the absence of their sorcerer.  One _fireball_ might have cleared the room, leaving just a few stragglers for the Lok’s axe and Benzan’s bow.  

But the four friends did not hesitate or lament what was not, as they launched their own attacks upon the charging ranks of undead.  Cal unleashed a ready spell upon the dense knot of undead and those still pouring into the room, conjuring up a maze of magical webbing anchored on the walls, floor, and the overhanging ceiling of the gallery above.  The webs covered most of the back half of the room, obscuring the rear entrance and the one on the side wall to their left as well.  Within the webs ghouls struggled against the sticky bonds, letting out strangled cries of anger as their hunger for living flesh was temporarily frustrated.  

Even though the web caught nearly twenty of the ghouls in its folds, though, more were already ascending the steps of the dais, either dodging the strands or pouring out of the unblocked passage to the right.  

Dana stepped forward, holding up the icon of Selûne that she wore, a precious sliver of magical _moon mote_ shaped as the sigil of the goddess.  Wisps of pale moonlight erupted from the device, shining with an intensity that the ghouls, by their reaction, found hateful and repulsive.  Dana’s power, however, barely affected the overall surge, turning away a handful of ghouls but driving the others to an even more violent rush as they sought to tear the offending cleric to pieces.  

First, however, they had to go through Lok.  

The genasi met the rush with a sweep of his axe that took a ghoul’s head from its shoulders.  The stroke clove into the next ghoul, tearing a deep gash in its chest that knocked it roughly back into its fellows.  Undeterred, the ghouls swarmed on the genasi, scraping at his shield and armored body with their claws and teeth.  One surged past and tried to leap at Cal, only to stagger as a long arrow from Benzan’s bow slammed into its chest.  The ghoul recovered and came on, only to meet the tiefling as he tossed his bow aside and drew his sword, his mouth twisted into a grimace to match the feral grin of the undead dwarf. 

Lok wielded his axe in a storm of fury, and with each stroke undead flesh was sundered by the frost-rimmed blade.  The creatures came on, however, and as yet more poured into the room through the unblocked entrance it seemed as though they would overcome the companions through sheer force of numbers.  The webs helped channel them up one side of the dais, helping the defenders, but those trapped continued to fight their way forward, heedless of the skin that was torn from their bodies by the sheer violence of their struggles.  

But Lok’s defense had bought his companions precious moments, time that they used to good advantage.  Cal cast a powerful new spell that he had only recently mastered, and as the magic flowed through his body his actions grew significantly faster, even small motions taking on a slight blur through the influence of the magical _haste_.  Without pause he quickly cast another spell, and his small frame began to twist and distort, his true location blurred by the power another potent dweomer, a spell of _displacement_.  

Dana, as well, called upon her own potent magic, channeling the power of her goddess.  As she called upon the pure energy of Selûne her body seemed to swell with _divine power_, and a radiant glow seemed to shine from her as she stepped forward, her longspear ready in her hands.  She lunged forward at one of the ghouls trying to move around Lok, transfixing the creature with a thrust from the enhanced steel head of her weapon.  The ghoul went down, thrashing as electrical energy tore into it.  

Benzan finished the ghoul confronting him with a single thrust of his sword, and stepped forward to guard Lok’s flank.  He immediately faced a pair of ghasts, their stench twisting the tiefling’s stomach as they swarmed upon him.  Struggling through nausea, he stabbed the first one, but it shrugged off the blow and tore at him with its claws.  Fortunately his mithral armor repelled the attack, and Benzan held his ground.  The second ghast came low and tried to latch onto his leg, and as Benzan drew back he felt a chill sweep up the limb and into his body.  For a moment he felt a cold tendril of fear as his muscles stiffened, but he fought through the feeling and after a few tense moments the sensation faded.  

The flow of ghouls and ghasts through the dark passageway had ended, and a good half-dozen of the creatures had already fallen in the opening moments of the battle, but a full dozen more were still coming on in addition to the nearly twenty slowly fighting their way out of the web.  A pair of ghouls swept around Lok and came up the far side of the dais toward Dana, belatedly joined by a third that managed to extricate itself from the near edge of the web.  At the same time, Lok was surrounded by a cluster of five ghouls led by a ghast, the six of them swarming over him from all directions.  For a moment, Lok seemed to falter, but then he erupted in a flurry of deadly strokes.  His axe formed a deadly arc that clove three ghouls in a single sweep, then he countered the ghast’s assault with a backswing that smashed powerfully into its leering face.  The ghast reared back but surged again, only to take another overhand chop that crushed down into its chest, driving it down to the floor in a flopping heap.  

If the two surviving ghouls were troubled by the devastation of their comrades, they gave no sign, continuing their efforts to find a gap in the genasi’s defenses.  The three ghouls he’d cleaved had barely fallen when three more rushed forward to take their place, while to his right another pair moved to aid the two ghasts threatening Benzan.  

Cal, still affected by his magical _haste_, continued to cast spells at a rapid pace.  Seeing that Lok had things well in hand, and that Benzan was in difficulty, he directed his second _haste_ spell at the embattled tiefling.  The result was immediate, as the tiefling’s attacks speeded up, and he quickly finished the first ghast with a pair of potent thrusts from his magical sword.  Meanwhile, Cal enhanced his own defenses with a quick _shield_ spell.

Dana, threatened by three of the charging undead, stabbed the first with her spear.  The spearhead bit deep, but the creature tore itself off the point and lurched forward, claws outstretched.  It was revealed to be a ghast, not a ghoul, a moment later as the potent stench swept over her.  As it came inside the reach of her spear she dodged its first lunge and stepped back, summoning the power of her goddess once again.  At her call a gleaming blade of pure white moonlight erupted from her hand, a weapon of divine power. 

She found herself hard-pressed a moment later, however, as the other two ghouls swept at her, tearing at her with her claws and driving her yet farther back, away from her companions.  The wounded ghast, licking its lips in a feral grin, followed a step behind.  

Lok felt an icy chill suffuse him as a ghoul locked its jaws on his leg, managing to bite through the leather protecting the joint at his knee.  Lok’s incredible fortitude allowed him to shrug off the paralysis of the creature’s touch, and he slammed his axe down into the ghoul’s skull, dislodging it and sending it to the floor in a heap.  Several of its fellows immediately followed as the genasi struck about him with deadly precision and almost mechanical efficiency.  The stone blocks of the dais around him were now piled high with ghoul bodies, and still more came on, heedless of their destruction, perhaps almost eager to embrace oblivion.  

Benzan stood his ground a few feet away, although he too was finding himself hard pressed.  The magical haste laid upon him by Cal enhanced his defenses, and between that and his mithral armor and magical shield his opponents were having a tough time laying a claw or bite upon him.  He finished the second ghast with a series of rapid blows, smoothly dodging the frustrated claw sweeps of the two ghouls left facing him. 

Intent upon their battles, neither he nor Lok detected the movement in the galleries directly above them.  Cal saw the telltale flash of movement as a pair of ghasts leapt over the rail and dove at the two warriors, but his cry of warning came too late as the creatures slammed hard into Lok and Benzan from behind.  

Lok staggered as the weight of the creature landed hard across his back, but Benzan, already half-turning at Cal’s cry, spun as one of the ghast’s claws caught him hard across the face.  He lurched back a step, off balance…

And then suddenly stiffened, and collapsed to the ground.  

The ghast and the two ghouls were on him in an instant.


----------



## Horacio

Ghouls! I hate them!
Nasty little bugs!



Great update, as usual!


----------



## Lazybones

Book V, Part 5

With Benzan down, Dana threatened, and Lok struggling with the weight of a slashing and tearing ghast on his back, a battle that had been going all in favor of the companions had suddenly turned.  Only Cal was, for the moment, unthreatened, relatively safe behind several layers of magical protections.  

“Lok!” Cal cried, drawing the genasi’s attention to Benzan’s plight.  Even as he yelled the warning, however, the gnome was already acting to help his helpless friend.  He raised his hand, the one bearing Delem’s ring, and for the first time called upon its power.  He could feel the energy of the ring responding to his summons, granting him the power to move objects at a mere thought.  He focused the power onto the ghast, even as it bullied aside its ghoul comrades to leap upon the helpless form of the tiefling.  Benzan’s eyes were wide with terror as the ghast opened its massive jaws and leaned toward his face.  Cal could feel the resistance from the creature’s will as he tried to grasp it with the power of the ring, but his own will was not inconsiderable, and after a brief moment he felt the grip of the ring’s telekinetic grasp lock onto the ghast’s form.  

The ghast flew roughly back, its course sending it right into the ghouls directly behind it.  All three undead went down, rolling back down the steps of the dais to land in a rough tumble a short distance away.  They were up again quickly, snarling with hatred at being denied their kill.

The ghouls swarming Lok seemed to draw energy from the ghast pushing him down, and their attacks intensified as they grappled him and threatened to bring him down.  For a moment the genasi crumpled, bent almost full over until his shield was pressed up against the ground at his feet.  His magical axe seemed to slip from his fingers, falling with a slight clatter on the stones of the floor, and at that sound the ghouls let out a feral cry of anticipation.  

But then Lok reached up and grabbed the throat of the ghast with a gauntleted hand.  The ghast scratched at his arm and tried to tear free, but it may as well been scratching at stone.  With a mighty heave Lok hurled the ghast into the faces of the ghouls right in front of him, knocking several of them to the ground.  He felt slight slivers of pain as the ghouls behind him tore through the chinks in his armor with their foul claws, but he shrugged off the hurts and the unnatural chill of paralysis that came with them.  Reaching down, he took up the axe again and charged, knocking down a ghoul that didn’t get out of the way quickly enough.  His charge didn’t take him far, only a few steps, but when it ended Lok was standing astride the motionless form of Benzan.  

“All right, come on then, you filthy bastards!” he shouted to the ghouls, brandishing his axe.  

And they came, while the ones Cal had repulsed rushed at him from the other side, flanking the hard-pressed warrior.  

Dana found herself hard-pressed as well, confronted a pair of ghouls with the ghast she’d injured just a step behind.  Her defenses were considerable, but between their tearing claws and slashing teeth there were just too many attacks for her to repel.  The ghouls sacrificed any semblance of defense in an all-out attack, and even as she spun out of the grasp of one she felt pain as the second bit down on her exposed bicep.  She tore free before it could lock its jaws on her, and resisted the icy paralysis of its touch.  She countered with a smooth swing of her conjured _moon blade_, sweeping it across the ghoul’s chest.  The blade seemed insubstantial, light as air as she slashed with it, but as it contacted the ghoul its flesh burned away in a wide, deadly swath.  The ghoul screamed and crumpled into a noisome heap of bubbling flesh, dead now for good.  

She raised the weapon again as the ghast launched itself directly at her.  

Lok continued to hold the charging ghouls off of Benzan’s helpless form, slashing great arcs with his axe that seemed to slay a ghoul with each stroke.  More continued to come at him, however, as the ghouls trapped in the web gradually tore themselves free and joined in the melee.  Flanked, Lok took several hits that tore through his heavy defenses, only his incredible constitution keeping him from succumbing to the effects of their paralyzing touch.  Still, he was only one unlucky moment away from disaster, and the ghouls pressed their attack, seeking that one moment of weakness.  

Then a stirring, martial song filled chamber, the booming voice of the small gnome giving the companions an extra measure of confidence and courage.  With his illusions and enchantments of no use against these foes, Cal drew his shortsword and charged into battle, coming to the aid of Lok.  He ran through a ghoul tearing at the genasi’s back, the creature staggering as it turned to face the gnome, pure fury in its eyes.  But that fury died as the _hasted_ gnome struck again, plunging the blade enhanced in the forges of Citadel Adbar into the ghoul’s chest.  Still shrieking, the ghoul collapsed, the undead life force that animated it fading as it fell.  A pair of ghouls drew off of their attack upon Lok to assail the gnome, leaping upon him with tearing claws and teeth.  The first bit at his face but found only air, foiled by the gnome’s _displacement_, while the second howled in frustration as its attacks beat uselessly against the magical protection of Cal’s _shield._ 

The distraction gave Lok an opening that he quickly exploited, tearing into the few remaining ghouls with abandon.  The ghast fell with a pair of deep gouges in its torso, and without hesitation Lok tore into the row of ghouls before him, dropping a pair with a single swipe and cutting deeply into a third.  Two more, with strands of webbing still trailing from their bodies, rushed up and attacked him, but he smoothly deflected their charge with his new shield.  

And when the shield came away, more ghouls died.  

Dana took another gash from the tearing claws of the ghast, and once again she felt the icy chill that promised death, if she faltered.  She fought through the paralysis once more, and with a cry of defiance plunged the moon blade into the ghast’s face.  The face of the undead monstrosity seemed to melt away at the touch of the divine fire, and it crumpled.  Her last opponent, a ghoul, tried to take advantage of her distraction to bite her leg, but she turned smoothly out of its grasp and plunged the glowing sword into its chest.  The ghoul fell, dying.  

Bleeding from a number of injuries, Dana took a deep breath, raised the moon blade, and rushed back into the battle raging around Lok and Cal.  She took down one of the ghouls attacking the gnome from behind, while the gnome’s sword made quick work of the other.  

None of the undead retreated, but by the time the last ghoul tore itself free of the web, it found three ready opponents there to chop it to pieces.  When it was over, and they counted the bodies, they found that they had destroyed twenty-eight ghouls and five ghasts, transforming the theatre chamber into a gruesome slaughterhouse.  

Dana crouched over Benzan, checking his injuries.  He was conscious, his jaw tight with the effort of fighting the paralysis that gripped him.  

“He’ll be all right in a few minutes,” she told the others.  

Cal nodded, while Lok checked to make certain that all of the undead dwarves were truly destroyed.  “Let’s get him out of here,” the gnome suggested, and after they’d confirmed that they were safe, Lok took up the prone form of the tiefling and they moved cautiously back to the unblocked exit of the chamber.  Dana took up her stick bearing the _continual flame,_ and she moved to the front rank, probing the darkness ahead.  

“We’re hurt, and we used up a lot of our spells in that little fracas,” Cal said.  “We’d better find someplace defensible to hole up and rest.”

Although they were wary, probing each and every shadow with their light, no further creatures appeared to threaten them.  Soon Benzan could move well enough to walk, although it was a bit longer until he was able to keep up with them unassisted.   

With Lok’s guidance they found one of the semi-hidden doors that led into a private dwelling, an empty suite of rooms that still showed signs of being hurriedly ransacked.  They retreated to a back room that had only one exit, spiked the door shut, and settled down to an uneasy rest, each appreciating how close they had come to utter disaster.


----------



## Ziggy

Once again an excellent fight scene from Lazybones  

We had a very similar scene in our "city-rogues" campaign, down in the dwarven ruins below Raven's Bluff. Only those undead included an Allip, which reduced my Rouge/Cleric's Wiz down to 3. Not much spellcasting left after that 

.Ziggy


----------



## Lazybones

Hey, thanks Ziggy!

I have updated my story on Morrus's hosting page.  Books I-IV are now available as a single PDF.  It's nearly 1 meg in size (353 pages!).

Here's the link: http://www.enworld.org/Story.htm


----------



## Horacio

Lazybones, my friend, as Nemm as already posted, tomorrow I go on vacation for a month, without internet, so maybe this is my last bump for a while. 

I'm carring your Books I to IV, to re-read them, and I hope to find a completed Book V waiting for me when I will return on July 20th


----------



## Maldur

As Horacio is on vacation ( Have fun, Horacio!) Ill bump the story.

Ill also add "WOW's" and "We want more's"!



Im getting very curious as to Lok's background now  
(I need some more stuff I can steal for the campaign Im running)

Cheerz, Maldur


----------



## Horacio

Maldur said:
			
		

> *As Horacio is on vacation ( Have fun, Horacio!) Ill bump the story.
> 
> Ill also add "WOW's" and "We want more's"!
> 
> 
> 
> Cheerz, Maldur *




Good idea, Maldur!

I trust on you for not letting this story slip into second page!

Bye, folks


----------



## Lazybones

Have a great vacation, Horacio!  TttWW will be here when you get back...

Maldur, for Lok's background, I'm assuming you've read the Prologue of Book 2 and Part 23 of Book 3, where Lok's story is revealed. 

* * * * * 


Book V, Part 6

“Ouch,” Benzan said.

“Hold still,” Dana commanded, touching the claw marks on the tiefling’s face again as she called upon the power of Selûne for a minor healing spell.  Benzan flinched at the touch, but as the blue glow of positive energy surrounded Dana’s hands the bloody scratches closed and faded, leaving only a few flecks of dried blood.  

“There,” Dana said, examining her work critically.  “Now go get cleaned up—you smell like a fish vendor.”

“Thank you, mother,” he said mockingly, smiling at the steely look she shot him.  

They were gathered in the confined space that had once been part of an urdunnir residence, recovering from their battle against the undead mob that had roamed the halls of the abandoned dwarven town.  Dana had already created food for them to eat, and conjured additional water into a cracked stone basin they’d found so that they could wash away some of the sweat and blood they’d picked up thus far.  Now they were resting, Cal with his spellbook laid out across his lap, and Lok sitting alone a short distance away, his heavy brows furrowed with troubled thoughts.  

“Do you think that there are any more of those… things… around?” Dana asked.

Cal looked up from his spellbook.  “Hard to say, but by the way they attacked as a single mass, I’d guess that maybe we got them all.” 

Benzan, only slightly cleaner after splashing a bit in the basin, toweled off his damp neck with his dirty shirt as he rose.  “We’re going to have be very careful from here on out,” he said.  “Without Delem’s firepower, we’ve lost a lot of our magical punch.”  He glanced at Dana as he spoke, cautious lest his words injure her, but she only nodded, recognizing the truth in what he said.  

“There are many dangers in the Underdark,” Lok rumbled.  “Most of what I know about them comes from various dwarven tales, but they’re clear on the need for caution down here.  I can lead us to where we have to go, but I cannot be clearer on what we might encounter on the way, or even when we arrive at our destination.”

The others nodded—they’d covered that before.  

“Well, hopefully it won’t be more undead,” Benzan said.  “That’s one category of enemy we’ve been fortunate enough to avoid in our travels, and I’m just as happy to keep it that way.”  He shuddered slightly, perhaps thinking back to the icy touch of the ghouls and the paralysis that had kept him helpless while they tore at his flesh.  

“Hmm…,” Cal said.  “There was that ogre ghoul at our first meeting, the shadows guarding that cleric of Cyric… you know, I think that’s it, as far as I can recall.  And now, a pack of ghouls and ghasts.”

“How is it that you know so much about everything?” Dana asked him.  “I mean, during my clerical training I learned about undead, of course, but I didn’t recognize those creatures immediately.”

“I read a lot,” Cal said, “and listened, and talked to a lot of people.  Remember, I grew up in Waterdeep, in the south quarter, which was the point of entry for all the merchant caravans and adventurers and vagabonds that came to the City of Splendors.  I heard every kind of fantastic story you could imagine—that’s one of the main reasons I decided to leave, in the end—I realized that I had heard thousands of stories, but I hadn’t written any of my own.  So I hit the road… and the rest is history.”

“And what stories will you tell about us?” Dana said, the pain evident in her voice as her gaze fell to the smooth stones of the floor.  

“Stories of bravery, and sacrifice, and friendship,” he told her, his voice full with sympathy.  “Of triumph over the darkest evils, and help given to those who could not help themselves.”

Dana lifted her head, and smiled at him. 

“Maybe you could edit out the part where I was paralyzed and nearly torn apart by those ghouls,” Benzan interjected.  “I didn’t particularly like that part.”

Cal laughed, and the sound seemed to brighten the room.  “Oh, don’t worry, Benzan,” he said with another laugh.  “All of your exploits will be fully elaborated in my tales, right down to the last smart-assed comment.”

“Um, great,” Benzan said, fixing the gnome with a dubious look.  

“And what shall we call this saga?” Dana asked, allowing herself to get into the lighter mood, appreciating what her companions were doing to help ease the pain that still gripped her heart.  

“I was thinking, perhaps, of ‘Travels through the Wild West,’” Cal said.  “Has a nice ring to it.”

“Yeah, but we’re in the North, now,” Benzan said.  “And I don’t think the Isle of Dread was ‘west’ of anything, really—at least not in our world.”

“Yes, Benzan, but the ‘West’, as we think of it in Faerûn, is more a state of mind than a geographical location.  You grew up in one of the Old Empires of the East, so perhaps you don’t understand it as much, but the West has always been the frontier, the untamed lands beyond the core of civilization one finds in the Heartlands, or the lands around the Sea of Fallen Stars, or the older realms farther to the south.  Even today, in our more ‘enlightened’ age, with great metropolises like Waterdeep and Baldur’s Gate as shining beacons of civilization, the West bears with it a certain rugged atmosphere, a natural—and dangerous—place that the eager hand of Man cannot fully tame.”

“Well, we’ve certainly hit our share of untamed wilds,” Benzan agreed.  “Although when this is over, I think I’m going to spend a lot of time in ‘civilization,’ preferably in a place where a little gold goes a long way toward satisfying one’s comforts, and where strange monsters aren’t constantly trying to kill you.”

They laughed again, but Lok suddenly shot up, his eyes wide.  

“What is it?” Cal asked, reaching for a wand as he too stood.  

Lok shook his head, a look of confusion on his face.  “Something… familiar…”

“By the gods…” Dana said, staring at the wall just behind the genasi.

They all saw it, a wispy white form that drifted through the wall and faced them.  Its features were clearly outlined as those of an elderly dwarf, clad in an elaborate suit of plate armor that failed to hide the deep, bleeding gashes in its torso.  Runnels of “blood” ran down its body, to fall away in drops that faded into insubstantiality as they parted from its ghostly form.  A great sadness shone in the eyes of the dwarven spirit, but that emotion was edged by a deep, abiding anger as it looked upon them.  

“Who are you, to intrude upon the halls of the urdunnir?” the spirit spoke, its weightless form shifting slightly as it drifted slowly closer.  

Lok spun and looked upon the spirit in surprise.  His axe came up reflexively, but Cal forestalled him as he stepped forward to face the thing.  

“We do not mean to intrude,” Cal said.  “We only come seeking the fate of your people, of which Lok here…”

“You lie!” the spirit shrieked, reaching for the large axe slung across its back.  “You seek to destroy the urdunnir!  The Shield Wall is broken, and enemies are within the halls!  You will die for coming here!”

The spirit started toward them.  Dana raised her holy symbol and invoked the power of Selûne, but the white glow of divine power failed to affect the ghost.  It came forward, raising its axe as it neared Lok.  The genasi reflexively swept his axe out in defense, but it passed harmlessly through the body of the spirit.  The dwarven ghost did not strike at Lok in return, instead passing right into the body of the warrior.  Lok’s body convulsed as the ghost disappeared entirely into his body, and then he sagged hard against the wall of the chamber as if struck.  

Then he turned to face his companions, and a strange glow burned in his eyes.  

The frost-rimmed axe came slowly up as the genasi took a step toward them.


----------



## Maldur

As promised:

WOW!  We want more 

LB: I did read the other parts, but I have a feeling more will be revealed.

btw your cliffhangers are getting nerve wrecking.


----------



## Lazybones

NWN update: I have been playing the game extensively since it came out last week, and having a lot of fun with both the single player and multiplayer components.  I've written one module entitled "The Great Fens" (just two areas, although one is 16x16) and run it online three times so far.  I'm currently working on another module with more areas and more NPCs which I should be ready to playtest this week.  Anyone wanting to play in one of my games should look for my [EN] prefix and the name Lazybones on the module name.  Although I cannot commit fully at this point (although eventually I intend to have a "regular" game with recurring players), at the moment I'm planning on running The Great Fens adventure again at 7p.m. Pacific Time.  It takes about 30 mins-1 hour to play.  Look for me online!

LB 


* * * * * 

Book V, Part 7

“Damn it,” Benzan cursed, drawing his sword and stepping back warily as the spirit-possessed Lok took another step closer, stepping tentatively as if it was slowly adjusting to the process of walking again in a mortal form.  “I know all dwarves are stubborn, but this stupid ghost can’t even tell that we’re not duergar…”

“Yeah, nice diplomacy, Benzan,” Dana said as an aside, cutting him off as she moved to confront the angry dwarf.  “Honored Elder,” she said with a bow that didn’t quite leave her vulnerable to attack, “Please!  We are not your enemies.  Look closer at the body you are occupying.  It is Lok, our companion and one of your people.  We are not your enemies,” she repeated, keeping her tone level and her eyes fixed on those of the ghost.

Lok hesitated, and doubt crept into his eyes.  “Lok?” the ghost said.  He looked down at the stony hand clutching his axe, and shook his head slightly as if to clear it.  “No, it is a trick…”

“No, your lordship,” Dana continued.  “Look closely, and see us for what we are.  Two humans—” it probably wasn’t a good idea to highlight Benzan’s ancestry right now— “a gnome, and one of your own.  Lok was drawn here by the very words of Dumathoin, to rescue your people from their plight.”

“Lok…” the ghost repeated, clearly uncertain.

“We are here to help you, to help your people,” Dana insisted.  “Look into the heart of the man you have possessed, and see the truth there.”

“Lok…  You have returned… You have returned to us…”  The genasi’s frame began to shake uncontrollably, the spirit of the dead dwarf twisted with grief as its anger faded.  Then, with one last great cry, the ghost’s incorporeal form flew out of Lok’s body, retreating back through the wall before any of them could react.  Lok staggered and nearly fell, but Dana was there quickly to catch him and hold him upright.  

“Lok, are you all right?” she asked, as Benzan and Cal, concern writ clearly on their faces, crowded behind.  

“I… I believe so,” the genasi replied.  “That was… strange.”

“Were you aware of what happened?” Cal asked. 

“Yeah, that you were about to attack us?” Benzan added.

“He wasn’t in control,” Dana said reprovingly.  

“I’m sorry,” Lok said.  “Dana’s right… I couldn’t seem to do anything with my body, although I could feel, and see what was happening.  There was… something… _familiar_ about that spirit… I think perhaps that I knew him, in life.”

“Any idea of what that thing wanted?” Benzan asked.  “Other than to kill us, of course.”

“Ghosts often form out of some great trauma,” Cal explained, “some sense of duty left unfulfilled.  Clearly this ghost was a leader of the urdunnir, his desire to protect his people rooting him here in undeath rather than letting him pass quietly into the afterlife.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the presence of the ghouls and ghasts was somehow connected to his presence here as well.”

“Well, what should we do?  I’d just as soon not meet up with him again.”

“Agreed.  Let’s be gone from this place—we’ll find a place to rest outside of the boundaries of the town.”

“I remember that there’s a large fortification that marks the border between the town and the rest of the Underdark,” Lok said, “the ‘Shield Wall’ that the ghost spoke of.  Beyond that lies the dark ways, where danger lurks in every shadow.”

“Quiet poetic, Lok,” Benzan said.  “But do you think you can find us a quiet place where we can catch our breaths before moving on?”

The genasi nodded, and they quickly gathered up their possessions, unspiked the door, and headed back out into the deserted dwarven town.  The quiet now seemed oppressive, and even though they did not hear any more threatening noises they were extra alert as they made their way quickly through the wide corridors.  

It did not take them long to reach the fortification that Lok had spoken of.  The Shield Wall wasn’t a wall in the traditional sense, but rather a complex of interlocking rooms at the edge of the urdunnir complex that culminated in a wide but shallow chamber broken by a pair of massive stone portals.  The great doors now stood open, breached by some great force, one of them half-sundered with huge chunks of its thickness laid out in rubble before the looming threshold.  Beyond the doors lay a darkness that seemed to resist the probing rays of their light.  To either side of the doors stood a stone rampart, perhaps fifteen feet high, that provided access to a series of narrow slits that were closed with metal shutters.  They could see that defenders on the ramparts would have a clear view of anyone approaching the doors through the slits, and that the shutters could be opened to allow them to fire upon intruders at little risk to themselves.  

An impressive defense.  Except that it had clearly not been enough to stop the duergar from broaching the wall and destroying the town, in the end.

For a moment, they just stood there in that last chamber, each caught up in private thoughts about what they had seen and what might lie ahead for them beyond those doors.  Whoever or whatever had sundered those doors had been powerful enough to take out an entire clan of dwarves, a community that had been all too familiar with the dangers of life deep under the surface of the earth.  Now it was just the four of them, advanced in power and skill, perhaps, but very much alone in this foreign place.  

They exchanged a look, a look that said much without words.  Then, finally, moving as one, they turned and walked through the dark opening. 

Into the Underdark.


----------



## Maldur

That was close !


NWN: When Horacio is back from vacation, we would like you to run a game on a more "european" time 

oh and WOW! we want more !

great story (like always)


----------



## Lazybones

Maldur said:
			
		

> *NWN: When Horacio is back from vacation, we would like you to run a game on a more "european" time
> *




Hmmm... I'm at Pacific Standard, and you're in continental Europe... that's a nine hour difference, if I'm not mistaken (though we're on that crazy Daylight Savings Time thing... that puts us an hour earlier).

Maybe I can run a Sunday morning game sometime, for my European readers.  Last night I started my second module, "Vorlag's Ruin."  So far they are heavy on exploration and combat, light on NPCs and story (I'll put in more of the latter as I get more familiar with the toolset and scripting language).  Do you guys have the game yet there? 

Sorry readers, no story update today.  In addition to my burgeoning NWN addiction, I haven't had as much time to write lately for other reasons.  I'm going to try for three updates a week for the time being: still better than most story hours!

Thanks for reading,
LB


----------



## wolff96

We just appreciate that you keep putting out such quality material!

I agree with you on the Neverwinter Nights addiction... That game is incredible. I haven't tried any modules yet -- I'm still making my way through the single player game -- but it's truly impressive.


----------



## Maldur

And a bump for horacio


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the bumps, guys... I appreciate the support.  

NWN update: my second module, "Vorlag's Ruin," is ready for playest.  So far it's four areas, with a large exterior area, some caves, a building interior, and a medium-sized dungeon.  I will be running it at approximately 7 p.m. Pacific time tonight (Wednesday 6/26/02), so drop on by for some adventure!  (game name: [EN] Lazybones's Vorlag's Ruin)

wolff: the irony is, I only played the single player game for two days (I'm at the beginning of chapter 2)... I'm too addicted to the toolset and building and running games!  I suppose I'll go back and finish it eventually.  At least I have an 8th level character that I can use to test my modules .  


* * * * * 

Book V, Part 8


The companions spent the next several days making their way deeper through the network of caverns and tunnels of the Underdark, pressing onward toward a destination that was still vague in their minds.  Lok did his best to impart what he had learned in his visions, but even he only perceived dimly the details of what they might find.  Somehow, however, he was able to guide them through the many choices they faced as the tunnels branched and intersected, and he seemed to grow more confident the closer they drew to their destination.

Exactly how far away that remained, however, remained unclear.

The first day after leaving the urdunnir town, they were on edge, the sounds of their footfalls overly loud in the empty tunnels and every shadow holding an imagined foe.  As the days crept on without any dangerous encounters, however, they became more comfortable, if not less wary.  There was life to be found here, from subterranean lizards the size of a man’s arm to colonies of lichens that radiated a strange phosphorescent glow that winked out when anyone approached them too closely.  On numerous occasions they thought that they heard movement nearby, the architecture of the tunnels making it difficult to pinpoint the source, but when they cautiously investigated, nothing was there to be found.  

Cal and Dana found themselves relying on Benzan and Lok more and more as they continued.  Lok’s familiarity with stone and his darkvision gave him an advantage in this underground locale, and Benzan’s ability to hide and move silently made him their default scout.  Dana studied the flora and fauna that they encountered carefully, trying to add to her considerable knowledge of the natural world, while Cal took in everything of their surroundings carefully.  The bard sang no songs nor plied his lyre here, as both created weird echoes that traveled far down the great passageways.  

It was well into the fourth day since they’d left the urdunnir town—it was impossible to know exactly how much time passed down here, so the distinction between “night” and “day” had become blurred—when the tunnel they were following emerged into a large cavern.  It was not an unusual development—they’d encountered several such chambers already that day alone—but this one contained a small lake that filled most of its expanse.  The smooth surface of the water reflected the light of their torch, looking like a great black mirror lying among the rocky surface of the cavern floor.  To their left, a rocky shoreline led around the edge of the lake, offering a rugged but passable route around the obstacle.  

Dana had cast her _create water_ spell that morning, so they had no need to stop to refill their waterskins.  Lok led them toward the trail that led around the lake, but they hadn’t gotten very far when Benzan, who was in the lead once again, halted and raised his hand.

“What is it?” Dana whispered, clutching her spear.  

“I thought I heard something.”  

For a full minute they all stood there, as still as statues as they listened.  The sound of wind blowing through the tunnels was barely audible, but that was it.  

“I guess it was nothing,” Benzan said. 

“We’re all on edge,” Cal said.  “I think this place is giving all of us a major case of the willies.”

“Yeah, you’re probably…”

The tiefling didn’t get a chance to finish his thought, for at that moment a deep, throaty hiss echoed through the cavern and drew their attention up to the uneven ceiling above the surface of the lake.  There, dropping down swiftly out of a crevice in the rock, came a monstrous form.  Its central body was a great, bulbous orb, easily eight feet in diameter.  Nearly a dozen tentacles protruded from all around its body, twisting sinuously as the creature descended, and as the light fell upon it they could see that each tentacle culminated in a jagged claw and a small set of jaws, with sharp teeth that snapped eagerly at the air.  In the center of the creature’s body a single eye could be seen, fixed upon them as it approached.


----------



## Ziggy

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *
> NWN update: my second module, "Vorlag's Ruin," is ready for playest.  So far it's four areas, with a large exterior area, some caves, a building interior, and a medium-sized dungeon.  I will be running it at approximately 7 p.m. Pacific time tonight (Wednesday 6/26/02), so drop on by for some adventure!  (game name: [EN] Lazybones's Vorlag's Ruin)
> *




Hmm, chag of plans. Must buy that new computer NOW, getting a serious urge to play 



			
				Lazybones said:
			
		

> *
> The tiefling didn’t get a chance to finish his thought, for at that moment a deep, throaty hiss echoed through the cavern and drew their attention up to the uneven ceiling above the surface of the lake.  There, dropping down swiftly out of a crevice in the rock, came a monstrous form.  Its central body was a great, bulbous orb, easily eight feet in diameter.  Nearly a dozen tentacles protruded from all around its body, twisting sinuously as the creature descended, and as the light fell upon it they could see that each tentacle culminated in a jagged claw and a small set of jaws, with sharp teeth that snapped eagerly at the air.  In the center of the creature’s body a single eye could be seen, fixed upon them as it approached. *




Ooops, that is serious trouble  Wonder how they'll get out of this fix....

.Ziggy


----------



## Lazybones

I actually had this update yesterday, but could not post because of the server glitch .  Anyway, here is the battle that I set up on Wednesday.

Look for a NWN update shortly, which I will post here and on the Software page.  

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 9

With a sinuous hiss, the terrible abomination descended down out of the darkness toward the startled companions.  

At that first sound Benzan unslung his bow and strung it, moving with the smooth grace that comes from frequent practice under stress.  He fired his first arrow as the thing drifted rapidly down over the surface of the lake toward them.  The missile slammed hard into its leathery body, and they could see a slight flash of light at the impact that faded so fast they wondered if it they had seen it at all.  

“Well, now you’ve got its attention,” Cal said.  “Everyone—spread out, force it to divine its attention!”  He put his own words into action as he took a step to the side, away from the others.  He continued with a quick spell, once again conjuring the magical _haste_ that speeded his actions, and with that added boost concluded with a short melody upon his lyre that summoned the reassuring presence of _mage armor_.  

Dana backed away in the opposite direction, and invoked the power of Selûne to infuse herself with _divine power_.  

Lok, meanwhile, stood his ground.  Since it was clear that he would not have time to get his bow from the _bag of holding_ and string it before the creature reached them, he hefted his axe, raised his shield, and waited.  

The creature had descended to within approximately twenty feet away when suddenly, its tentacles shot out toward them, extending well beyond their apparent lengths to tear into the surprised companions.  

Cal staggered as two of the tentacles stabbed into him.  He struggled feebly as the jaws latched securely onto him, even his _haste_ no proof against their grasp.  With horror he felt an ebbing weakness pass through him as the creature drained blood from his body. 

The others felt the force of the creature’s initial attack as well.  Benzan and Lok were much better protected, but even they did not escape unscathed.  One tentacle caught Benzan’s arm in a solid bite, although he was able to tear free before it could drain him.  Lok fought off a pair of tentacles with his shield, but a third tore into his hip, the sharp claw at its tip gouging him through his armor.

Dana also found herself the target of three tentacles, and even though she darted back with alacrity one managed to latch onto her shoulder.  She cried out as it started draining blood from her, while the other two tentacles still sought to gain purchase.  

To add to their grim prospects at the sudden and violent attack, they saw that as it drained their blood, the wound from Benzan’s arrow drew closed, ejecting the projectile as the punctured skin rejoined seamlessly.  

Caught in the grip of a pair of tentacles, Cal tried uselessly to tear free.  He tried to cast another spell, but his concentration faltered and the magic fizzled harmlessly.  He was still _hasted_, however, and he managed to draw his sword, chopping at one of the tentacles.  The thing’s skin was like thick leather, however, and even the dwarf-enhanced steel could not penetrate it.  

Benzan darted back from the probing tentacles, and in a blur drew an arrow, fired, drew again, fired, and drew yet again.  His storm of arrows shot directly into the body of the creature, each powered by the considerable strength of the tiefling’s bow deep into that evil orb.  The hits were telling, but there was no way of telling how much punishment the thing could take, or how rapidly it could heal the injuries it suffered.  

“Keep hitting it!” Benzan cried, as he fired his third arrow.  That one missed, glancing off of a stray tentacle that drifted into his line of fire.  

Dana, meanwhile, fell once again into the magic of her patron to cast another spell.  The tentacle still grasping onto her shoulder threatened to break her concentration, but her focus held and a moment later she felt the surge of divine power fill her.  Clutching her spear, she launched into the air, heading straight for the huge bulb of the creature’s body.  Several more tentacles sought her out, and she felt the burning pain of hits that tore through her defenses and drew blood, but she shrugged off the wounds with a discipline born of years of training and her strong sense of self-control.  She let out a cry that was part pain, part anger as she thrust the gleaming head of her shockspear into the creature’s body. 

Unable to reach the creature directly, Lok took his attacks to the groping tentacles.  Ignoring those threatening him, he charged to Cal’s aid, bringing his axe down in a powerful stroke that nearly severed the grasping tendril.  As the frost axe cut into its body a sharp jolt of electrical energy discharged from the wound and ripped into Lok.  The genasi shrugged off the painful shock, holding his ground while several tentacles pounded his armored body.  Lok’s attack, however, had been enough to help Cal finally manage to pull free.  With his spell of _haste_ speeding his movements, Cal took advantage of the distraction to dart backwards out of the reach of the tentacles, finally turning and casting another spell, concealing his position with _displacement._

An arrow buzzed past a few feet from Dana’s head as Benzan continued his barrage, sending arrows carefully past her to slam into the body of the creature.  His hands moved almost in a blur as he transferred arrows from his quiver to his bowstring to the creature’s body, the missiles sinking into its loathsome form in a series of solid thunks.     

The companions were unleashing terrible damage upon the hovering abomination, but it continued its attacks in a single-minded fashion.  Several tentacles had latched onto Dana, and as the creature drained her blood they could see its wounds begin to heal.  The mystic wanderer, however, refused to falter or retreat, even though flying near the creature opened herself to multiple attacks from the biting tentacles.  She clutched her spear tighter and came in closer, driving the gleaming spearhead deep into the creature’s body.  Now the orb did finally draw back, shifting its body so that the fat red sphere of its single eye, easily the size of her head, turned to fix upon her.  

An arrow from Benzan’s bow sank to the feathers in the creature’s body a mere handspan below the eye, and the orb shuddered in pain at the impact.  Dana didn’t hesitate, stabbing forward, driving the spear with the full force of her augmented strength.  She ignored the pain as a pair of tentacles lashed her, and thrust the tip of the spear deep into that mocking red globe, deep through the creature’s eye into whatever warped entity passed for its brain. 

The orb let out a terrible sound, a screech that emitted from each of its ten sets of jaws at the same time.  A blast of electrical energy erupted from the creature’s body as the power that fueled its foul existence was sundered by its death, tearing into the companions.  Dana, too close to avoid that discharge, was scored heavily by the blast and fell roughly back, catching herself just in time with her power of flight to avoid being dashed roughly to the floor.  

The orb, riven by great gashes in its leathery form, fell into the water at the shallow edges of the lake, its tentacles now limp strands that trailed out around its body.  

The companions gathered on that rocky shore, regarding the fallen form of their most recent adversary.  All had taken wounds from the creature’s attacks, and Cal and Dana in particular showed the effects of its blood-draining bites.  Ignoring her own weakness, Dana moved immediately to Cal’s side, summoning the power of a restorative spell.  

“I can only bolster you partly now,” she told him.  “Tomorrow, I will pray for more spells that will restore us completely.”

“What… what was that thing?” Benzan asked, kicking one of the lifeless tentacles.  

“I have never seen its like,” Cal said.  “It looks like some sort of beholder-kin, though I have never come across stories of such a thing in my studies.”

“Yeah, well, just as long as there aren’t any more of them around.”

“That was an incredibly brave assault,” Lok said to Dana, who was completing her spell to help Cal.   

“I just did what needed to be done,” Dana said once the healing magic was complete.  She looked up at Lok with a wink.  “I learned that from a certain friend of mine.”

“Bravely fought.  Well done indeed.”

They spun as one at the voice, which had come from just a short distance behind them.  Hands went to weapons and spell components as they scanned the darkness, which seemed as empty now as it had a moment ago.  

“Who’s there?  Show yourself,” Cal said. 

“But of course,” the voice said, and with the final word the air began to shimmer about twenty feet away, and through the distortion stepped a tall figure.  

He was about Benzan’s height, clad in a black cloak that seemed to cling to his body like a shadow.  But the thing that drew their attention immediately was his face, with its finely sculpted elven features, ebon skin, and shoulder-length ivory hair.  

“Dark elf!” Benzan hissed, and the way that he said it, it was both an identifier and a warning.


----------



## Lazybones

Greetings!

Once again I am announcing a Neverwinter Nights DM-hosted game, "Vorlag's Ruin." I will be running it on Sunday, June 30, at 7:30 a.m. (while my fiancee sleeps in ) Pacific time. This should allow my European friends who have just gotten the game to participate, if they like (UK time 3:30 p.m., Cont. Europe 4:30 p.m.). The game should take between one hour and ninety minutes to play. 

I have decided to start hosting my games in the "Role-Play" section of the matching service. This should help cut down on the l33t hack-players who hang out in the default "Action" area. I am not password-locking the game so anyone can drop in if they wish. Click on the "Role-Play" option in the category box in the upper left part of the matching service screen to find my game. 

Game title: [EN] Lazybones Vorlag's Ruin

Game type: server characters (so unless you've played with me before, you'll need to create a new 1st level character, or choose one of the defaults, upon entering). 

Max players: 6

Game style: cooperative role-playing (single party). New players are welcome (heck, we're all new at this )

I've run this mod once before and it was perfectly stable, but I've added new areas--consider this a "beta."

RSVPs aren't necessary but feel free to reply if you are interested.  Please respond to this or the Software thread if you have any questions or comments.  Thanks and I look forward to seeing ENWorlders online!

LB


----------



## Maldur

Sorry Im just reading it now.

Ill have to get a real copy of NWN, and get the hang of the interface, but I would love a game of NWN

Hope you guys had fun.

Cheerz, Maldur


----------



## Lazybones

Sunday's NWN game was a lot of fun; we had a full complement of players and took out both the orcs under the ruin and the custom undead (I created baneguards and banedead using the toolset) in the deeper crypts.  My next adventure, "The Dreadmoors," is ready for playtest; I'll be running it tonight online at 7 p.m. Pacific time.  It's for a slightly higher level group (2-4th level), so I'll be allowing local server characters this time.  Drop on by the Software forum for more information. 

Anyway, here's the story update!  I admit that my writing has slowed to a crawl since NWN came out, but perhaps I'll be able to get some chapters done today during slow stretches at work.

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 10

The dark elf just stood there as he regarded them, not overtly threatening but somehow managing to seem dangerous even in inaction.  His cloak kept his outline vague, hiding the details of his form, but none of the companions doubted that there were weapons, spell components, or other dangerous things concealed within.  

“What do you want, drow?” Cal finally asked, after the silent confrontation had drawn on for too many moments. 

“Jannek, if you please,” the dark elf said.  “I find racial descriptors to be inadequate substitutes for names, don’t you?  Such things easily get in the way of polite conversation.”

If Cal was nonplussed by the dark elf’s attitude, he didn’t let it show.  Instead, he gestured subtly for his companions to be on the lookout, then stepped closer to the elf to identify himself as spokesman.  “And it is rude for companions to remain hiding in the shadows during a dialogue,” he returned.  “Unless you are alone?”  His expression indicated that he considered such a possibility to be extremely unlikely.  

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” the dark elf said with a shrug.  “But it’s clear that _you_ are, alone and far away from places one would normally expect to find a group such as yours.”

“Have you been spying on us?” Dana said, at the same time that Benzan replied, “Who are you to say where we’re ‘expected?’”

Jannek smiled and bowed slightly, although he didn’t respond to either comment.

“Well, Jannek?” Cal prodded.  “I repeat my original question—what do you want with us?”

“Your wariness is commendable, especially in a place like this.  But you needn’t concern yourself with the likes of me.  I merely seek to assuage my curiosity—I _have_ been watching you for a stretch, and would know what brings _you_ to this place.”

“And what concern of it is yours, what our business is?” Benzan asked him.

“None, of course,” the elf replied.  “My people live far, far from here,” he said, with a vague wave of his hand in a random direction, “which is good for you.  For if you _had_ wandered into the realms of the drow, you can believe that your presence here _would_ have become our business, quite quickly.”  His voice didn’t change overtly while he spoke, but that last statement had an edge to it, and the drow’s eyes fixed on Benzan like a knife, bespeaking the dark promise in those words.  Then he shrugged again, and the aura of menace lightened.  

“You are free to associate with anyone you wish, of course.  But as I have watched your progress, it occurs to me that you may not be fully cognizant of what lies ahead on your chosen course.  Perhaps we could trade information—some hints of what you might find down here, in exchange for a revelation or two about you and your purpose?”

“The drow are not particularly renown for their honesty,” Cal said bluntly.  

“I would be wounded by your comment, were it not so true,” Jannek replied.  “Perhaps then, we can offer our words plainly, and let the other divine which they wish to take to heart, and which they choose to discard?”

“As you have been polite thus far, please allow me a moment to speak with my companions in private,” Cal said.

“As you wish.  I am no particular hurry, at the moment.”

The dark elf retreated to the edge of the chamber as the companions huddled nearby, keeping him in sight.  His dark cloak seemed to blend with the shadows, making him hard to see when he wasn’t moving, and he clearly had some magical means of remaining undetected as well.  

“Well, what do you think?” Cal asked. 

“I don’t trust him,” Benzan said.  “And I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a dozen friends waiting in the shadows.”

“Agreed,” Cal said, “but if he wanted to attack, he could have done that from surprise.  Whatever magic he’s got, none of us detected it until he greeted us.”

“Yeah, but he also could have warned us before we walked into the lair of that flying-ball-with-bitey-tentacles thing,” Benzan replied.  

“But if he does have information about this place, it might help us avoid future encounters like this one,” Dana pointed out.  

“Lok?” Cal asked.

The genasi shrugged.  “He is here, we may as well speak with him.”

They returned to where Jannek waited.  The drow was leaning against a rock, but he rose smoothly as they approached and met them in the middle of the corridor.  

“Ah, so what have you decided?”

“We have elected to take you up on your offer,” Cal said, “although we cannot promise that we will be able, or willing, to answer all of your questions.”

“Fair enough.  Question for question, then?  I will even let you go first.”

“What lies along our current path?” 

“Ah, a question of great scope, and one which I believe you already know the answer.  But I will reply, as a sign of good faith to open our dialogue.  Along these tunnels, several long days of difficult traveling distant, lies a stronghold of the deep dwarves, the duergar.”

“And are these deep dwarves allies of the drow?” 

“That is another question, and you already tread upon the rules of our exchange.  My first question is simple: what are your names?”

The companions exchanged a quick look, but the question was so simple, so basic, that Cal answered him, introducing each of them in turn.  The drow nodded as each was presented, his expression pensive as he filed away every detail about them in his mind. 

“Ah, now that we have all been introduced, I will answer your question.  No, these deep dwarves are not allies with the drow, at least not those of my community.  While my kind have had dealings with the duergar—it is hard not to, in the Underdark—the ones you are approaching are isolationist, xenophobic almost to an extreme.  They are not partial to visits by strangers.”

“Now for my next question: what is your business with the duergar?”

“That is a question I am not comfortable answering,” Cal replied immediately.  “Suffice it to say, we have no interest in the drow, of your community or any others, unless they are connected with the duergar.”

“Fair enough—as I said, your business is your own.  But perhaps I may make a few guesses.  You come from the abandoned urdunnir city, and you’re clearly determined, to make it through the undead that wander those cursed halls.  You bear a considerable arsenal, including potent magical weapons and powerful spells.  You are accompanied by a fighting man who looks almost like one of the duergar, to casual glance, but who on second look is not fully a dwarf at all.  You are not from around here—in fact, this entire place is strange to you—but you move as though you know your destination.  All correct, thus far?  Then I would say that your quarrel with the duergar is personal, and is somehow linked to the fate of said urdunnir.”

“Your powers of observation are keen,” Cal said.  

“A natural result of spending time here, as you will see, should your visit keep you here for any extended length of time.”

“Do you know anything more about the duergar stronghold?”

“Out of turn, technically, but I will answer.  I know little of what you would wish to know, but I have heard that the duergar are engaged in some large-scale mining project.  They have been working diligently for some time, and those who live around them walk the tunnels carefully, for whatever they are doing, they are eager for slaves to see it done.”

“What is your interest in this?” Benzan asked.  

“Ah, Benzan, you too walk outside the rules of our little game.”

“Fine then, what’s your question?”

“I have no more questions,” the dark elf said.  “You have told me quite enough, I think.”

“But we haven’t told you anything,” Dana said. 

“Come, Dana, surely you know that messages are not always found in the spoken word.  In any case, I have enjoyed speaking with you, but pressing errands compel me to be on my way once again.”

“Thank you then, for what little you’ve been able to share with us,” Cal said.  “I trust that your errands do not lead you in the same direction as us?”  There was an undercurrent to that last statement, an edge that hung in the air between them.

“Ah, no.  Indeed, I find myself quite content to travel in the opposite direction, for now.”

“Good.”

“Indeed.  My curiosity has not been fully whetted, but perhaps our paths may cross again someday.  Until then, I wish you good luck in your… endeavor.”

He smiled his sly smile once more, and then, in an eyeblink, suddenly vanished.  

“Gone?” Dana finally asked, after a few moments.  

“I don’t know,” Cal said.  “But I wouldn’t go so far as to assume that he is.”

“Do you think he was telling the truth?  About the duergar, I mean.”

“We’ll find out soon enough.  Lok, if you would?”

The genasi took the lead as they continued on, leaving the underground lake and the corpse of the dead creature behind them, each turning the details of the strange encounter with the drow over and over in their thoughts.   

And so another “day” passed in the Underdark.


----------



## Krellic

These guys seem to leap from one epic to another leaving a whole morass of hanging plot threads behind them.  I suppose that' part of their charm!


----------



## CoopersPale

Ah yeah.

keep givin' us the good stuff.

I'm an addict.

Bludgeon


----------



## Cyronax

(I wrote a similar one to this last night, but I think it got lost somehow)

Anyway, LB just wanted compliment you on your story. I downloaded the tttww archive and am still reading through the 1st book. Great stuff. I really enjoy the detailed narrative and all of your characters. 

I'm not a big fan of FR, but your story hour really makes Faerun shine.

C.I.D.


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the feedback, guys.  To be honest of late I had been seriously considering shelving the story... lately it just hasn't been jelling for me (maybe my new NWN addiction might have something to do with it ).  But I've decided to stick with it--usually these "writer's funks" pass and the words start pouring out again.  Today I forced myself to just sit down and write for a few hours (update tomorrow morning--I left the disk at work).  I want to at least finish the story through the end of book V, as I have some big ideas I want to work through before I give my characters a chance to breathe (not too deeply, though...).  There's no shortage of ideas (I've got at least enough material for 4-5 more books... mostly wrapping up all those loose threads Krellic mentioned), and hopefully I'll be able to put some of them down in words before the story loses all interest for me.  

Thanks again for reading.  As I said before, there's no way the story would have grown as much as it did and as fast as it did without your comments (both the praise and the critiques... each motivate me in their own way).  

LB


----------



## wolff96

Of course, we *do* expect an update tomorrow...  since you kind of promised during Monday Night's NWN game.

Hehe...  J/K.

Seriously, though, I'd just like to take a moment out from the unadulterated praise for this excellent story hour and throw in some off-topic unadulterated praise for his online DM'ing skills.

Despite one guy that might as well have been punch drunk (bad connection), one rogue that only -- and I mean *ONLY* -- cared about money, a dwarf that didn't say much (hey, it was Lok!), and me (the trap finding barbarian/cleric), Lazybones did a great job of making it a fun session.

Also, kudos to you on your module building skills. Now I just have to find time to play in that other game of yours (something about the Fens, wasn't it?). 

Thanks again, LB.

Okay, back to your regularly scheduled story-hour goodness.


----------



## Maldur

Yesterdays post seems to be missing..

Ill join a NWN game asap, but it can be a while ( like a week or two) 

Your story is great as always. I like the fact they dont have any redshirts for a change  


Cheerz, Maldur


----------



## Lazybones

Hey, thanks Wolff.  I had a lot of fun too--I haven't played the SP campaign since last week, I'm having so much fun with the toolset and the DM client. 

Next game tonight: "The Crossroads."  It is a compilation of all of the modules I've mad thus far connected to a central area with a tavern, NPCs, and quests.  Drop on by if you can (game starts at 7p.m. Pacific).  More details can be found in my game announcement thread on the Software forum.  

And here's your update, as promised!

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 11

The next few days found their pace slowing considerably, as the relatively smooth tunnels they’d traversed since leaving the urdunnir town were increasingly replaced by uneven changes in slope, narrow ledges that ran around deep gorges, and yawning clefts that were often too wide to simply jump across.  Their skills and their magical abilities allowed them to bypass each of these obstacles in turn, but each subsequent barrier dragged their pace down further.  

As they progressed, each of the companions could feel the oppressive weight of their surroundings draw tight around them like a cloak, and they spent most of the time walking in silence, the only sound the scraping of their boots on the stone.  During their rest periods they did discuss what they knew of their foes and what they might expect, but even those conversations were wooden and flat, lacking the spark that one found out under the open sky above.  One thing that both Lok and Cal remarked upon was that the deep dwarves were reputed to be sensitive to bright light, a trait that was fairly common among those races that lived far from the sunlit surface of the world above.  The next morning Dana added to her list of spells a pair of powerful divine enchantments that could summon a light as strong as daylight.  

Hopefully, that would give them an edge in the coming confrontation that loomed larger with each step they took.

It was still early on the third day after their confrontation with the beholder-kin and the drow scout when the twisting passageway they’d been following opened onto a vast natural cavern.  The tunnel ended in a wide ledge that overlooked the open space beyond, the floor below lost in the darkness that surrounded them.  Even Cal’s low-light vision was not enough for them to mark the bottom of that chasm, but there was no other apparent direction to go but down.  A quick search revealed a narrow, steep, twisting trail that ran down the cliff face from one corner of the ledge, the route barely a hand-span’s thickness at places.  

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding,” Benzan said, after noticing their prospective route.  “Even I would have a tough time negotiating that.”  He glanced pointedly at Lok, who seemed grimly determined even as he avoided the lip of the ledge.  

“What are you worried about—you’ve got that sword, you can levitate right down,” Dana pointed out.  “Maybe we can repeat what we did in the shaft,” she suggested.  

“Um… I think I’d rather avoid that, if we could,” Cal said, and although Lok did not speak it was clear by his slight change of expression that he agreed.  “Besides, I’d like to know what’s down there, before we go dropping anywhere.”

“One scouting mission, coming right up,” Dana said, straightening as she closed her eyes and entered her communion with her goddess.  But Benzan forestalled her.  

“Cast the spell on me.  I can see in the dark, so the light won’t give me away to anything that might be out there, and I’m better at not being seen.”

Dana seemed to bristle for a moment at the suggestion, but Cal nodded.  “It makes sense,” he said. 

Dana’s expression softened, and she cast the spell, granting the power of flight to the tiefling.  “Be careful,” she told him.  

“Wow… I like this, I like this a lot,” he said, testing out the power as he spun in the air and swooped around the circumference of the ledge in a tight spiral.  “All right then, be right back,” he finally said, and he shot down into the darkness.  

At Cal’s suggestion Dana retreated back into the passage a short distance, so that her light would not show them so clearly on the ledge.  Minutes crept on as they waited, with nothing but the silence of empty blackness all around them.  

“He’s coming back,” Lok finally said, his voice a low rumble.

“I see him,” Cal replied.

Moments later the tiefling reappeared over the edge of the cliff, looking none the worse for wear for his exploration. 

“Well, did you see anything?” Cal asked. 

“It’s basically just a big cavern,” Benzan said.  “The floor is very uneven, but passable.  It’s about a hundred feet down from the ledge here—and lots of pointy rocks down there, so I’d not recommend taking the fast way down.  There’s a few exits on the far side, more tunnels by the look of them, but I didn’t explore any further than a quick look.”

“No occupants, then?”

“Well… I didn’t see anything, but there was a moment or two… It was a probably nothing, but I had the feeling that someone or some_thing_ was watching me.  With my ring, I’m not sure how anyone could detect me, especially since flying is silent, but I’ve learned to trust my instincts.”

“As have we,” Cal said.  “But there’s nothing to be done for it now; if there is something down there, it saw us the moment we stepped onto the ledge with our torch.  Let’s make our way down.”

They negotiated the cliff fairly easily, with Benzan shuttling down Cal and Dana with the still-potent power of Dana’s spell, and Lok descending down a length of rope from their bag.  Benzan flew up to recover the rope once the genasi had finished the descent.  He avoided making the obligatory comment about it being a tougher route on the way back—for the moment, they needed to remain fixed on their current errand, and worry about what might come after later.

By the time they were ready to start out again the spell of flying had expired, so Benzan walked alongside the others as they made their way over the uneven floor of the cavern.  Benzan’s comments had been accurate; the stony surface undulated like the waves on a stormy sea, and it took them nearly an hour before they drew near enough to the far side of the cavern to see the tunnel entrances that Benzan had noted earlier.  

It happened so suddenly that none of them had time to do anything but start in surprise.  One moment they were alone, trudging across the cracked stone in the reassuring light of their torch…

…and the next they were surrounded by dark, powerful forms that rose up out of concealment amidst the neighboring stones and crevices.  There looked to be dozens of them, all fur and muscles and malevolence as they formed a ring around the four surfaceworlders, holding back ten paces distant like a wave surging against an invisible barrier that was about to come crashing down.  They were ferocious in appearance, their faces almost like those of the forest bears common in the Western Heartlands, with more stubby, broader jaws and penetrating eyes that showed a glint of intelligence.  Their fur was streaked with jagged lines of dark color, letting them better blend in with the surrounding stone, and some of them carried weapons, crude items of stone and metal that nonetheless looked menacing in their powerful hands.  

Surrounded, the companions reflexively formed a defensive square, their hands darting to weapon hilts, wands, or spell components.  

“Don’t make any aggressive moves,” Cal cautioned.

One of the creatures stepped forward out of the ring, its eight-foot height and broad, powerful shoulders setting it apart from its brethren.  It carried a massive two-handed mace fashioned of flat, black metal, and its hands tightened almost eagerly around the haft as it faced the companions.  The streaks of dark pigment that darkened its fur formed jagged lines across its face, enhancing its already considerably ferocious appearance.

“Jabbrak mathur, nak tok toros,” it said, its voice a combination of deep growls and sharp, angry barks.  “Mak torak chik tik marghnak.”  As he finished, a growl passed through the surrounding ring like a tremor, and they seemed to lean forward, as if waiting for a single word to unleash them.

“Anybody speak bear-man?” Benzan asked between clenched teeth.  

“It’s a dialect of Undercommon,” Lok said.  “He says we have trespassed upon the territory of the quaggoth.”

“Oh, that can’t be good,” Benzan muttered.

“Kak margh ak braktoth,” the quaggoth warrior said, punctuating his statement with a feral grin that showed his thick, uneven teeth.  

“He says that the penalty is to be torn to pieces,” Lok translated.  

The ring closed in, slowly.


----------



## Maldur

Nice update, and another of your trademark cliffhangers 

Cheerz, Maldur


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks Maldur, and you're doing a very good job filling in for Horacio, by the way .  Thanks for all the bumps to keep my story high up on the page in between updates.
LB


----------



## Krellic

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *
> 
> “He says that the penalty is to be torn to pieces,” Lok translated.
> 
> *




All in a day's work for our heroes...


----------



## Maldur

It what I said I would do, so I did it 
Besides I really do like your story.


----------



## Salthorae

*love the story*

Hey LB, 
  Just wanted to write and say...I love it still! Keep up the good work man and I hope that you get outta this writers' "funk" ASAP and while NWN may be an awesome game...don't forget all us people out here who can't play it yet and look for your story to brighten our morning inboxes  

alright enough shameless praise...on with the story


----------



## Lazybones

NWN Update: look for game announcements a little later today on the "Software" forum.

Story update: here it is!

* * * * * 

Book IV, Part 12

In a vast cavern deep under the surface of Toril, the companions found themselves only a heartbeat from being set upon by a small horde of ferocious “deep bears,” or quaggoths as they were known in the Underdark.  

“Wait!” Cal said, his voice echoing through the cavern with that single word.  He edged forward, moving past Lok to face the quaggoth leader.  The quaggoths tensed at his movement, but it was difficult for the deep bears to take the gnome as a serious threat, especially in contrast to his more heavily armed and armored companions.  The leader simply looked down at him, his thoughts masked behind its fierce expression.  

Cal opened his mouth, but instead of spoken words a haunting melody erupted from his lips, echoing through the huge open space around them.  The quaggoths cocked their heads curiously as they listened to the melody, which faded after just a few moments. 

“Noble warriors, we did not seek to trespass upon your domain,” he said, and the sounds of his words still seemed to tremor slightly with the afterimage of the notes of his melody.  

The quaggoth leader fixed them all with an encompassing glare.  “_You understand our speech?_” he said. 

Cal didn’t bother with an explanation of the complex workings of the _tongues_ spell.  Instead, he offered a slight flourish.  “Indeed, mighty one.  As I said, we did not seek intrusion here, only safe passage to our destination.  While we do not seek battle, understand that we can… and will… defend ourselves if need be.”  Somehow Cal managed to draw himself up with the last statement, and a message that should have been laughable coming from the diminutive gnome seemed nonetheless significant.  

A murmur traveled through the ring of quaggoths, and even the leader seemed to regard him in a new light.  The tensile power held barely at check within the warriors, however, was not eased, and the encounter still seemed tightly balanced on the razor’s edge. 

“What are they saying?” Benzan whispered, for he was not included in the effects of Cal’s spell.

“Quiet,” Dana returned, all too aware that one misstep could unleash the attack.  

“You are not our enemies,” Cal went on.  “Indeed, we seek only to…”

He didn’t get a chance to finish, for at that moment a pair of quaggoths burst into the chamber from one of the nearby exits.  Their agitation was clear in the way that their chests heaved and their nostrils flared as they neared the others, and it was clear as well how that agitation spread quickly among those already gathered.  When they spoke, only Cal could understand what was said, but the others could sense the meaning in the reaction of the deep bears. 

“_The home caves are under attack!  The shadow dwarves are raiding, taking captives!_”

The assembled quaggoths let out roars of fury and violence that shook the cavern, and the leader spun back around to face the companions.  “_Betrayers!_” he cried, and the quaggoths spun to focus their attention upon the nearest convenient targets of their rage.  “_You drew us away, so that we would be vulnerable to your allies!_”

“No!” Cal cried, throwing words out in a tumble in a last desperate attempt to stop what now seemed inevitable.  “We too seek the destruction of the duergar—look upon this dwarf here, one of the urdunnir!  If we fight, then your enemies benefit—let us join together instead, and defend your people!”

Cal’s words bought him only a few instants of hesitation, but it was enough for him to invoke another power, called with the undertone of another melody that he suffused to his words.  The music did not quell the anger of the quaggoths this time, but the power of the _charm_ that he wrought did seep into the perceptions of the quaggoth leader, turning him aside from the path of confrontation, giving Cal’s desperate plea an echo of plausibility. 

“_Come, then, and share in the letting of blood!_” he cried.  To his companions, he turned and let out a blood-curdling cry that promised destruction, and led his warriors back into the tunnel from which the two scouts had emerged.  

The companions, caught up in the rush, could not escape.  While a number of the quaggoths pushed on ahead with their leader, their superior speed carrying them away, most remained in a close ring around the companions, their mistrust clear in their eyes even as they herded the companions toward a battle that had suddenly become their own. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Benzan said, as Cal hurriedly briefed them on what had happened.  Finally, perhaps annoyed at their slow pace, one of the quaggoths bent down and seized up the gnome, carrying him ungently under his arm.  A pair likewise flanked Lok and grabbed him by the arms and shoulders, all but dragging the armored genasi along while his legs pumped to keep up.  Benzan and Dana, already moving as quickly as their new comrades/captors, needed no aid, but they were closely watched nonetheless.  

The tunnel they were following twisted and passed several branches to the sides, but it was not long until they heard the all too familiar sounds of battle coming from somewhere up ahead.  The quaggoths carrying Lok and Cal dropped their burdens, and reached for their weapons while their jaws twisted into feral grins of anticipation.  

The companions prepared their own weapons as they pressed on toward yet another battle.


----------



## Maldur

close call for our heroes!!

Keep it up LB, we're rooting for you!

Cheerz, Maldur


----------



## Lazybones

Book V, Part 13

Grolac looked around with a grim sense of satisfaction as his warriors finished shackling the last of the quaggoth captives.  With a lot of prodding, they managed to get most of them up and mobile enough to gather them in a knot near one of the exits to the long cavern where the brief assault had taken place.  Several of them were still comatose, and would either have to be carried by their fellows, or left behind with slit throats if they could not manage to be roused.  

“Looks like your blasts were a bit _too_ effective, Kozar, in a few cases,” the duergar said to his companion.  

The other duergar shrugged, distracted.  Like Grolac, his skin was a dusky gray, the color of long-dead ashes, and his skull was bald.  Kozar’s skin, however, was criss-crossed by a web of spidery tattoos, markings that seemed to crawl when their owner’s muscles twitched or moved under the skin.  

“Others will be coming,” Kozar commented.  “The quaggoth are easily startled, but their responses are quick and violent.”

“Yes.  One of their weaknesses is that they are so predictable.”  Grolac paused to issue a few commands to the warriors preparing the prisoners for transport.  They had collected about a score, now; not a huge haul, but not bad for a quick strike.  They’d lost two of their own, both stunned when they were caught within the effect of one of Kozar’s mind blasts.  They would have been fine, but unfortunately a trio of quaggoth reinforcements had chosen that moment to arrive from a nearby tunnel entrance.  Although they had slain the defenseless duergar warriors, now those three were part of the queue that was rapidly forming, their shackles clanging together slightly as they moved.  All were still suffering from the effects of the duergar assault, and had in addition been drugged to make them more docile during transport.  

“I am going to check on the status of the second strike team,” Grolac said abruptly.  “You will take command of the first squad, and set an ambush to cover the retreat of this lot.” 

Kozar’s eyes narrowed.  “My powers are depleted,” he started to protest, but he trailed off when he saw the assassin’s expression. 

“Let me be clear, Kozar.  I expect to see you return with another train of slaves, or not at all.  Don’t think I am unfamiliar with your ambitions—consider this your opportunity to demonstrate your ability.”

The hatred burned clearly in Kozar’s eyes, but he managed a nod of acknowledgement as Grolac took up his satchel and crossbow and moved for a final check of the captives.  He spoke briefly with the duergar that would be shepherding the captives back to their base, then vanished into one of the narrow side tunnels, a pair of warriors falling in behind him.  

Kozar turned and saw the dwarves of the first squad watching him, their expressions carefully schooled to keep whatever thoughts they might be thinking from showing.  He could uncover those thoughts, if he wanted to, but he knew that he would have to husband every last shred of power for the inevitable confrontation that would soon follow.  

“Notify the scouts, we will set up an ambush here,” Kozar commanded, taking some solace at least in the way that the veteran warriors, each hand-picked by Grolac, leapt to implement his commands.  He turned to see that the train of newly recruited slaves was already departing, the huge beasts plodding along dejectedly under the impetus of their captors.  The deep dwarves barely came up to the waists of their prisoners, but it was clear from an instant’s glance who was the dominant party in their relationship.  

“Very well, Grolac, if it’s a demonstration you wish, I will give it to you,” Kozar said.  He reached into an inner pocket of his cloak, and withdrew a small object wrapped in shreds of cloth.  Carefully unwrapping it, he revealed a cluster of crystalline shards trapped in a lattice of loops and swirls fashioned of slender strips of silver.  Although it shed no light that could be seen in the pure darkness of the cavern, it seemed to pulse slightly in his hand as he lifted it close to his face, cradled almost lovingly in his thick, gnarled hands.  

He looked upon it for a moment, then returned it to its sheltered place as he turned to monitor the busy activities of his warriors, preparing to unleash a second round of terror upon the hapless quaggoths when they lashed out blindly—and predictably—at the intruders into their lair.


----------



## Talindra

*bump*

I wanted to say I'm still here, LB, and also, I love when you take a moment to post a view from the other side.  It really makes everything come alive for me, and I'm still hooked.  Keep it up!


----------



## Lazybones

Hey, thanks Talindra!  Update tomorrow morning--another big battle scene!  

LB


----------



## Lazybones

Book V, Part 14

Taktak, the quaggoth leader, felt a slow rage begin to build again as the tunnel began to widen and a cavern opening became visible ahead.  He’d become convinced that the strange quartet of intruders that his patrol had just encountered were not connected to the duergar attack, but that did not ease the frustration that he felt at not being there do defend his people from the surprise raid.  His title was not just “warrior,” but “defender,” and his people counted upon him to be at the forefront of the fighting when outsiders threatened.  In the Underdark, that was a common occurrence.  

Thus he had failed, but he would rectify that by unleashing carnage upon the hated deep dwarves.  

A half-dozen of his fellows had kept up with his rush, but he would not have hesitated even had he been alone.  He caught the scent on the air currents and knew that his enemies were ahead in the cavern, probably waiting in ambush as was their way.  That did not stop him either.  He was experienced enough to know that most of the intelligent beings living in the Underdark were smarter, better organized, and more powerful than the quaggoth.  The strength of his people was literally that, their physical prowess.  

Taktak, in particular, was not lacking in that department.  

With a final burst of speed that took him well ahead of his companions, the quaggoth leader burst into the corridor.  His senses of smell and hearing told him as much or more than his eyes as he instantly divined that he had been correct, that this cavern housed an ambush.  He did not see any adversaries at first, but he was all too aware that the duergar were quite adept at not being seen.  

His suspicions were confirmed as he heard the soft whirring sound a moment before he caught sight of the small globes flying toward the tunnel entrance.  Taktak was already moving, diving forward in a smooth roll that ended with him several strides ahead and coming to his feet already running.  Behind him, the globes shattered on the stone, releasing cloying strands of gas that filled the tunnel opening like a rolling fog.  The gas didn’t linger long, already starting to break up within a few heartbeats, but even in that brief time several quaggoths staggered through the cloud and collapsed to the ground, unconscious.  

Taktak heard the sound of a crossbow being fired, and dodged aside just in time to avoid the bolt that zipped past him.  He marked the angle of the bolt and started toward the still-hidden shooter, but felt a sudden pang of sharp pain as a second bolt caught in his arm.  Almost immediately he felt the sting of poison coursing through his veins, but he fought through it and continued on.  

The floor of the cavern was uneven, a virtual maze of cracks and boulders that made offered a thousand hiding places for the ambushers.  Taktak’s agility allowed him to easily navigate the difficult surface, and as he spotted a duergar sniper creep out of a cleft between two protruding boulders he let out a cry of challenge.  The battlecry was not mere foolish bravado; the quaggoth veteran knew that he needed to draw the attention of the duergar ambushers to himself, to give his warriors following behind a chance to make it into the battle without being incapacitated by the duergar weapons.  

A pair of duergar materialized out of nothing before him, flanking him as they leapt to the attack.  The duergar were _enlarged_, each coming up nearly to the quaggoth’s shoulder, their enhanced strength telling in the power of their attacks.  Taktak dodged the first stroke, but grunted in pain as the second tore into his side with his axe.  The quaggoth did not falter, bringing his mace around in a powerful swing of his own that slammed hard into the first dwarf’s shoulder, knocking him roughly back into the rocks.  

As the lingering clouds of sleep gas dispersed the companions moved into the cavern entrance, flanked by several quaggoths who immediately started looking for targets.  They had taken good advantage of the delay, and both Cal and Dana had invoked protective magic to improve their defenses, while Benzan had strung and loaded his bow.  They saw Taktak engaged with his pair of adversaries, and the quaggoths instantly turned in that direction, drawn by the call of battle.  

Before they could manage more than a few steps, however, a shadowy form emerged from within cover among the rocks about thirty feet directly ahead of them.  He did not appear to be clad in armor like the others, but was distinguished by the crawling network of tattoos that formed a latticework across the taut skin that covered his skull.  He carried a small object in his hands that seemed to brighten with a faint inner glow as he carried it forward.  

Benzan saw the dwarf, and in a flash he had drawn and targeted an arrow.  In the instant before he could release, however, the strange newcomer unleashed a potent power upon them.

The very air seemed to ripple with a wave of energy that swept out over them, filling the cavern entrance.  Most of the quaggoths collapsed, either clutching their heads in sudden, blazing agony as they fell, or simply crumpling in a heap as if their bones had suddenly dissolved into jelly.  Lok went down in mid charge, stunned by the mental force unleashed in the blast, while a few strides behind him Cal twisted and fell even as he reached for the components of another magical spell.  

And just like that, only Benzan, Dana, and a pair of quaggoths who had been fortunate enough to escape the full force of the blast were all that was left of the relief force.  And Taktak, although his situation was looking increasingly grim as his adversaries launched another coordinated attack that left two more long gashes in his already blood-matted hide.  

Benzan felt as through a thousand hammers were pounding inside his brain, but he forced himself to fight through the pain as he fired his arrow.  The first shot, perhaps thrown off by the lingering effects of the mind blast, narrowly missed the tattooed dwarf, but he gritted his teeth and quickly drew out another arrow and set it to his bowstring.  

A crossbow bolt caught him solidly in the shoulder, although the magically-enhanced links of his mithral armor kept the missile from penetrating.  He was dimly aware of movement in the rocks to his left, but he dared not turn his attention from the greater threat posed by the enemy wizard.  

“Snipers to the left!” he shouted as a warning to Dana.  The quaggoth would not understand, of course, but he hoped they would get the message on their own.  

The quaggoths hesitated for a moment, overwhelmed by the sudden carnage wrought around them and the rapid depletion of their force.  Between the sleep gas, the poisoned bolts, and the mind blast, there were nearly a score of quaggoths laid out around them, some of them still convulsing as they struggled to fight off the effects of the incapacitating attacks of the duergar.  But the hesitation was brief, and as the warrior instincts of the quaggoths took over they charged to the aid of their war leader.  

The first managed to cover half the distance to the battle when a duergar suddenly materialized behind him and slammed his axe into the back of his leg.  The quaggoth let out a roar of pain and went down, his leg nearly severed at the knee, while the dwarf spun adroitly to face the crippled quaggoth’s companion.  The deep bear swung his maul at the dwarf, but the duergar easily ducked under the blow.  The two began an exchange of attacks, the quaggoth’s superior strength offset by the agility and armor of the dwarf.  

Dana, however, had not been idle during those few moments.  First she summoned forth the powerful aid of the _divine power_ of Selûne, and then turned to the working of another potent spell.  She heard Benzan’s warning, but, lacking his darkvision, she could only see vague shadows at the edges of the light cast by her _continual flame_.  When a poisoned bolt shot out of the darkness toward her, however, her finely tuned reflexes took over and she smoothly knocked the deadly missile aside with a quick snap of her wrist.  Hoping that other crossbowmen weren’t targeting her at that moment, she fell once again back into the trance of divine contact, letting the power of the moon goddess into even this black place far under the ground.  

At her call, a shaft of brilliant light erupted within the confines of the cavern, brightening until the place shone with the full radiance of _daylight_.  The response from the deep dwarves was immediate, as they cried out in pain at the simulated glow of the hated orb whose light never penetrated this far under the earth.  The snipers that had been hiding among the rocks were now suddenly silhouetted clearly against the light, and she also saw the duergar psion, holding his arms up in a reflexive move to shield his eyes from the light.  

Benzan’s darkness-adjusted eyes were stung by the light, but he also found the illumination convenient, as he fired arrow after arrow at the tattooed dwarf.  Several apparent hits glanced off at the last instant, suggesting that the dwarf had some sort of magical defense, but a pair stabbed deep into the dwarf’s torso, drawing blood.  The injured dwarf fell back, dropping out of sight.

“He’s getting away!” Benzan cursed.  He took a step forward, as if considering pursuit, but then hesitated with a glance down at the still-helpless forms of Lok and Cal.  With a grimace he shifted his aim, firing an arrow into one of the crossbowmen still trying vainly to find targets against the painful brilliance of the light. 

“I’ll get him,” Dana said.  She cast another spell, and a portal opened before her.  Without hesitation, she stepped through, transporting herself to the far side of the cavern.  

As she emerged from the _dimension door_ she caught sight of the duergar leader at the same moment that he spotted her.  Drawing himself up in his headlong flight, he summoned forth the dread mental power at his command, and unleashed it at the warrior cleric.  

Dana could feel the probe, a mental wedge that sought to sever the link between her mind and her body.  But her own will was a wall against which the attack broke and faltered.  The psion cursed as he realized the potency of this target’s mind, and his hand dove into his cloak and drew out a slender potion vial.  

Before he could uncork and drink the magical draught, however, Dana lunged forward and thrust at him with her magical spear.  Her strength enhanced by the _divine power_ she’d summoned earlier, she tore through his defenses and stabbed the blade deep into the dwarf’s body.  Electrical surges from the _shockspear_ blasted around the wound and burned the dwarf’s body from inside, and the psion screamed out in pain as his life energy was seared by that fell power.  The potion vial fell from his fingers as he staggered back, trying somehow to manage one last defense against the human woman’s assault.  Dana was too experienced to hesitate now, however, and she did not relent, following him step for step and thrusting the head of the spear deeper in one last attack that ended it.  

While their leader was being killed, the other duergar were finding the battle turning against them.  Taktak still stood, although only the fury of his rage was keeping him standing against his one remaining opponent.  The other dwarf lay against a boulder, his skull oozing from the shattered spot where Taktak’s mace had struck a solid blow.  Both of the remaining combatants were barely standing, now, but the dwarf refused to relent, his axe seeking out one more blow that would drop this determined adversary.  

Unfortunately, he would never find it, as an arrow from Benzan’s bow buried itself to the feathers in his throat.     

The other quaggoth had finally defeated his adversary, with a lucky backswing that caught the dwarf off guard with a solid connection to the head.  But he too was grievously wounded, with two deep gashes in his torso.  Those stunned by the psion’s mind blast were finally beginning to come around, clutching their heads with their hands as they shook off the lingering shreds of pain that thumped inside their skulls.  Benzan had dropped one of the duergar snipers and injured another, but the rest had managed to disengage and disappeared through one of the darkened tunnel exits.

No one felt particularly inclined to pursue them.  

Dana approached Taktak as the quaggoth began to slip out of his rage, and with it his tenuous grip on life began to ebb as well.  The quaggoth fixed her with a suspicious glare, but could not do anything to hinder her as she reached in and touched his bloody fur, releasing the power of Selûne into him.  His wounds healed at her touch and he was visibly bolstered, drawing back from death’s door.  He was still seriously hurt, but his life was no longer in danger.  The massive quaggoth regarded her in surprise, and then nodded in respect as she turned to assist those others that needed it.  

“Is everyone all right?” Cal asked, wincing as he rose gingerly.  

“Yeah,” Benzan said.  “That wizard was a lot of trouble, though.”

“Not a wizard, I suspect, but a user of psionics,” Cal corrected him.  “Powers of the mind… very rare, but dangerous.”

“Whatever,” Benzan said.  “Either way, the ‘shoot them first’ rule applies.”  He started across the room toward where Dana was tending to another of the injured quaggoths, while Lok and Cal assisted those who were recovering from the effects of the sleep gas and mind blast.  

“Did you get him?” Benzan asked Dana.  

The cleric looked up at him.  “He’s over there, if you want to loot the corpse,” she said, indicating a space behind an obscuring screen of rocks.  

The tiefling bit back a retort and moved the check the body of the dwarf psion.  He found the strange object of metal and crystal that he’d seen earlier, as well as a pair of bracers that he assumed were similar to the defensive items that Dana wore.  _Cal might find those useful,_ he thought, placing them in his pouch along with a few small gemstones and oddly shaped platinum strips that he found in one of the dwarf’s inner pockets.   

When he rejoined the others, he saw that most of the quaggoths had recovered, although a few were still clearly unsteady on their feet.  He saw that the quaggoths were even more efficient in their looting of the dead, taking weapons, gear, even the clothes from the bloody corpses of the slain dwarves.  Taktak looked no less impressive for being slathered in his own blood, and as Benzan rejoined the group, the quaggoth leader caught them all up in an encompassing glance.  He spoke to them, although the clipped, guttural words meant nothing to Benzan’s ears.

“He says that we fought bravely,” Cal translated.  “He wants us to go with them to their lair—it’s not far from here.”

“Well, better to be friends than enemies,” Benzan noted.  “But I still have a bad feeling about this.”

In the company of their new allies, the companions set out through one of the tunnels on the edge of the cavern, leaving another fresh battlefield for the carrion of the Underdark behind them.


----------



## Maldur

bump, back to the top!

thx, Nice update.

I hope Horacio will be back soon, Its my vacation next week and I wont be able to keep the story on the first page.

Cheerz, Bazz


----------



## Lazybones

Book V, Part 15

The drow walked easily down the wide stone corridor, his boots sounding surprisingly heavy on the worn flagstones.  His cloak billowed out behind him at the quick pace of his movements—he was quite nearly late, and in fact should have already been at his destination.  

Well, there was nothing to be done for it now.  His errand had been an important one, for all that the destination ahead marked one culmination in the long road on which he’d been set for years now.  

Not that years were all that much, really, for one such as he.  

As he drew nearer he finally could hear the drums, the steady cadence that seemed to thrum in the very substance of the stone around him.  The drow could feel the power in that beat, could _taste_ the magical harmonics that reverberated in those deep pulses.  

Excellent.  Everything was going well, then.

The drow reached the end of the corridor and turned through an opening to the side into an oval antechamber.  The guardians that flanked the arched exit at the far end drew themselves up as he approached, bowing to him with reflexive piety that did not fool him in the slightest for all its apparent sincerity.  The drow barely registered them, so fixed was he upon his goal, now so close.  

He passed through the archway and its protective wards, and into the cavernous chamber beyond.

The place was huge, a natural bubble in the rock, its uneven ceiling rising up at least several hundred feet above.  Dozens of magical flames burned in cool eternity at various places around the perimeter of the chamber, although even their combined brightness was not enough to fully banish the shadows that lurked in the various cracks and crevices along the walls.  There was only one other exit besides the one that the drow had used, warded by a similarly grand stone archway.  

The chamber was dominated by its central feature, a massive pillar that stood in the center of the place.  The pillar’s surface glimmered as it drank in the light from the surrounding flames, for it appeared to be fashioned entirely from solid mithral, enough to buy kingdoms in the sunlit lands on the surface of Faerûn above.  Dozens, if not hundreds, of varied gemstones were set in an apparently random array along the length of the pillar, their facets scattering colored rays of light all around, with more catching the eye with each step that one took into the room.  The surface of the pillar was all angles and edges, a chaotic jumble that was both jarring and somehow disconcerting.  And yet it seemed somehow… unfinished, although one would be hard-pressed to put into words exactly how. 

The drow took in the magnificence of the device in a single long, lazy sweep of his eyes.  Then he turned his attention to what was happening directly in front of him.  

A wide, shallow stone bowl tiled with heavy slabs of black granite stood before him, ringed by a quartet of heavy drums that were the source of the deep pounding that he’d sensed earlier.  The drums were being pounded by a quartet of duergar males, each stripped to the waist, their upper bodies painted in cascading rows of blood-red runes.  At the far end of the bowl, directly across from the drow, stood Shemma.  The duergar priestess barely paid any heed to the arrival of the newcomer, although she did shoot him an annoyed glance during one of the pauses in the litany of phrases that she was speaking to the tune of the mournful beat of the drums.  The words she spoke seemed like gibberish, but to the drow, who could sense the currents of power that were filling the place, they seemed like an edifice, layers built upon layers to construct a working of great potency.  

Above the priestess stood the mithral pillar, rising over a hundred feet into the vastness of the cavern, its top wreathed in shadows.  At its base, directly behind her, an opening was sculpted into the pillar, a stylized gateway that led only to a solid slab of silvery metal unmarked by designs or embedded gemstones.  

And finally, in the center of the depression, the focus of the ritual, nine prisoners huddled together, chained to the stone by thick manacles.  Nearly all were dwarves, similar to the duergar in appearance but subtly different in their features, but a muscled quaggoth and a goggly kuo-toa were also part of the group.  All wore looks of hopelessness that had been pounded into their very being by long imprisonment at the hands of the duergar.  

The drow took up a position where he could watch the proceedings unobtrusively.  This had all been going on for some time, he knew, and at this point there was nothing for him to do but watch.  

The chanting and the drumming seemed to build slowly to a crescendo, until the very stone of the walls seemed to tremble with stored energy.  Then, abruptly, both noises ceased and a sudden silence filled the room.

The drow couldn’t help but smirk slightly, despite the gravity of the situation.  The religious types always went so overboard in their pageantry and ritual.  But while he knew that all of the trappings weren’t necessary, he was willing to grant Shemma and her hangers-on her little games.  The fact was that he needed them, and that he would not have been able to accomplish what they were about to achieve without the alliance between them.  The power of her sour dwarvish god—the dregs of the dwarven pantheon, to be sure—was the lever that would bring his audacious plan to fruition.  

Shemma had lowered her head to her chest so that he could not see her face, her arms outstretched in a wide, encompassing gesture.  Now she began to chant again, unaccompanied by the drums—the rune-marked dwarves had retreated, and as the drow watched they vanished through one of the two arched exits.  

The drow was slightly curious; he had wondered how Shemma was going to handle this part.

The incantation did not take long, and concluded with the cleric uttering one final magical command and pointing toward the helpless captives bound within the bowl.  There was a slight delay, and then, so quickly that it seemed almost instantaneous, a black slash appeared in the ground before the cleric and a trio of beings crept out.  

The creatures were horrible, bloated monstrosities, roughly humanoid in shape but with thin, wiry legs and arms and bulbous faces marked with huge, slavering jaws.  They weren’t very big, perhaps four feet in height, but looked no less frightening for that fact.  They looked around, as if gathering their bearings, and then lumbered awkwardly toward the prisoners.  

It didn’t take very long, as the summoned demons were very efficient in their destruction and the manacles slaves could not put up much resistance in any case.  By the time that the summoning spell expired and the demons were sent back to the pits of the Abyss from whence they had come, all that was left were scattered heaps of torn flesh and muscle and bone.  

Shemma looked up, gestured for the drow to come forward.  

_Another game?_ the dark elf thought, but he concealed his smirk as he walked down the gentle slope into the bowl.  His boots crunched on shards of bone and splashed in scattered pools of blood as he approached the center of the destruction, where nine living creatures had just met their end.  His face betrayed no hint of feeling  as he looked around, then finally saw what Shemma had meant him to find.  In the center of the group was a small depression, and in that a small bowl of mithral was recessed into the stone.  Runnels of fresh blood had run into the hollow and filled the bowl.

“Hurry!” Shemma said, as he reached down and took up the bowl, careful not to spill the blood.  It was wedged tightly in place, but finally came loose at his pull.  Rising, he took the blood to the duergar priestess.  

Shemma smiled as she took the bowl, and the drow felt something electric pass between them as their hands touched around the blood-stained metal.  The priestess was at her peak of power right now, the drow realized, and to his senses she seemed almost like a blazing torch, radiating stored energy.  

She turned toward the pillar, and raised her voice in a final invocation that filled the room.  The dark elf thought he could hear voices echoing in the empty darkness above, and despite himself felt a sudden surge of anticipation that even his considerable self-control could not fully contain.  That anticipation was penetrated by a brief flash of annoyance as he heard a more substantial, if faint, cry from far above—the abashai was here, watching, despite his express orders—but if the duergar heard it, she paid it no heed.  

Instead she stepped forward, and with a final chant sprayed the blood in the bowl across the blank face within the mithral arch at the base of the pillar.  Then, as abruptly as before, she stopped speaking and retreated back several steps.  The strange surges of power, the etheric voices, all ended, leaving them again in a stillness so deep that it seemed eternal.  

Expecting something more, the dark elf nearly asked if something had failed, if it had all been for naught, but he sensed Shemma’s continued focus on the stone and forestalled himself.  He turned back to the pillar, watched as the blood ran down the silvery metal in thick gobs…

And then…


----------



## Talon

And then WHAT?

Damn it man, you can't leaves us like this all weekend!!!!

Seriously though, great story! I've been a follower[but not much of a speaker] since the first book. Keep up the GREAT work.

Chris


----------



## Maldur

I vote to bestow Lazybones the title of "Cliffhanger King".

Any in favor say Aye!


----------



## Talindra

arrrggghhh.........AYE!!!!

*sighs*

great update, as always, but my curiousity is killing me.


----------



## wolff96

Aye.

That's a heck of a cliff-hanger, even for him.


----------



## Ziggy

aye  

.Ziggy


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks all; I must be doing my job as a writer when a cliff-hanger provokes so many replies.  

As if NWN wasn't enough, my fiancee got me Warcraft III this weekend for my birthday.  There just aren't enough hours in the day.  And to make matters worse, we lost another staff member at work, and guess who got her workload...

ARGH!  Monday!  Well, at least there's one bright Monday morning constant: story hour update!  

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 16

And then…

The silvery sheen of the mithral wall beyond the arch began to deepen, until the color of the metal was darker than that of the blood that coated its surface.  Then, as the dwarf and the drow elf watched together in amazement, the metal seemed to grow transparent, its surface falling in upon itself until a corridor of utter blackness that seemed impervious to the room’s light gaped in the very substance of the pillar. 

They did not have long to wait, for only a few moments more crept by before the outline of a form appeared in the darkness.  It moved forward, and as it reached the transition point where the metal wall had just stood it resolved itself instantly into a humanoid form as it strode into the chamber.  

He was a young human male, well built, naked save for a long skirt apparently fashioned of thin metallic scales that shone in the torchlight with a golden sheen.  At first glance it was clear that he was bald, but on closer examination it became clear that he had no hair at all on any part of his body that was readily visible.  While he had no eyebrows, exaggerated brows had been painted on his forehead with dark pigment, their whirls and twists exaggerating the strong lines of his face.  He was beautiful in an otherworldly way, but his eyes blazed in a way that was utterly incongruous with the appearance and movements of his physical form.  

He strode forward boldly, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone, the metal scales of his garment whisking softly as he moved.  His gaze took in everything, traveled over Shemma for an instant before dismissing her, and finally settled on the dark elf.  

When he spoke, it was with a voice both deep and sonorous, with a slight echo as if it were emitting from a dark cavern.  He spoke in an ancient language known to few on the surface world, but which was understood by both of those present.  

“I am the Avatar.  I have been sent to pave the way.”

The dark elf bowed.  “I am honored by your presence.  Everything has progressed according to the schedule.” 

The young man turned and walked along the edge of the bowl, gazing down at the messy pile of flesh at its bottom.  For a moment, it was as if he had forgotten the presence of the other two.  Then, finally, he turned, raising one hand and flexing the muscles along his arm as if testing the power stored within.  

“The schedule must be accelerated.  The final ceremony will take place three days’ hence, at the alignment of Xoros and Calivex.”

The duergar cleric, who had thus far been silently appreciating the results of her handiwork, stepped forward.  “Three days… but that’s impossible!  It will take months, yet, to acquire the gems needed to complete the stele…”

She subsided as the full weight of the Avatar’s gaze settled upon her, the words drifting away as her mouth moved soundlessly.  He looked back up at the dark elf, who nodded reluctantly.  “I do not see how it can be done, Great One,” he acknowledged.

“As I said, I have come to pave the way,” the young man repeated.  “If necessary, blood will ease the way to the final rending of the seals.  There has been much waiting for this moment, but for now action must replace caution.  My appearance here will not… has not… gone unnoticed.”

“I must rest.  Manifesting here has been… tiring...”

“Of course, Great One,” the dark elf said.  “Come, we have prepared quarters for your needs.  They are nothing for one such as you…”

“They will be suitable.  I must rest… and then, we will begin…”

He allowed himself to be led by the dark elf out of the chamber, while the duergar simply stood there, watching them go, her misgivings clear in the furrowed line of her brow.


----------



## CoopersPale

Nice update!

Back to the front page with you Mr Thread, Where you BELONG!!

cheers

Bludgeon


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the bump, Bludgeon.

* * * * *

Book V, Part 17

“Ahhh…”

“What’s wrong?” Cal asked.

“Something… wrong,” Benzan said.  “It feels like my stomach wants to twist inside out.”

“I told you not to eat all that food that the quaggoth offered,” the gnome remonstrated him.  “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate their hospitality and all…”

“It’s not that,” the tiefling protested.  “Something’s… just wrong.  It’s similar to what I felt before… in Elturel, under the nobleman’s house.”

Cal’s eyebrows narrowed, although a hint of doubt remained at the tiefling’s revelation.  He remembered that encounter all too well, the clash with a dark cleric of Cyric and his summoned demon that had concluded with his own death.  While he was still troubled by memories of that time, he had since made peace with himself and the experience… though he had no desire to repeat it any time soon.

“Let’s go get Dana…” the gnome began, but cut himself off when they spotted the cleric, along with Lok, moving into the small side-cave which the quaggoth had set aside for them. 

Since they had first been brought here the day before, Dana had been busy, helping the many quaggoth injured in the duergar ambush.  Apparently the group they’d fought had been just one of several, and at least forty quaggoth had been taken as captives by the retreating dwarves.  About that many had been injured, ranging from relatively minor slashes and punctures to the crippling hurts suffered by several in the ambush led by the dwarf psion.  Apparently the quaggoth culture offered a fairly simple and brutal solution to the problem of crippled members, for Dana had had to physically intervene to stop them from killing the one whose leg had been savaged by one of the dwarf warriors.  Fortunately Taktak had intervened on her behalf, and now the quaggoth was recovering, although he would likely limp for a while yet.  

Now, however, Dana’s expression was troubled, and it was not due to anything having to do with their current hosts.  

“What is it?” Cal asked.  

“Something has happened,” she told them.  “I was helping one of the female quaggoth prepare a poultice, when I felt a dark presence.  It was like a shadow, something that briefly touched my soul and then crept on, leaving a chill in its wake.  I cannot explain it more clearly, I’m afraid.”

“Benzan said he felt something similar,” Cal offered.  “I don’t like it one bit, especially given our proximity to the duergar outpost.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a quaggoth messenger, who bid them accompany him to the central den where the quaggoths gathered as a community.  It wasn’t far, since most of the caves in the warren where the deep bears dwelled radiated off of that core chamber.  

As they left the relative quiet of their quarters behind, the caverns around them began to take on the life of a busy, if currently subdued, community.  Female quaggoths carrying heavy burdens bustled about on private errands, typically giving the companions a wide berth once they spotted them.  The children, however, behaved in an opposite fashion, showing the curiosity that is a common trait of the young in virtually every species as they shadowed the four strangers.  And then there were the males, nearly all wearing the dark pigments and bearing the weapons of the warrior caste, their eyes weighing each of them as though testing them for weaknesses just in case their current friendship should turn sour.  

They entered the central den, where about fifty quaggoths, mostly warrior males, had already gathered.  The distinctive form of Taktak was immediately visible within the half-circle of piled hides where the tribal leaders sat when they were engaged, as they were now, in a meeting.  The quaggoth barbarian saw them and gestured for them to approach, indicating a small cleared space within the arms of the half-ring of seated warriors.  The quaggoth elders were all large, muscular, and hale; the companions had already been witness to the fact that the culture of the deep bears did not tolerate weakness.  

When they rested, Cal had regained his _tongues_ spell, and had kept it at the ready for just such an occasion.  While Lok could understand most of what the quaggoths said through his knowledge of Undercommon, none of them wanted a misunderstanding to taint this encounter.   

The interview, however, was brief and to the point, so much so that Cal’s spell was barely necessary.

“You go to challenge the shadow dwarves?” Taktak asked, even as they seated themselves facing the assembled quorum.  

“Yes,” Cal replied.  “We seek to free the urdunnir, goodly dwarves kept as slaves by the evil shadow dwarves.”

A series of growls went through the assembled group of tribal leaders, a menacing sound until Cal realized that they were actually a form of nonverbal communication, sending meaning on a level more primal that the words that were translated by his spell.  The feelings of the quaggoths toward the duergar, however, was quite clear to all of them.  

Finally, Taktak silenced the layers of noises by leaning forward, gathering the four outsiders together once again in a single encompassing stare.  “The stone-kin are not worry of quaggoth,” he said.  “But the shadow dwarves have pushed us once too many times, and they must be taught that quaggoth are not weaklings to be chained and enslaved.”  

“We have seen no weakness since we have come here,” Cal offered.

“You fight with great spirit,” the quaggoth said.  “Your enemy is our enemy, so I will join your raid, along with a full claw of our greatest warriors.  The others will remain behind to defend the tribe.”

The quaggoth’s announcement was greeted by a cacophony of roars from the assembled warriors that, while deafening in the confines of the cavern, seemed to generally express approval for their leader’s plan.  

“Whatever you said, it seems to have worked!  It looks like we have some new allies!” Benzan shouted over the din.

“It would seem so!” Cal replied, although his words were lost in the continuing clamor.  Then there were quaggoths all around them, and the meeting, apparently adjourned, gave way to a confused welter of noise and fur and movement.


----------



## Maldur

bump, back to the front 

Soone keep this on the first page while Im AWAY FOR A FEW DAYS .

maldur


----------



## Krellic

Is it just paranoia or am I right to feel uneasy on behalf of the party now they just received a number of sword-fodder, sorry reinforcements...


----------



## Talindra

*bump*

Actually....I think it's the quaggoths you should feel sorry for. Remember those redshirts?


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks to everyone who's been working to keep my story on page 1.  Is it just me, or have there been a deluge of new story hours recently?  I wish I had time to read them all...

I was feeling guilty about my decreasing update-frequency until I quickly added up the numbers.  In the six months since I ported the story to the new boards (that was mid-January), I've made 118 story posts.  That's about 2 posts for every 3 days.  No wonder I'm getting tired!

Ok, enough tooting my own horn, here's the Friday update.  I try to offer up a good cliffhanger on Fridays, but we're in setting-the-stage mode right now... promise we're building to something big though!  

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 18

Apparently the quaggoths’ enthusiasm was not quick to fade, for the noise of activity from the common cave did not die down for hours after the companions were able to slip out of the gathering and return to their side cave to rest and prepare.  They spent that time in relative quiet, themselves, each focused on private tasks.  Lok made some minor repairs to his armor, the sound of metal tapping on metal interrupting the quiet every so often as he coaxed a slightly damaged piece back into place.  Benzan checked his arrows, spent some time paging through his tiny spellbook, and then, bored, leaned back against a rock and drifted off into sleep.  Cal read his own spellbook, verifying that each of the spells that burned in his memory were ready to be called upon in their defense, and wrote a little in his journal.  Dana spent the time in contemplative prayer, although in this dark place far under the ground the reassuring presence of the moon goddess seemed far away indeed.  

When the time finally came, it was Taktak himself who arrived, slipping into the cave like a shadow.  His muscular torso was covered by a fresh coat of dark pigments, breaking up the lines of his form and helping him blend into the surrounding stone.  He carried his huge mace at the ready, and the growl that he shot them as he entered held a faint tremor of anticipation.  

Without discussion the companions gathered up their gear and followed the quaggoth into one of the dark tunnels that radiated out from their lair.  Their footfalls upon the stone beneath them echoed through the cavernous depths, although Taktak’s heavier stride made barely a whisper in his passage.  There was no need for speech.  All of them had been here before, marching off to another dread confrontation, but somehow down here the feverish excitement of adventure seemed replaced by a heavy cloak of numb blackness.  Even Lok, who could look forward to finally finding his people once again, seemed to grip the haft of his axe with resignation.  

Taktak led them to a small side cavern, off of the main passageway, where the rest of their company waited.  The “claw” that Taktak had described was a quartet of quaggoth warriors, standing together like a cluster of stone sentinels in the open space of the cavern.  All were armed with a variety of heavy weapons, and streaked like Taktak with the dark camouflage pigments.  

Taktak exchanged a few words with the warriors in the quaggoth language.  One of the warriors turned toward the companions and asked something, to which Taktak replied with a clipped phrase and a low growl.  The others laughed—a strange sound indeed, coming from the throats of the deep bears.

“What did they say?” Benzan asked.

“That one said that carrying that flame around would draw attacks down upon us, and Taktak said to bring them on,” Lok translated.  His grip of Undercommon allowed him to just understand the guttural words of the quaggoth tongue, but it would be enough for them to pass basic meaning between the two groups.  If necessary, they could bolster that with Cal’s _tongues_ spell or Dana’s _comprehend languages,_ but as each power was only usable once per day, they would preserve it until it was sorely needed.  

The quaggoths were gathering up their own gear when Benzan heard a faint scraping sound in the passageway behind them.  “Someone’s coming!” he hissed, stringing his bow as he slid into the shadows along the uneven wall of the cavern. 

The quaggoths were quick to reply, spreading out into a half-circle that faced in the direction of the sound.  The mystery was quickly solved, however, as a growl ventured out of the darkness, and another quaggoth stepped forward, outfitted like the others.

“A last minute addition?  Or a messenger, perhaps?” Cal said.

As the quaggoth came nearer, it was clear that it had a slight limp, favoring its left leg slightly as it walked straight toward the quaggoth leader and faced him with a look that could only be described as defiant.  

It growled, and Taktak responded with a growl of his own that did not sound pleased.

“What’s going on?” Benzan asked.

“That quaggoth—it’s the one that Dana saved, after the battle with the duergar,” Cal observed.  “Looks like Taktak’s not happy to see him.”

The exchange between the two quaggoths went on for a few moments longer, growing more intense until they feared that the pair would actually come to blows.  Finally, however, Taktak made a final pronouncement, and the injured quaggoth drew himself up to his full height, his defiance clear in his stance.  After a long pause, Taktak nodded and pointed toward the companions.  The quaggoth walked over to them, doing its best to conceal its limp, and shot them a grin full of wickedly jagged teeth.  It growled a greeting, focusing its attention on Dana.

“He says his name is Rakkath,” Lok said.  

“Well, looks like we have one more, then,” Benzan noted.

* * * * * 

They didn’t get off to a very auspicious start.

It wasn’t difficult to follow the trail left by the departing duergar raiders and their new slaves, even with more than a day’s passage in between.  In the Underdark there was no weather to obscure tracks, and even on the hard stone there were enough traces left for the quaggoth to track their quarry.  

They were only a few hours into their journey when the trail passed under a low overhang, with a gap of perhaps six feet or so between the floor and protruding ceiling above.  The first quaggoth leaned forward and ducked under the edge of the overhang, but even as he started to straighten again those following heard a sharp snap, followed by a loud clatter of falling rocks.  The quaggoth went down, crushed by several direct impacts.

The others quickly moved to help the battered creature, and Dana was there immediately with a ready healing spell, but it was too late.  One of the stones had struck the creature solidly in the back of the neck, crushing his spine.  

It was clear that the duergar had anticipated someone coming after them.

The moved on, experience adding more caution to their steps.  Taktak himself moved to the lead, and after a short while Benzan slipped forward to join him.  At first the quaggoth glared at the tiefling’s intrusion, but later that day, after Benzan spotted another trap moments before the quaggoth leader would have stepped into it, the pair settled into a working truce.  

Despite the need to be wary, they covered a lot of ground, with Taktak driving them all to as quick a pace as they could handle.  Lok’s short frame and heavy armor slowed them down somewhat, but his incredible constitution allowed him to push himself far enough to keep to the pace.  Cal’s legs were even shorter, and after that first morning Taktak started having his warriors take turns bearing the gnome aloft on their shoulders.  Neither the gnome nor the quaggoths were that happy with the arrangement, but it did allow them to quicken their pace.  

By the middle of the second day, they had detected and bypassed another pair of traps left behind by the retreating duergar column, but had not encountered anything living save for the usual fauna of the Underdark tunnels.  Soon, however, Taktak began to slow their pace again, as the first signs of their impending destination became visible around them.  At first those signs were subtle; a smudged trail of soot on a wall here, a piece of a broken tool lying between a pair of stones there.  They passed several small side passages that had clearly been cut by intelligent hands, no doubt test shafts in the duergar mining operations that had not panned out.  

Finally, as they crept forward through the tunnels, they heard a sound; a faint tinkering of metal on stone.  Although it was impossible to tell exactly, given the tricks of sound that were common in this place, it seemed far distant, like an echo of an echo.  One thing they could determine, however; the sound was coming from somewhere up ahead. 

Now they crept forward at full alert, the quaggoths bent forward as they slipped silently ahead on their padded feet.  Taktak made a gesture back to them, pointing at the _everburning flame_ that Dana carried.  The cleric nodded and shrouded the light under her cloak, allowing just enough of its illumination to seep out for her to see the ground right in front of her feet.  Cal, back on his own feet again, stayed back with her, even his excellent low-light vision tested by the dim glow coming from under her garment.  With her action the darkness fell back in on them like a crashing wave, enveloping them in its fastness.  

But the quaggoths were creatures of the dark places, and they moved into the lead as the company continued forward.  Benzan was still near the front of the column, but Lok hung back with Cal and Dana, his noisy gear as much of a beacon to potential ambushers as Dana’s light had been.  Rakkath hung back as well, bringing up the rear behind Dana, matching their pace through sheer determination.  Dana had covertly slipped him magical healing several times during the trip despite the proud creature’s reluctance to accept aid.  Still it was clear to anyone who saw into his dark eyes that the deep bear was in pain, though he offered no complaint as he shambled along after them.

As they progressed deeper into the tunnels the signs of recent occupation grew.  They passed through caves where tools were scattered about haphazardly, as if hastily dropped and left behind.  At one point they found a small iron brazier, the sort used for heating metal tools to work them in the field, and when Benzan touched it he found that the coals inside were still warm. 

“I don’t like this…” the tiefling muttered.  

The distant clanging had accompanied their stalking advance, growing gradually louder, but then, suddenly, it stopped.  They halted and waited, but the sound wasn’t repeated.  It was as if they had stepped across a trigger that had snuffed out the source of the noise like a candle’s flame.  

A few muted growls passed through the knot of quaggoth warriors, betraying their own unease at the building tension.  Taktak, however, ignored them and started forward again, and the others quickly moved to follow.  

They came to a jagged bend in the passage, which opened onto another larger space beyond.  As he crept round the corner enough to see around the turn, Taktak suddenly exploded forward, his mace at the ready, the other quaggoths only an instant behind him.  

The companions rushed after them, weapons appearing in their hands, uncertain what danger awaited.


----------



## Lazybones

Oh, I forgot to mention... for those of you playing Neverwinter Nights, I uploaded my first campaign module, entitled "The Crossroads," to my website, here: lazybones18.tripod.com.  It's suitable for solo, multi, or DM-assisted play.  It's far from perfect (I'm still learning the intricacies of the Aurora toolset), but download it and give it a try!

LB


----------



## Krellic

I've never encountered quaggoths before but you make them sound quite interesting.  I just hope some of them survive, damn those red vests...


----------



## Horacio

TOO

MANY

UPDATES

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGG


BRAIN OVERFLOW!

       Horacio

Back from Spain!!!!


----------



## Lazybones

Welcome back, Horacio!


----------



## Old One

*Great Stuff!*

LB -

Haven't been by to comment in awhile and just waded through the last half-dozen updates.  Still enjoying it immensely, I am glad you have decided to continue.

One question...are you trying different style with more off-stage perspective?  I think it adds alot without being too expository.

Keep up the good work!

~ Old One


----------



## Horacio

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Welcome back, Horacio! *




Thanks, Lazybones!

Your story remains as good as ever 
So now, I'm waiting for an update


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## Lazybones

Good morning (bleah, Monday)!

Krellic: 3e quaggoths are found in _Monsters of Faerun_; while I originally balked at this purchase (20 bucks for a thin softcover!?!), I'd say about a dozen of its denizens have popped up in this story (worth it for the ghour demon alone ), and I've even started porting some of them to my Neverwinter Nights game (where kir-lanan, nyth, banedead, and baneguards have all made an appearance).  

Old One: yes, I do try a lot of perspective shifts to deepen the novelesque feel of my story.  Even in Book 1 I did a number of short scenes with the backstory of the evil plot in Elturel, while keeping the identity of the plotters secret.  I like my villains to be deeper, complex individuals (usually flawed in some serious way--that makes 'em villains ) rather than cardboard cut-outs with stat blocks.  That's one of the things I like about your game, with its recurring complex antagonists (p.s. sorry I haven't been by in a while... NWN is consuming all my free time and I've been neglecting my favorite story hours as a result).   

Horacio: Maldur did a great job of bumping the thread in your absence, but I'm glad you're back to take up your rightful position as Head Bumper.  Here's your update!

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 19

The companions rushed around the corner, following the lead of Taktak and his quaggoth warriors.

The open space after the bend wasn’t that large, a low-ceilinged cavern perhaps thirty feet across.  A pair of tunnel exits besides the one they had entered through were visible on the far side of the room, at least to those who were possessed of darkvision.  

The quaggoths stood in a knot around a cluster of trunk-sized stones along the wall to their left as they entered.  Their positioning blocked whatever it was that had set off Taktak, but as the companions approached they could hear a crotchety voice spit out a phrase in heavily accented common, “Get off me, you furry menaces!  I say, be off!” 

The companions drew up in surprise, as the ring of quaggoths parted just enough for them to make out the speaker.  An old dwarf sat on one of the stones, his long white beard falling in tumultuous cascades across the front of his body down to his lean, bony knees.  His skin was a dusky gray, marking him likely either a duergar or undunnir, although there was something about him that defied easy categorization.  His face was a landscape of wrinkles, and he was clad only in a threadbare shift that could not conceal the hard edges of his lean frame.  

One of the quaggoth growled as the old man poked him with his stick, an item that was more a gesture than a real weapon.  But the old fellow was clearly harmless, and the deep bears did not attack.  

“What are you doing here, old one?” Cal asked as the quaggoths drew back enough for them to approach.  “Did you escape from the duergar?”

“Duergar?  What?  No, I didn’t ‘scape from no one, least not so far as I can remember.”  He made a show of dusting himself off, although the gesture did little to improve his appearance.  “Them bear-folks yours?  Thanks for calling them off, anyways.”

“He asked what you were doing here,” Benzan said, his eyes narrowed.  “We’re right on the fringes of a duergar stronghold, in case you didn’t know, and this place is dangerous.  You’d be better off giving us some answers.”

The old dwarf’s beady eyes fixed on Benzan, and there was a potency there that none of them missed.  “Don’t be ordering me around, boy,” he said.  “Your blood don’t be givin’ you the right to tell me what’s what, now.”

“Perhaps my companion’s manners are a bit lacking, old one, but the questions are valid.  Who are you?”

“Name’s Athumba, not that it’s any business of yours.”  The old dwarf drew himself up slightly, as if that gesture could restore some of his injured dignity.  It was clear, though, that only grit was keeping his tired form upright at all.  

“Honored elder, are you one of the urdunnir?” Lok asked, his demeanor strangely hesitant.  

The old dwarf turned to him, and looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.  “Ah,” he said, and the single syllable seemed somehow rich with meaning.  “One of the planetouched, and marked as well.  It becomes a little clearer, perhaps.”

Taktak growled something, and it didn’t require Lok’s translation to tell that he was clearly impatient. 

“Yes, yes, we’re getting to that, furball!” the dwarf shot back, and the grim quaggoth subsided.  “They’re very impatient, you know,” Athumba said apologetically.  “Now, where were we?”

“We were trying to get you to explain what an elderly dwarf is doing in these tunnels alone, on the doorstep of a duergar outpost,” Benzan said, his voice mirroring Taktak’s irritation.  

The old dwarf coughed loudly, the sound amplified by the acoustics of the cavern, and for a moment they all looked around in alarm, as if the noise would draw down a horde of attackers upon them.  Dana came forward, concern written clear on her face, but the old dwarf managed to control the bout and forestalled her with a hand. 

“No, child, there’s nothing you can do for me, not at the moment, at least.  I apologize that I cannot give you the answers that you seek.  I am weary, very weary, and must rest.”

Lok looked at his friends, his eyes betraying his concern, and Cal nodded.  “We cannot bring you with us, old one,” the gnome said.  “Our path takes us into greater danger.  We will come back for you, if we can.”

“I know,” Athumba said, and clasped the gnome’s hand warmly with his withered grip.  “I know you will do what must be done.”  And then, as if that final statement had drained the last of his energy, he slumped back against the stone, his eyes closing even as his head touched the cold stone.  

“Is he…?” Benzan asked.  

“No, he’s just sleeping,” Dana said.  Tenderly, she took a rolled-up blanket from her pack and tucked it under his head, careful not to disturb his rest.  Then they moved back slowly, near where the quaggoth stood in a cluster, watching the scene as it transpired.  Taktak motioned for two of his warriors to check the exit passages for traces, and the pair of quaggoth leapt into action.  

“He never did answer our question,” Benzan said.  

“Well, it’s clear he’s not a duergar, anyway, or if he is, he’s been terribly mistreated,” Dana said. 

“Though I hate to leave him here alone, there’s nothing we can do for him right now,” Cal said.  “I’d suggest to Taktak that he leave one of his warriors here to watch over him, but he’d never go for it.”

“Yeah, the quaggoth despise weakness,” Benzan replied.  He glanced back at the sleeping dwarf once more, suspicion clouding his features briefly before they turned to go.  

Lok, too, looked back once as they left the chamber and its enigmatic occupant, but whatever feelings resided behind that glance were hidden behind the genasi’s inscrutable features.  

With the quaggoths again in the lead, they set out once again toward their destination.


----------



## Lazybones

Just a quick P.S.: 

I've set up the climax of this book already, but if any of you have seen through my webs and false leads and figured out where this is all going, please don't spoil it by posting the "answer."  I want it to be a surprise (or maybe it's all transparent, and everybody already knows what's going to happen...).

Thanks! 
LB


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## Maldur

He, Im back from a short vacation as well.

Horacio how was the trip?

Nice update, I have this strange feeling they are gonna be in over their heads again.


When I get home Ill see if I can download your module

Cheerz, Maldur


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## Horacio

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Just a quick P.S.:
> 
> I've set up the climax of this book already, but if any of you have seen through my webs and false leads and figured out where this is all going, please don't spoil it by posting the "answer."  I want it to be a surprise (or maybe it's all transparent, and everybody already knows what's going to happen...).
> 
> Thanks!
> LB *




I have some guesses, but I won't tell you them, because I'm afraid I can be very very wrong 

Great update, BTW...


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## Lazybones

Slow day at work (bosses all on vacation), so it's update time...

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 20

The chasm opened up like a great wound in the body of the earth, running for miles through the interior of the world.  Gusts of wind, sometimes hot, sometimes cold, tore through the great open space, bringing strange smells from other places far away through the endless network of cracks and passages that lay under the surface of Toril.  

The width of the chasm varied along its great length, but at one point the gap between its two vertical sides narrowed to perhaps two hundred paces.  At that point, a massive stone bridge arced across the distance, connecting two passages that were part of the endless network of tunnels that wound through the twisting Underdark.  

The bridge itself looked natural, tenuous in the vastness of the chasm even though it was sound, thick, and solid when viewed up close.  However, one glance was enough to tell that even if the bridge was an ordinary construct formed of the interaction of stone and wind and water over centuries or millennia, intelligent hands had come along more recently and bent the structure to their use. 

One of the passages exiting from the bridge was plain and unmarked, just another of the thousands of natural corridors that led off into the Underdark.  But on the opposite end of the bridge, the passage exit was sealed by a pair of large metal doors.  The shiny outer face of the portals glowed with the reflected light of a large bluish-green flame that burned in a brazier sunk into a hollow in one of the adjacent walls.  That eerie flame—which never seemed to flicker in the wind or grow dim from lack of fuel—revealed that each door had within its center a narrow vertical slit, clearly designed to allow defenders beyond to view intruders approaching along the length of the bridge.  Every now and again a shadow moved behind those slits, indicating that the portals were indeed warded by alert guardians.

But the great metal doors were only part of the visible defenses of this place.  Above the portals, a thick stony overhang jutted out partly over the length of the stone bridge.  Atop this shelf, some thirty feet above the surface of the span, was a battlement of worn stone, carefully carved to lend defenders there excellent cover from attacks from below without injuring their vantage over the length of the bridge.  Although there was no light upon the shelf, those with the eyes to penetrate the darkness would see squat forms standing sentry atop those battlements, moving occasionally behind the warding stone crenellations.  

It was a considerable defensive position, and one that had served the duergar quite well.  

Moving carefully and slowly so as not to betray his position to a keen-eyed sentry, Benzan slipped back from his vantage point among a cluster of boulders near the mouth of the passage overlooking the bridge.  He’d spent the last ten minutes or so watching silently, trying to discern every last possible detail that he could make out about the duergar fortifications.  

From what he’d seen, it didn’t look good.  

Unwilling to trust fully the power of his _ring of shadows_ to conceal him, he didn’t rise from his crawl until he was well back into the shelter of the passage.  He passed a thick, furry form as he retreated, but Taktak was his equal in stealth as the burly quaggoth warrior slipped away in his wake.  Benzan had to admit, that while most of the quaggoth seemed to lack the grace of subtlety, preferring a more direct approach to problems, the quaggoth leader had proven both adaptable and skilled.  And the best part, at least from Benzan’s perspective, was that he kept the rest of the quaggoths under control.  Cal seemed to have established a good relationship with the creatures, and Dana had that one… Rakkath… under her thumb, but the tiefling was still suspicious of the deep bears and their motives, and he wasn’t going to ignore the probing looks that the warriors shot at them when they thought that the companions weren’t paying attention.

But one of the hard lessons that Benzan had learned from life, was that you _always_ paid attention. 

The two scouts returned back about fifty paces down the passage, after a bend that took them out of the line of sight of the guardians of the bridge.  The others were waiting in a small alcove that led back off the main corridor, the quaggoths forming a small separate knot that seemed to stir to life with the loping return of their leader.

“It doesn’t look good,” Benzan told them, when he was close enough not to have to raise his voice.  He quickly filled them in on the details of what he’d seen.  “They’ve got a regular fortress up there, easily defended even by a handful of guards.  It’s a good thing we’ve got your gnomish ears… if we’d gone any further down the passage, they would have seen Dana’s light for sure.”

“With the noise that wind was making, I’d have to be deaf not to hear it,” Cal replied.  A short distance to the side, Taktak was relating the news to his comrades in his own way, and to their surprise the whole lot of them suddenly got up and started in the direction of the bridge.  

“What—what are you doing?” Cal asked in surprise.  With a quickness that belied his small size, he darted ahead before the quaggoths could pick up speed and outdistance them.  “Wait!” he hissed, careful not to let his voice raise too high in volume.  

“Danged things are set on suicide, it looks like,” Benzan said in an aside to Dana.  The mystic wanderer, a troubled look on her face, did not respond.  Behind her, Rakkath stood, conspicuous in not having joined the others.  

One of the quaggoth warriors looked down at Cal, and growled something unintelligible that was decidedly hostile in tone.  The gnome, however, ignored him, and drifted into the melody of his _tongues_ spell.  

The quaggoths had come to realized what the song signified, and while their impatience was clearly reflected in their eyes they waited the few moments for the spell to take effect.  

“Well?” Taktak finally asked, the meaning in the growl coming through clearly through the filter of Cal’s spell.  “No more waiting.  We must attack swiftly, and break through doors before they can respond.”

“Sounds like a great plan,” Benzan opined from the side, but no one was really listening to him. 

“Great warriors,” Cal began, “We do not doubt your courage, but the shadow dwarves are clearly prepared for such an attack.  You might break through the doors, and kill many, but you would lose many warriors in the process.”  He saw immediately in their eyes how little the quaggoths cared of that notion, so before any could respond he hastily added, “Let us use our cunning to devise a plan to break through the enemy defenses, so that your strength is not used in vain.”

While the quaggoth language was less complex than that which Cal was using, apparently the spell got the meaning through, for after a moment’s thought Taktak nodded.  Several of the quaggoths behind him seemed reluctant, and one even shot a dark look at the gnome, but all eventually stepped back behind the bulky form of their leader.  

“So, what’s the plan, O fearless leader?” Benzan asked.

Cal glanced once more at the quaggoths, knowing that their impatience for battle could end their reprieve at any moment.  With a conspiratorial look at his companions, he quickly laid out the idea that had been forming in his mind ever since Benzan had returned with his description of the duergar fortifications.


----------



## Maldur

back to the top!


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## Horacio

Cal for president


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## Lazybones

Book V, Part 21

“It’s done.  Go,” Cal said, drawing back from Lok.      

Dana nodded, and opened her mind for a fourth time to the power of her goddess.  Behind her, the quaggoths watched with a mixture of unease and suspicion, wary of all magic due to their species’ misfortunes at the hands of the potent magic-using races of the Underdark.  

Benzan, of course, was already on his way. 

As Dana completed her spell, Cal’s plan moved into action.  

* * * * *

The six duergar serving guard duty atop the battlements that warded the entrance to their stronghold held mixed feelings about their current task.  On the one hand, such duty was boring, tedious, and repetitive, and despite being rotated more or less evenly among the garrison’s warriors, it was generally considered a punishment for some real or imagined offense.  But at the same time, all of the dwarf warriors had heard rumors of the strange happenings of late in the inner caverns that were Shemma’s private demesne, and by and large most of them were quite happy to be as far away from that place as was reasonably possible.  

So the six stood their posts, occasionally walking along the smooth teeth of the battlements, neither engaging in petty chatter nor idle amusements, infused with a perpetual wariness that no surfaceworlder could ever truly understand.  

One of the dwarves shifted slightly, feeling an uncomfortable twinge in his lower back at the unexpected movement.  He turned, his senses warning him of a danger that he could not consciously see…

One of the dwarves opposite him also stiffened suddenly, but the cause for his distress was immediately apparent as a long, bloody gash suddenly appeared along the line of his throat, tearing through the chain links of his gorget.  The dwarf staggered and fell hard against the nearest battlement, trying with futility to stop the flow of its lifeblood between its fingers.  

A tall human clad in a full coat of shining mithral armor appeared out of thin air, still hovering slightly with the effects of a spell of _flying_.  He bore a bronze blade wet with the blood of the dwarf he had just slain, and even as the duergar spun and reached for their weapons he lunged at the next nearest defender, thrusting through his defenses and stabbing the tip of his blade through the dwarf’s layered steel armor.  The wound was serious if not life-threatening, but the dwarf refused to back off, drawing out a heavy axe with one hand and a long dirk from his belt with the other.  

The intruder had gotten surprise, but now five fully armed and armored dwarf warriors bore down on him, moving with the agility and efficiency of men trained to attack in groups.  However, before they could manage more than a few desultory, testing probes with their weapons, a shimmering plane of force appeared in the air a few paces away, broadening in size until it formed a portal that hovered a few inches above the stone floor of the battlement.  

“Teleportation!” one of the dwarves warned, as several shifted toward this new threat.  Even as they did, however, another pair of intruders stepped through the magic gateway—a young human woman clutching a spear, and a broad-shouldered dwarf in full plate armor with a heavy battleaxe.  

The duergar, used to the terrible dangers of the Underdark, did not falter in the face of these adversaries or the loss of one of their number, and launched an immediate attack.  They coordinated their attacks with subtle gestures, moving to flank their opponents while one broke for the dark opening in the cliff wall at the back of the shelf, retreating to alert the lair and bring aid to repel these bold intruders.  

Two came at the man in the mithral armor, spreading out to flank him as their blades sought holes in his defenses.  He moved with incredible quickness, although the dwarves could not know of the _cat’s grace_ that Cal had laid upon him, and the strokes that did get through his dodges glanced off of the mithral links of his chainmail.  

He might have taken advantage of this to put down his already wounded adversary, but he saw that his companions were not in a position to stop the dwarf running toward the rear exit.  Instantly he shot up into the air, taking an attack of opportunity from one of the dwarves that tore a jagged line of pain along his right hip as he disengaged from his foes and shot toward the exit.  His magical flight greatly outpaced the speed of the armored dwarf, and as he landed in front of the dark opening, blocking the exit, the dwarf came up short, raising his axe to defend himself.  

The other pair of warriors took on the two newcomers.  The woman seemed a bit disoriented at having come through the portal, but as the dwarf’s axe slashed at her the blade was turned by an invisible field of magical deflection.  The dwarf snarled as he recognized the nature of the silver bracers the woman wore, but he pressed his attack before she could recover and strike back.  

Unfortunately for him she recovered quite quickly, darting back with a sudden hop and bringing her spear to bear.  With the strength of Selûne’s _divine power_ behind the thrust, she slammed the magical head of the shockspear into the dwarf’s torso, drawing a grunt of pain from him as the blade released its energy into his body.  

Lok, meanwhile, faced off against the last warrior.  

For about six seconds.  

Enhanced by the final spell that Cal had cast before launching the plan into action, Lok spun from his fallen foe and, driven by magical _haste_, charged into the pair that Benzan had left unfinished.  The wounded dwarf spun to meet the charge, only to crumple under the powerful stroke of Lok’s axe.  

The duergar did not speak in challenge, or cry out for mercy.  They did not call out to their companions below; the loud clang of metal on metal was warning cry enough.  They did die, however, fighting against superior adversaries with the same grim fortitude that marked the lives of their more virtuous cousins that dwelled closer to the surface.  

After only a few more exchanges, the last of the dwarves were down, and the floor of the battlements were slick with spilled blood.  Other than the gash Benzan had taken to his hip, the companions had not taken any injuries in the brief melee.  

Dana glanced out over the edge between a gap in the battlements, and saw the quaggoths already coming across the bridge.  Cal had remained with them, to ensure that they held back until the attack was underway, and they could move into position to open the iron doors from within.  All had suspected, however, that whatever the restraint that the quaggoths could muster would shatter once they heard the sounds of battle.  And so it was.  At least they were bringing Cal along, one of them—it looked like Rakkath—carrying the gnome aloft on its shoulders.  In the light of the blue flame before the doors, the charging creatures looked like grim shadows of death, come to deliver justice to those who committed great wrongs.  

_Getting a little melodramatic, Dana?_ she berated herself silently, as she turned to her companions.  “They’re coming—” she began.

Only to see that Benzan and Lok had already entered the dark entrance at the rear of the overhang.  Even as she took her first step she could hear the crash of a loud gong echoing from somewhere beyond the doors below, followed almost immediately by the sounds of battle.  

Sighing to herself, she hurried after them.


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## Broccli_Head

*It's been awhile...*

Delem's dead! I am so far behind!  I guess I got side-tracked shortly after the heroes returned from the _Isle of Dread_.

I guess that was the beginning of Book iv? The last time I remember was the peryton fight and the dwarf and elf NPCs at the campfire. 

Guess I'll have to do a lot of reading!


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## Lazybones

Broc, the complete story (including all of book IV) is available on Morrus's story hour hosting page, in PDF format, if you'd rather just download that.  

http://www.enworld.org/Story.htm


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## Broccli_Head

Thanks LB...Now I have bedtime reading!


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## Maldur

Broccli-head,  welcome back to the story as well.

Seems like the original readers are here again ( or am I missing someone?)

LB It great how you keep switching perception.


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## Horacio

I'm here since the beginning, and I will be here even when the page count will be higher than in Wheel of Time saga...


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## Lazybones

Boy, I just hit a flurry of writing activity this week, so it's another "post-a-day" extravaganza.  Enjoy!

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 22 

Still under the effects of Dana’s _fly_ spell, Benzan lifted over the heads of the surprised duergar warding the base of the stairs down from the battlements, skimming along the ceiling toward the heavy metal doors at the end of the hall.  The two guards spun to follow him, but a moment later Lok, still _hasted_, crashed down the final bend of the staircase and slammed into the pair of them in a jumble of clashing armor and cutting blades.  Both fell back into the more open space of the hall, one clutching a deep, frost-frozen gash in his shoulder.  

Another pair of dwarves stood in front of the door, just a short distance from a large brass gong that dangled from the wall.  Both dwarves held crossbows, which they aimed and fired at Benzan as he zoomed up the hallway toward the sealed portals.  

The tiefling dodged the first shot, but felt pain erupt in his side as the second punched through the links of his armor and stabbed into his flesh.  The burning sensation that spread outward from the point of impact served as sufficient warning that the bolt was poisoned, but Benzan gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the pain as he dove down to engage the two dwarves, his blade held before him like a lance.  

Lok, meanwhile, traded blows with his two foes, who found themselves hard pressed despite being able to flank the genasi fighter.  Lok struck the one he had injured again, but missed with a follow-up stroke that would likely have finished the duergar.  He shrugged off a hit from the one behind him, a glancing blow that stung even through the layered protection of his magical platemail.  Of greater concern was the sound of booted feet coming up the corridor, accompanied by the familiar clink of metal armor.  

Reinforcements were on the way, it seemed.  

Benzan, meanwhile, was finding himself hard pressed.  His first thrust scored against its adversary, the sharp edge drawing a shallow but bloody cut along the side of the dwarf’s head.  He remained hovering about six feet off the ground, making it difficult for the dwarves to reach him easily, but as he prepared for another attack the two duergar dropped their crossbows and began to… grow. 

Benzan had seen the _enlarge_ power of the duergar before, but it was still disconcerting to see the pair of them suddenly sprout up, expanding outward until they were taller than the tiefling and twice as broad.  One lunged up and grabbed Benzan by the ankle, absorbing a stab from Benzan’s sword as he tried to drag the tiefling down into a grapple.  The other took advantage of the distraction to slip his dirk into Benzan’s other leg, dragging a line of red out along the silvery mithral links of his armor.  

Dana, meanwhile, charged down the narrow staircase that connected the battlements above with the hallway behind the doors below.  Her continual flame was tucked into her belt—the magical fire cast no heat and did not set things on fire—and cast long shadows along the smooth stone walls as she ran, spear thrust before her in case any foes suddenly presented themselves.  The sounds of battle ahead grew more insistent as she hurried after her magically speeded companions, and then the stair turned once more upon its length and she could see the open space and its battle raging below.  She saw Lok and Benzan, each engaged with a pair of duergar, but more significantly her light caught on the metal-clad forms of another half-dozen duergar reinforcements, hurrying to join in the battle.  

So to slow them down a bit, she cast _daylight_ onto the tip of her spear.  

The duergar cried out as the brilliant radiance of the light banished the darkness of the wide hall, tearing into their sensitive eyes.  Their discipline kept them from breaking, but the illumination clearly hindered them as they came forward, shielding their eyes from the light with raised arms.  The distraction also aided Lok, who took advantage of his adversaries’ distress to finish the already wounded dwarf with a punishing blow to the head and immediately spinning into a follow-up that crushed mightily into the side of the second.  The crippled dwarf fell back, toward his onrushing companions, and Lok moved to meet the charge with cold resolution burning in his eyes.  

Benzan, meanwhile, drew back, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge the _enlarged_ dwarf still clutching onto his leg.  When that didn’t work, he tried his sword instead, thrusting it down into the dwarf’s shoulder.  The duergar cried out in pain but refused to loosen his grip.  

“All right then, we’ll do it the hard way,” Benzan cursed, twisting away from the dwarf’s dagger-thrusting companion and lifting his sword to thrust again.

Behind the dwarves, the metal doors thrummed with a mighty impact, although the dwarf-forged steel easily withstood the force of the attack.  The complex triple-bolting mechanism on the inside of the doors looked like it was designed to withstand a battering ram, and certainly the efforts of even a determined group of quaggoth warriors.

The quaggoths had arrived, but for the moment it looked as though they would have to remain on the other side of the portals.  

Lok met the onrushing duergar phalanx with a charge of his own, taking the first dwarven chop on his shield and responding with an overhead swing that crushed the dwarf’s helmet hard against his skull.  The dwarf staggered back, blood jetting from the wound, although the steel cap had spared his life.  Almost immediately two dwarves came at Lok from either side, flanking him as their weapons tore into his defenses, seeking gaps.  There weren’t many of those to be found, but a pair of hits did tell, tearing shallow gashes in his sides as he struggled to hold against the full force of the duergar rush.  

Behind the melee, the dwarf that Lok had injured earlier paused to find and drink a healing potion, while the last dwarf summoned up the power of an _enlarge_ spell.  

Then both of them vanished.

Dana saw that Lok’s motions, while still effective, had slowed down to their usual pace, indicating that Cal’s _haste_ spell had run its course.  Similarly, she felt the strength of her _divine power_ start to wane, although the _endurance_ she had cast earlier remained potent.  She saw the two dwarves behind the melee turn invisible, but was more concerned with the five that had surrounded Lok and were tearing into him from every direction.  Without hesitation she thrust forward with her spear, tearing into the back of one of Lok’s attackers.  The duergar staggered forward in pain, leaving an opening that Lok exploited with another powerful stroke.  The dwarf cried out and went down, clutching at the wide gash in its chest.  

The heavy metal doors pounded again and again, although they barely seemed to give with each furious impact.  The two dwarves battling Benzan redoubled their efforts with each blow, knowing that if they failed to hold here that enemies would be released into their lair.  The dwarf holding Benzan loosened his grip and brought up his axe in a two-handed overhand stroke, slamming into Benzan’s stomach.  His mail absorbed the force of the blow, but even so it was clear from his expression that the tiefling felt the power of the attack.  The other dwarf lunged again at Benzan’s leg, having drawn a sword that replaced his earlier dagger.  Before he could strike, however, he twisted suddenly to reveal a long quarrel stuck into the small of his back.  

Apparently Cal had discovered that the arrow slits in the doors could be used both ways.  

Benzan let out a feral cry and thrust forward with his sword as he swooped low, driving the magical bronze blade into the first dwarf’s throat.  The metal links of the dwarf’s armor parted before the strength of the blow, and the dwarf fell back in a heap, its axe falling from its suddenly powerless fingers.  The other dwarf tried to fight through its pain and prosecute its attack against the tiefling, but Benzan spun and met its charge with the tip of its blade.  

The dwarf went down, clutching at its ruined eye as it writhed in agony.  

Benzan was at the doors in an instant, even as the pounding from without continued.  It took his experienced eye just a few moments to figure out how to operate the complex locking mechanism, and then he pulled the bolts back and tugged at the heavy doors.  

The doors burst open as a wave of quaggoths burst into the hallway.  Benzan was just able to dodge back from the suddenly opening doors, but was caught up in the charge and was tossed hard up against the wall by a raging quaggoth.  Gasping for breath, he managed to bring his sword up in a defensive position as the quaggoth loomed over him, teeth bared.

“HEY!  The fight’s over there!” the tiefling yelled angrily.  

“Taktak!” Cal’s voice came out over the bedlam, but even as the gnome shouted the warning the quaggoth leader was there, angrily grabbing the quaggoth warrior and hurling him bodily down the corridor.  Then they were past, and Cal was there, a look of concern on his face. 

“Ben, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” the tiefling muttered, but he did look a sight with the multiple injuries that he’d suffered.  “Help the others!”

But the fight, already winding down at that point, came to a quick end with the arrival of the quaggoths.  Of the five enemies that had ringed Lok, three were down and one was hurt bad when the quaggoth warriors tore into the two survivors.  The two that had turned invisible had apparently gone for more help, for there had been no sign of them since they vanished and a quick cantrip by Cal confirmed that there were no stray magical auras in the area.  

As Dana turned her healing talents toward helping Benzan, Lok and a pair of the quaggoths checked the hallway to make sure that no more duergar warriors were immediately forthcoming.  None of them had any illusions that the news of their coming had not been spread throughout the complex by now, but the place seemed strangely quiet, carrying that same subdued feeling that they’d sensed in the outer areas before.  They could not afford to dally now, however, and give the duergar time to adapt. 

Taktak came over to where Cal, Dana, and Benzan were standing together near the doors.  Benzan looked a little better with Dana’s treatment of his injuries, but his eyes narrowed as the quaggoth approached.  The deep bear barked something, a short phrase, then turned and walked back to where his companions were looting the corpses of the slain duergar. 

“He said that when the taste of blood touches them, his people often… I guess the nearest translation would be to say they ‘lose it.’”  

The tiefling wiped a spatter of blood—not his own, this time—off of his cheek, and glanced over at the cluster of deep bears.  “Yeah, well, just keep them away from me.  Something tells me that we’re going to have more than our share of blood around us before this is finished.”

Dana and Cal exchanged a look, but neither said anything as they hefted their weapons and followed the quaggoths deeper into the dwarven complex.


----------



## Maldur

Huzzah, A post a day!

Be carefull not to spoil us too much LB 

Great story! I didn't know druegar are this spooky ( I didn't realize they had the enlarge power).


----------



## Horacio

Druegar are spooky, but the party allies are almost spookier...


----------



## Lazybones

RE the duergar: _enlarge_ and _invisibility_ (each 1/day) are a potent combo, especially when nearly all of them have fighter and/or rogue levels (Grolac's boys in particular are all fighter/rogues).  IIRC they are ECL +2 in the FRCS.  

We're approaching another plot climax: book 5 should be reaching its end in about two weeks.  Who will die this time?  Stay tuned!

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 23

The dark elf took a deep breath as he exited the ceremonial chamber and stood in the empty silence of the adjacent foyer, held it for a second, and then let it out leisurely.  While the building excitement of what was going on in the cavern with the massive mithral stele was impossible to deny, the last few days had been rather grueling, even to one of his stamina.  

He no longer doubted that the preparations would be complete, even within the accelerated timeline set by the Avatar.  He welcomed the fresh air and relative quiet for what would probably be the last time before the actual commencement of the ritual, and all of the… unpleasantness… that this would entail. 

But while the momentary respite was a welcome break, the drow knew he could not tarry.  He would not have been interrupted if the reason were not serious, so it was with purpose and speed that he crossed to the next chamber, a large oval-shaped hall with a buttressed ceiling that rose up to form a smooth dome up above.  

As soon as he spotted Grolac, he knew that the news was bad.

“Where’s Shemma?” the dwarf said, a hint of anger in his voice. 

“She cannot be interrupted at this juncture,” the drow explained.  “I thought that this had been made clear.”

“Enemies have breached the Outer Ward!” the dwarf exclaimed.  “Intruders are within the boundaries of the stronghold!”

“How many, and of what sort?” the drow asked, his voice a razor’s edge of calm even as his thoughts whirled down a variety of courses.  

“About a half-dozen quaggoth, and several others—a dwarf fighter, two humans, and a gnome spellcaster.”

“And this small group penetrated your vaunted defenses?” 

“It wasn’t my orders that shifted nearly all our forces back into the Inner Ward.  These intruders are skilled, dangerous, and they wield items of power.”

The drow’s face darkened for a moment, and his eyes flashed with a thousand possibilities.  For an instant his mind darted back to the comment made by the Avatar, that his arrival would not go unnoted…  That thought brought with it the faintest beginning of fear, but he quashed that ruthlessly as he turned his attention back to the dwarf.  

“Very well.  Gather up your little band of veteran cutthroats, reinforce your position at the Inner Ward, and hold there.  It is absolutely vital that nothing penetrate into the sacred caverns in the next several hours—I am holding you, Grolac, personally responsible for this.  I will update Shemma on the current situation.”

The dwarf’s faced twisted into a snarl, and he opened his mouth to offer a stinging retort, but then the drow’s eyes locked onto his and the words died on his tongue.  The duergar had fought many battles against the countless hostile denizens of the Underdark, and one of the things that he had learned in his long course of survival was when it was best to cut one’s losses and retreat.  

So he did, turning and striding purposefully—not quite hurrying—while the drow watched his departing back.    

* * * * * 

Benzan, his reflexes still augmented by Cal’s _cat’s grace_ spell, dodged back just as the heavy crossbow bolt sliced through the air where his head had been just moments before.  One of the quaggoth warriors, just a few paces ahead, wasn’t so lucky, taking a solid hit to the torso that knocked even his considerable bulk backward with the force of the impact. 

“Ambush!” Cal cried out in warning, but the quaggoths were already in full charge toward the side passage where a small cluster of duergar snipers were reloading their weapons.  As the deep bears closed they turned and fled down the passage, although the quaggoths were closing the distance with each passing moment.

“No!” Benzan cried out, knowing that it was already too late.  

As the first pair of quaggoths reached the entrance to the passage the solid-seeming stone of the floor seemed to disintegrate into a thousand fragments, revealing a shallow pit underneath.  The quaggoths didn’t fall far, their heads still visible above the lip of the pit as they landed roughly in the space below.

But then the pit exploded into a wall of flames.  

Both quaggoths cried out in agony as the flames consumed them.  Taktak, who’d cleared the pit in a single leap as his companions fell, spun and tried to grab one of the burning creatures, but the heat of the flames drove him back.  

The quaggoth leader circled around the pit and drew back with the others as the sickly stench of burning flesh filled the air around them.  

“Poor bastards,” Cal said, as they pushed on into the next chamber, leaving the deadly trap and its victims behind.  

“You’d think they’d learn,” Benzan said, his tone betraying more than a hint of anger.  This was the third trap they’d encountered since moving into the duergar fortress, and while they’d bypassed the others without fatalities, this time the duergar had known exactly how to draw their aggressive enemies in.  Dana tried to tend to the quaggoth injured by the crossbow bolt, but the creature pushed her roughly away, yanking the missile out and tossing it aside in a desultory fashion despite the obvious pain that the creature felt.  

“They’re frustrated,” Lok explained.  “They’re not used to this kind of a fight.”

“Well, they’ll get their chance to bash some heads, of that I have no doubt,” Benzan said.  “We just have to find their hideaway, before we all get killed.”

Indeed, the duergar caverns seemed strangely deserted, with nearly empty chambers that showed frequent signs of a hasty departure.  They stuck to the areas that seemed most traveled, leaving behind dark side passages with a wary stare.  They passed through sleeping areas, dining halls, storerooms, and mining traces, but thus far they’d only seen the few duergar that had struck at them from ambush.  Dana’s spear, still shining with the brilliant light of her magical _daylight_, banished the shadows from the rooms and passageways that they entered, but that didn’t ease their anxiety in the least.  They were intruders here, and the aura of menace that hung over even the empty chambers seemed determined to remind them of that fact. 

“I’m sure they’re planning something real special for us,” Benzan said in reply to the unasked question on all of their minds.  

It was Lok who first deduced the layout of the complex, which formed a broad crescent that ran back from the main entrance at the bridge.  Several of the side passages they’d bypassed ran inward toward the center of the crescent, and after a few more fruitless explorations the genasi directed them toward one of those, leading them in the direction of that central area.

The passage joined up with another, then another—apparently the side corridors they’d bypassed earlier all led to the same destination—before descending a steep set of time-smoothed steps that opened onto a large cavern beyond.  Wary of another ambush, the companions pressed on into that area.

The light from Dana’s spear revealed that the place was a natural cavern, its jagged and uneven ceiling forming a rough dome perhaps fifty feet above their heads.  The place was roughly rectangular in shape, with the corridor they’d just traversed entering in the middle of one of the narrower walls, perhaps thirty paces across.  The cavern stretched to the edge of the light ahead of them and beyond, but directly ahead, perhaps sixty feet or so from where they stood, an irregular cleft about twenty feet across bisected the floor of the place.  On the far side of the cleft a wall of mortared stone blocks formed a second barrier.  The wall, which was about eight feet in height, was broken along its length by a variety of slots and embrasures that indicated its role as an active defensive strongpoint, augmented by the forest of sharp metal edges that protruded outward along its top edge.  There was a closed metallic gate in the middle of the wall, although if there had been a bridge across the cleft to it, such a construct was not present now.  

There was no hint of motion or sound coming from the direction of the barrier, but none of them doubted that the duergar defenses were manned and ready for them. 

“Well, now what?” Benzan asked.  

As if in answer to his question, several things happened in quick succession.  First, a thick slab of solid stone dropped down in the corridor behind them, blocking off their exit from the chamber.  This was followed an instant later by a flicker as the _daylight_ on Dana’s spear wavered and died.  

Dana barely had time to warn, “Spellcaster!” before the familiar thrum of crossbows being fired filled the cavern.


----------



## Krellic

A cracking adventure and just what I need to cheer me after a lousy week!
 

I look forward to each and every update!


----------



## Horacio

Great update as usual, Lazybones!


----------



## Maldur

It was to expected, yet another cliffhanger 
more, more!!


----------



## Lazybones

Book V, Part 24

With their retreat cut off behind them, the companions found themselves the target of another well-prepared ambush as the duergar fought to defend their home from these intruders.  

Poisoned crossbow bolts darted from the cracks and crevices along the length of the barrier wall, seeking vulnerabilities in the companions’ defenses.  Rakkath and Taktak both took hits, although the durable quaggoths withstood the damage with grim fortitude.  Several others glanced off of the armor of Benzan and Lok, while Dana slapped another out of the air a split-second before it would have sunk into her chest.  

A loud snapping sound filled the cavern, its source revealed an instant later as a large object sailed out over the wall and across the chamber toward them.  

“Scatter!” Benzan cried out in warning, moments before the object landed among them.  It was a heavy pot or something similar, which shattered into a million pieces as it hit the ground.  The contents of the pot were a thick gray liquid, which smoked and hissed as it splashed on the ground and those who had not been quick enough to get out of the way.

“Acid!” Cal cried, as he drew back, his arm smoking where the splashed acid had struck, burning away the sleeve of his coat and burning the flesh underneath. 

“Aahh!” Dana cried as globs of acid struck her on the legs and started eating at her flesh.  Memories of pain joined the hot agony she felt, as she momentarily drifted back to another battle, when an _acid arrow_ from an aranea sorcerer had crippled her hand.  But Dana was made out of stern stuff, and as she drew back she was already fighting through the pain, opening her mind to the siren song of Selûne’s divine touch.  

The companions had already been bloodied by the first wave of duergar attacks, and caught between a solid wall and a well fortified duergar position, things looked grim.  

Or for the companions, about the same as always. 

“Cover the spellcasters!” Benzan cried, already moving forward and to the side to draw fire as he loaded an arrow to his bow.  He had spotted several shadows moving behind the narrow slits of the wall; difficult targets but not harder than shots that he’d made in the past.  He hesitated for a moment, however, and decided instead to cast a spell, one of the newer enchantments that he’d learned with Cal’s patient assistance.  

“Damn!” he cursed, as he botched the mystic gestures, his armor getting in the way of the complex motions required to call upon the magic. 

As if to chastise him for his failure, a heavy bolt slammed hard into his shoulder, spinning him roughly around even though the mithral links of his armor kept the tip of the missile from penetrating far into his flesh.  It was enough, however, for the poison that coated the bolt head to start creeping its insidious course into his veins.  

Lok, meanwhile, just stood his ground, unlimbering his bow from his _bag of holding_ while he gave cover with his body to Cal and Dana.  Another bolt glanced off of the magically enhanced steel of his armor, but his return fire, while backed by his considerable strength, could not find the narrow openings in the duergars’ defensive wall.  

The quaggoths, meanwhile, behaved in a completely predictable fashion, and charged.  

“You’ve got to be kidding me…” Benzan exclaimed as the first furry form shot past him.  “No!” he found himself crying out, knowing the futility even as Taktak charged up to the edge of the chasm and leapt out over the empty space…

…And to the amazement of his companions, landed on the very edge of the far side, his momentum carrying him right into the sheer face of the wall.  Yet somehow, instead of bouncing off and falling back into the cavern, Taktak clung to the wall, and with his heavy mace bouncing against his back scrambled up the barrier.  

The second quaggoth warrior was only a few steps behind his leader, but even as he started his leap a heavy bolt caught him solidly in the chest.  The impact killed his momentum, and the quaggoth only managed about half the distance of the cleft before he fell, twisting uselessly in the air before he slammed into the jagged edges of the rocks below.  

Rakkath, meanwhile, despite the limp that clearly made the jump impossible for him as well, did not hesitate even as his comrade fell to his death.  The quaggoth seemed almost eager to embrace his doom as he let out a final, surprising burst of speed, and with a roar leapt out over the cleft.  For a moment it looked as though he might even make it, but then he started to fall…  

And then, abruptly, jerked up and over the wall, landing on the battlements in between a pair of duergar snipers. 

It was hard to tell which of them were more surprised, the quaggoth or the dwarves.  

From the far end of the cavern, Cal released his focus on his magical ring, and started into the intricacies of a spell.  He stood almost directly behind Lok, letting the armored dwarf serve as a shield while he worked his magic.  

In the meantime, Dana finished her spell, a summoning to the Outer Planes that culminated in a flash of bright multicolored smoke.  When the flaring cloud cleared, a majestic eagle the size of a horse stood there, its bright eyes shining with an otherworldly intelligence.  

Dana didn’t hesitate, and leapt upon the creature’s back.  It launched itself into the air, its powerful wings beating to carry the creature aloft even with the weight of the woman upon its back.  It started toward the duergar wall, but then Dana pointed downward, and to the right, and the creature dove in that direction.

Another missile arced over the wall with a loud clatter, coming toward where now only Lok and Cal remained in defense.  This time the catapult missile landed a short distance to the side, and when the container broke it released a thick cloud of noxious gray-green gas.  Lok and Cal were caught by the leading edge of the cloud, and staggered back from its cloying tendrils.  Lok’s incredible fortitude allowed him to resist the toxin in the mist, but Cal only managed a few paces before he crumpled, gagging as the poison wrought its work through his system.  The genasi picked up the gnome and carried him out of the cloud, laying him carefully down against the back wall of the cavern a short distance away.  He stood over him while he turned to fire off another arrow from his bow.  

Taktak and Rakkath had each gained the top of the wall by different methods, although some twenty feet and numerous duergar warriors separated them.  A pair of duergar warriors with heavy axes met Taktak as he cleared the sharp spikes atop the wall, ignoring the gashes that they tore in his furry hide.  Eschewing the heavy mace slung across his back, Taktak instead relied upon his natural weapons, knocking one dwarf back with a powerful sweep of his claws.  The second tore into his flank with his axe, but despite the obvious effects of the bloody gash the quaggoth managed to spin and grab the dwarf with his claws, managing the considerable weight of the dwarf with apparent ease as he hurled him bodily into the gaping emptiness of the chasm.  

Also atop the wall, on the other side of the gate, Rakkath was facing similar resistance, as several defenders swarmed upon him.  He managed to beat down the first dwarf, taking up the fallen duergar’s axe just in time to meet the stroke of the next in a clumsy parry.  The furious melee raged on, with other deep dwarves ralling to the two points of attack while others continued their fire at the other invaders. 

Benzan drew slowly closer to the cleft and the wall beyond it, standing completely in the open as he drew and fired shot after shot in rapid succession, pausing only to dodge bolts that rained down on him from the parapet of the wall.  He’d taken another hit from the duergar fire, and was starting to feel dizzy from the effects of the poison flowing through his veins.  He did not let up, however, and as a dwarf rose up to charge at Rakkath from behind, Benzan shot an arrow into his side that knocked the duergar off of the wall and into whatever area lay beyond.  

“Benzan!” came a familiar voice from behind and above him.  He only glanced back quickly, unwilling to let his guard down, but in that instant his eyes widened…

“What are you…” was all he managed, before the giant eagle’s claws caught him on the shoulders and jerked him suddenly into the air.  He was barely able to keep his grip on his bow as the eagle’s powerful wings pulled it back into the air, beating with every bit of effort stored in the planar creature’s muscles.  

“This isn’t a good idea!” Benzan managed to shout, as he looked down just in time to see the floor fall away into the black emptiness of the cleft below him.  Then he looked up in time to see the jagged spikes of the wall coming directly toward him with dangerous speed, while the eagle struggled to gain altitude with the combined weight of him and Dana dragging it down.  

And if that wasn’t bad enough, at that moment a duergar sniper rose up from his position behind the wall, his loaded crossbow pointed directly toward Benzan’s heart.


----------



## Horacio

Another Evil Cliffhanger...


AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGG!!!


----------



## Broccli_Head

*whew!*

Hey LB!
Finally got through with Book IV. Man, I missed a lot and as usual it was great reading. It seems like you got an advance copy of the _Silver Marches _ since the story was so vividly accurate in its description of the Ice Mountains!

Now what? I guess I have 23 parts of Book V to catch up with. 
Looking forward to seeing the fate of the eviscerated Delem.


----------



## Lazybones

BH: I guess I passed my Bluff check, since I don't have _The Silver Marches_ (I do have some of the 2E FR ESDs, but I've only browsed through them).  I guess I'm pretty much done for FR supplements, having bought the FRCS, the monster book, _Magic of Faerun_, and _Lords of Darkness_.  They're all good books, and I don't doubt that F&P and TSM are equally good (I've glanced through them at the store), but at some point all the material that's provided starts getting in the way of the creative process rather than facilitating it.  

In any case, I'm glad you are enjoying the story.  Here's part 25.

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 25

Dana leaned forward over the head of the eagle and fired a blazing bolt of _searing light_ into the face of the duergar crossbowman.  The dwarf screamed as the divine light of Selûne seared his flesh and destroyed his eyes, and he tumbled feebly back off of the parapet, dead even before he smacked hard into the ground behind the wall.  

But Dana’s action did nothing to remove the vicious protruding spikes that still formed an implacable line atop the wall, and for all the efforts of the summoned eagle it was clear that it was not going to clear that obstacle in time.  

“Let go!” Dana cried out to Benzan.  

But the tiefling had already gauged the danger, and even as Dana blasted the duergar defender he reached down and grasped the hilt of his sword.  Its power came readily, almost eagerly, at his touch, and he felt his body lighten as the magical _levitation_ of the sword took effect.  The eagle seemed to almost bounce up in response, and at the last second Benzan kicked his legs up and forward, barely clearing the spikes with just a few inches to spare. 

Behind the wall stood a mostly open space, as most of the defenders had been emplaced on the parapet running along its summit.  About fifteen paces back from the wall stood the catapult that had launched the acid and poison gas canisters at them, however, the compact device still tended by a trio of dwarves that picked up crossbows and trained them on the companions as they flew over the wall.  Most of the other defenders were converging on the two quaggoths, but several paused to launch their own missiles at the new arrivals.  A few bolts glanced off of Benzan’s armor, but for the moment their luck held and none penetrated.  

“Down there!” Benzan cried, pointing with his bow toward the catapult crew.  Dana nudged the eagle with her legs, and the majestic creature arced down in that direction, releasing Benzan as it dove down low enough for him to land running on the smooth stone floor of the cavern.  Even as it released him it started to climb again, and Dana leaned forward to issue more commands as it started to turn back in the direction of the wall.  

Taktak moved along the length of the wall like a methodical construct, knocking down every dwarf that dared to face him.  He’d finally unslung his mace, and with mighty two-handed strokes sent the defenders flying off over the edge of the parapet to fall hard on the ground below.  The quaggoth bore a grievous collection of injuries, and took more with each passing second as dwarves came at him from behind or shot crossbow bolts at him from cover.  But lost in his battle-rage, Taktak shrugged off the hurts.  He was a champion of his people, and his righteous anger toward their enemies was felt in the mighty force of his blows.  

On the far side of the wall, Rakkath fought on with equal bravery, if not the same incredible prowess.  With his borrowed axe he met attacker after attacker, although the dwarves continued to flank him and scored deep cuts as they divided his attentions.  

The brave quaggoth likely would have already fallen, however, had it not been for the support of Lok.  Denied his usual role as a front-line fighter by his immobility, the dwarf turned instead to his mighty longbow.  While he lacked the finesse of Benzan, his shots carried the power to punch through armor plate, and while every other shot struck the wall or missed off into the darkness above and beyond, that still left plenty of arrows to stab deep into duergar warriors as they rose up from their sheltered positions to come at Rakkath atop the wall.  

Benzan took the attack to the catapult crew as two of them dropped their crossbows and hefted sharp moon-bladed axes.  He used his height and the superior length of his blade to his advantage, darting inside their defenses to score a minor hit on one before they could move to flank him.  He drew back, letting them come after him.  The third dwarf loaded his crossbow and fired at the giant eagle bearing Dana.  The bolt struck it hard in the body as it flew up over lip of the wall once again, drawing a cry of pain from the injured creature.  

As the eagle dipped in its flight Dana slid off its back and dropped smoothly onto the parapet atop the wall, her spear snapping to the ready.  To her right the parapet ran over the gate in the wall below, and to her left several dwarves were arrayed against Rakkath.  The nearest dwarf turned to her as she landed, snarling as he launched a powerful stroke at her head with his axe.  Dana ducked under the blow, spinning low as she swept her spear under the dwarf’s legs.  The dwarf stumbled, but kept his footing, at least until Dana’s snap kick caught him on the side of the head and knocked him over the shallow inner lip of the parapet.  He landed hard on the ground below, and lay there, stunned.  

The giant eagle, meanwhile, obeying Dana’s last command, dove down and spread its wings as it landed just a few feet from where Lok continued to ply his bow.  Its time on this plane was drawing short, but despite the wounds it had suffered it was bound to obey the mandate given it by its summoner.

“Prithee hurry, friend dwarf, for I am bid carry thee across yonder obstacle ere I return to my home.”

Despite the battle raging around him, Lok could not help but start in surprise as the eagle addressed him, its words clearly understandable even coming from its avian beak.  Lok paused only to grab Cal’s still unconscious form, and then climbed awkwardly up on the eagle’s back.  

“Gods, thy art heavy!” the eagle exclaimed, launching into a running start before its powerful wings carried them all into the air.  

The battle raged on, with the companions taking a deeper toll on the defenders with each passing moment.  The dwarves fought back tenaciously, but there just weren’t enough of them to take the damage being wrought by these attackers.  

Benzan ducked another swipe from an axe and countered with a lunge that didn’t have enough force behind it to penetrate his foe’s armor.  His sword felt leaden in his hand, and he knew that the poison he’d taken into his body earlier had run its course.  At least he seemed to have fought off any further effects, though.  

That wasn’t to say he was out of the woods, as one of his adversaries suddenly shifted and brought his axe down on Benzan’s leg an instant before he could draw it back.  His mithral armor kept his flesh intact, but he could feel the sharp stabbings of pain as the effects of the blow traveled up and down his limb.  

_Focus, focus,_ he told himself as he parried another swipe and reset his defenses.  His two opponents were skilled, but not as experienced as he was by far.  That was proven when he feinted an attack that brought another adjustment by the pair, only to shift into a thrust that caught the first dwarf off-guard and left an opening in his defenses.  Benzan took another glancing blow to his armored torso as payback from the dwarf’s comrade, but when he recovered into his defensive stance there was another adversary bleeding out on the ground from a slashed throat.  

Dana fought her way through several dwarves to Rakkath’s flank, even as the quaggoth took down another duergar with an overhead stroke of his axe.  For the moment their side of the wall was clear, but before Dana could decide on the next course of action Rakkath let out a tired squeal and collapsed against the edge of the parapet.  Blood from at least a half-dozen wounds matted his thick fur, and Dana realized that his life was close to oozing out along with those red flows.  

Calling upon the goddess, she poured healing energy into the battered creature in an effort to forestall that loss.  

On the far side of the wall, Taktak reached the end of a line of defenders and leapt down from the wall to the inner side of the fortification.  A pair of dwarves that had been reloading their crossbows scattered and drew axes from their belts.  One wasn’t quick enough to get out of the way and took a solid blow to the side of his head from the quaggoth’s adamantine mace, crushing his skull like an overripe melon.  The other dwarf didn’t hesitate, breaking and running toward one of the several exits in the far side of the cavern.  Taktak started after him but he’d barely managed three steps before another dwarf, already limping from another wound, charged at him from the side and engaged him in yet another melee.  

A fast shadow swooped down out of the sky and landed awkwardly on the ground behind the wall.  The eagle had barely touched down when it dissolved into immateriality, roughly depositing its two passengers upon the stone.  After a quick check to verify that Cal was all right, Lok hefted his axe and looked around for an enemy.  

But the battle was already winding down, with only a few injured stragglers left among the duergar defenders.  A few were already escaping via the exits at the far end of the cavern, but the battered attackers did not rush immediately after them.  Instead, they paused to catch their breath, heal their wounds with wand and spell and potion, and prepare for the next challenge ahead of them.  

None of them marked the narrow slit in the cavern wall several feet above the top of the wall, or the eyes that watched them from behind that hidden opening.  As the battle came to an end Grolac drew back from the spyhole, reflexively dropping down the oiled cover that would make even that tiny gap appear indistinguishable from the rest of the wall.  His contribution to the battle had been minor, limited to the use of his wand of _dispel magic_ to remove the bright light used by the enemy cleric.  He’d been tempted to attempt a dispel against that damned summoned bird, but by then she’d been closer, and if he’d failed it was likely that the human woman would have sensed his presence.  

The duergar moved without sound down the hidden staircase within the cavern wall and into a passage so confined that even he had to duck to avoid striking his head on the ceiling above.  

The dwarf assassin was no coward, but he had not survived five decades of life by being incautious.  He knew more than he’d told the drow about these intruders, had taken the time to hastily debrief the sentry that had been posted in the hidden watchpoint overlooking the main entrance at the stone bridge.  His knowledge of magic was extensive, given the context of his upbringing, and knew what it meant when adversaries could summon creatures like that eagle, and create _dimension doors_ to instantly transport themselves across the battlefield.  

For all his selfish, vicious, evil nature, Grolac was concerned about his people.  There was a contingency for such an invasion of their lair, of course—the duergar weren’t chaotic and stupid like the derro—and he knew that those dwarves left from the first few battles with the enemy would already be moving to places within their lair that no intruder would discover even if they knew of their existence.  Of course, that would mean that Shemma and her drow friend would be the next target of the outsiders…

For all the seriousness of the situation, Grolac could not help but let out a quiet chuckle.  Oh yes.  That would be just too bad.


----------



## Krellic

Once again, fun stuff well written.


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## Maldur

bump, and stay there!


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## Horacio

Great update!

BTW, I've just beagun my own Story Hour, using the new superheroes supplement from Natural 20, Four Color to Fantasy:
Golden Apple Rescue Squad 

If you have time, visit it, and drop a comment...


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## Maldur

And back to the top!

Have to bump now Horacio is busy writing his own story 

Almost fell to the second page as well!


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## Horacio

Maldur said:
			
		

> *And back to the top!
> 
> Have to bump now Horacio is busy writing his own story
> 
> Almost fell to the second page as well! *




Horacio is still here, and will bump as often as before, my friend


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## Lazybones

As always, thanks for the bumps.  It's tougher keeping the story up on page 1, with so many new tales competing for space.

It's Friday, so you know what that means...

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 26

“Well, that’s the last of the healing potions.”

Benzan lifted the vial once more, to make sure that he’d drained the last few drops of precious elixir within, then tossed the glass container aside.  It shattered in a loud crash.

“Benzan!” Dana said. 

“What?  They know we’re here, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re monitoring us.  Let them see that we’re not worried ‘bout whatever they can muster.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m worried,” Cal said in an undertone.  

The three of them crossed over to where Lok and the two quaggoths were checking the bodies of the fallen.  Both of the shaggy creatures looked a sight, their fur matted in their own blood and the blood of those they had slain.  Both were a lot better off since Dana had healed them, but although their wounds had closed it was clear that they were still weakened by their injuries.  

“Are you sure about this?” Cal asked Lok as they gathered once again.  

Lok nodded, his features grim.  “I cannot explain how I know this, but my people are close.  There is great danger here, and a critical transition nears.”

“I feel it too,” Benzan said.  “It’s like a sick taint in the very air here… makes my skin crawl.”

Dana nodded in agreement.  “Something really bad is about to happen.”

Cal looked up at the two quaggoths.  “And our friends?”  His spell had expired, so he could not longer directly communicate with them. 

“I have spoken with them, and they have agreed to go on,” Lok said.  As they looked up at him Taktak nodded solemnly, as if he understood the question in that look.  

On the inside of the wall they had found the latticework construct of intricately woven metal strands that served as a retractable bridge across the chasm, offering them the opportunity to retreat if they desired.  But even though they were battered, each of them could feel what Lok and Benzan and Dana had spoken of, a building tension that filled the air with anticipation.  

Taking up their weapons, they headed toward the far end of the cavern, toward the exits they had spotted earlier.  There had originally been three exits, but the duergar had collapsed the two narrower side passages on their retreat, leaving only a single open corridor for them to take.  That passage was wide enough for three of them to travel abreast, and was buttressed by thick arches of solid stone at regular intervals along its length.  Despite the seeming solidity, however, the companions tread cautiously, with Benzan taking the lead as he searched for any sign of a trap.  

Cal was in the center of the group, the gnome looking wan as he struggled with the lingering effects of the duergar poison.  He’d insisted on Dana using her _lesser restoration_ spell on Benzan, however, citing the tiefling’s role as a more front-line combatant.  The priestess had complied, but now she watched Cal with a concerned eye as they pressed still deeper into the duergar complex.  

The corridor turned slightly before splitting at a broad fork that led off in two directions ahead of them.  Benzan barely paused before heading into the right fork, the others close behind.

The corridor didn’t go very far, perhaps thirty paces, before it ended in a thick stone threshold that opened onto another long hallway beyond.  This place was shaped like a long oval, like an egg that had been carefully cut in two lengthwise.  The stonework here showed intent attention to detail, with the ceiling buttresses carved in flowing lines as they rose up to meet in the center of the domed ceiling above them.  They entered carefully, their footsteps making little sound on the solid granite floor, but as they progressed they each thought they could hear a thrumming sound in the very stone around them, a vibration that seemed to pulse like some massive heartbeat.  

* * * * * 

In the vastness of the ritual chamber, the drow suddenly raised his head, scanning around him.  The pulsating throb of power that had been building within the mithral stele filled his being, but that was not what had alerted him.  His preternaturally sharp senses—senses that could detect far more than the average mortal being—were deluged by a wild mixture of sensations.  Shemma’s droning chants, which had been going on for hours now, had almost faded into the background, overshadowed by the silent presence of the Avatar before the pillar.  Silent perhaps to normal ears, that is, for to the drow the muscled form of the youth seemed to scream with the tendrils of manipulated power that he was drawing into his form and redirecting into the stele.  

Layered on those twin points of activity was the tangible dread of the hundreds of slumped forms gathered around the perimeter of the cavern, packed so densely that there was little clear space left on the floor between his vantage and the center of the chamber where the pillar stood.  Only the area around the Avatar was bare, an empty ring as if his mere physical presence drove away everything living.  The quivering bodies packed close together had been heavily drugged by their duergar captives through toxins placed in their food the night before, but even through their haze they could perceive fear deep within that part of their subconscious that could feel what was happening around them, could touch the outrage upon the very fabric of existence that the Avatar was building from within their midst.  Every now and then one of the slaves cried out from within their drugged reverie, responding to the insidious tug of the flows that the alien youth was drawing, or to some twisted inner nightmare of their own.  

Taken in all it was an overwhelming scene, but that which had alerted the drow had not come from within the ritual chamber.  Not really trusting Grolac, and disturbed more than he had admitted even to himself by the duergar’s report, he had laid a ward in the antechamber outside as a precaution before he’d returned here.  

The intruders were inside the Sanctum, and approaching the ritual chamber.  

He cast out with his mind for the abashai, but the mental noise of the ongoing ritual numbed his usually sharp perceptions.  He hadn’t seen the demon since the Avatar had appeared in any case; the damned thing was probably running some errand for the Great One, if it hadn’t already been sent back to the Abyss.

Of those few here who still had their minds intact, he was the only one that could leave without disrupting the ritual.  

So be it.  

He turned, and quietly left the chamber. 

* * * * * 

“What is this place?” Benzan whispered, running one hand along the smooth texture of one of the protruding buttresses.  “It seems totally different than the chambers above, with all these smooth lines and curves.”

“It took a lot of effort to carve all this out of the rock,” Lok commented, his eyes darting into every shadowed corner as they pressed on deeper into the duergar complex.  

“My skin is tingling,” Dana said.  “This place… it’s not… right.”

Although he could not understand her speech, Rakkath, a few paces back, bared his teeth and growled as if he agreed with the sentiment. 

“It’s like the interior of a beast,” Cal commented, staring up at the vaulting buttresses rising above them.  “Like we’re looking up at its ribs from inside.”

“Now that’s a cheerful thought,” Benzan said, but as he turned back toward the far end of the chamber he suddenly stopped and raised his hand in caution.  

“What is it?” Cal asked, as they all readied their weapons.  

“We’re not alone…”

The shadow detached itself from the dark doorway at the far end of the empty chamber and stepped silently into the radius of the light from Dana’s _continual flame_.  As the illumination fell over its form the newcomer was revealed to be a drow elf, clad in a simple suit of dark cloth that flowed over the lean lines of his body.  He did not appear to be armed, but his eyes, dark pools that drank in the light, held danger in them as he regarded the group of intruders.

“Jannek?” Dana asked, half to herself, seeking something familiar in the dark stranger.

“No,” Benzan said quietly.  “Something worse.”

Taktak growled, his body tense although he did not move any closer to this potential enemy.  

“Who are you?” Cal asked, his voice unnaturally loud in the strange acoustics of the oval chamber.  

The dark elf held the silence for a moment longer, then he spoke.  “I am Draxaranthilus,” he said, his voice liquid and deep.  “I know not why you have come here, but it is your doom.”

“Yeah, tougher guys than you have told us the same thing,” Benzan said, his hand tightening on the shaft of his bow.  “And yet here we are.”

“We are willing to avoid a confrontation,” Cal ventured.  “Just release the urdunnir, and we will leave in peace.”

“The urdunnir?  I would gladly give them all to you, but their fate has already been sealed.  Unfortunately, yours is as well, as I cannot allow you to progress further.”

“So be it, then,” Cal said.  

As he spoke, several things happened.  The companions, used to working as a team, reached for weapons and spell components, ready for the seemingly inevitable battle.  But they did not get a chance to use them, however. 

Even as Cal spoke, the form of the dark elf began to shimmer and distort, growing outward as it twisted and reformed into something… different.  The transformation took only a few heartbeats, and even as the companions readied their weapons to fight the drow, they found themselves confronting an entirely different adversary.  

The drow was gone, replaced by a sinuous, muscled form the size of a large horse.  There was no mistaking its identity now, the long, reptilian lines as it drew itself up to its full height, its dark wings spreading out before it as if in benediction.  Its limbs bore thick claws that flexed as the creature tested its new form, its true form.  Its long neck tapered to a dagger-shaped skull that ended in a jaw full of razor-sharp teeth.  The only thing that hadn’t changed were the dark pools of its eyes, eyes that now held only death in them as they looked out over the companions.  

Draxaranthilus, the deep dragon, was ready for battle.


----------



## Horacio

Oh! 

A dragon! Evil ciffhanger master!
We will have to wait until Monday  

Ah, and GREAT UPDATE, of course!


----------



## Krellic

I go away for the week-end and what do I find when I come back, the Wild Westers up to their neck in it, in this case dragon droppings.

Nothing changed there then.


----------



## Maldur

Oh my....

You are the cliff-hanger King !!!!!

Its monday now so where is the next episode, I cant stand the pressure!


----------



## wolff96

Update! Update! Update!

Heh...  Great work as always. And another unbearable (sorry for the quaggoth pun) cliffhanger.


----------



## Lazybones

Monday update!

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 27

The dragon was a relatively small example of its kind, at least in comparison to the great wyrms that were so often encountered in stories and fables.  Still, the sheer power of its presence filled the chamber and twisted the hearts of the companions, even reaching the otherwise ferocious courage of the quaggoths.  All of those present were stalwart, however, and while lesser companions might have fled before the magnificent terror of the beast, these warriors swallowed their fear and leapt to the fray.  The melee fighters—including Dana, now that her spells were exhausted—lifted their weapons and charged, but barely covered three paces before the dragon reared up and opened its massive jaws.  

The dragon was fast, but Cal and Benzan were faster.  Even as the warriors charged toward the ferocious beast, each acted with reflexes honed by hard-won experience.  Cal summoned one of his most powerful spells, his second _haste_ of the day.  The enhanced speed granted by the enchantment settled in almost immediately, and would allow him to contribute his remaining spells quickly to the common cause. 

Benzan, on the other hand, contributed with a long arrow that he drew and fired in a quick motion.  The shot was true, striking the creature’s long neck, but it glanced off scales that were tougher than the strongest armor forged by human hands.  

Then the dragon breathed a cone of gas upon them. 

The effects of the gas were instantly evident, as the caustic substance burned at their exposed skin and ate away their flesh in huge sickening gobs.  The quaggoths roared in pain as the gas mercilessly sizzled away fur in long swathes, while Lok and Dana each found their own protections—armor and speed, respectively—of no avail against the blasting force of the dragon’s breath.  

Cal, enhanced by his magical speed, fared far better, and somehow Benzan was able to dive out of the area of effect, coming up into a smooth crouch with another arrow fitted to his bow.  

Then, abruptly, he changed his mind and sprinted toward the dragon’s flank, his sword and shield replacing his discarded bow as he ran.  

Four mangled forms staggered forward out of the haze as the thick cloud of dragon’s breath began to clear.  Lok, who had withstood the full force of the blast through the sheer force of his inhuman fortitude, raised his axe and charged right into the claws of the beast.  Its thick hide resisted his assault, but even so the doughty genasi was able to cut a thin gash into the dragon’s chest with his magically enhanced axe.  

Draxaranthilus didn’t like that one bit. 

It liked it even less when the two quaggoths reoriented themselves and charged as a pair into the dragon’s flank, smashing at its torso with mace and axe.  Rakkath’s first blow glanced harmlessly off an armored shoulder, but the way that the dragon jerked back showed that the mighty slam from Taktak’s mace had stung.  

Dana, meanwhile, emerged from the blast looking as though she’d been dipped in acid.  Long bloody trails ran down her arms and legs, from places where the flesh had been eaten away.  Her clothes had been similarly ravaged, and the once-fine magical cloak that had seen her through so many journeys now hung in useless tatters from her shoulders.  She nearly fell as she staggered to the side, but caught herself as her head lifted and she fixed her eyes—surrounded now by scored flesh—on their enemy.  

Her mouth twisted into a snarl, and she raised her spear.  

“Dana, no!” Cal yelled, recognizing how dire the woman’s wounds were.  Benzan turned as well, and tried to yell something as well, something lost in the tumult of melee as the young woman charged into the raging battle. 

Her attack was earnest, but unfortunately to naught as the gleaming spearhead glanced harmlessly off the dragon’s armored chest.  

The dragon had not been idle as its adversaries swarmed on it.  It was not old as far as dragons went, still only a young adult among its kind, but even so it had lived lifetimes in the reckoning of the younger, humanoid races.  It fought with skill born of countless confrontations, lashing out at those that had dared to enter its realm.  

Draxaranthilus recognized, of course, the nature of the gnome wizard who’d remained in the back of the group, and who had just _hasted_ himself.  The dragon trusted to its inherent resistances to protect itself from any magical attacks, however, since it couldn’t easily get to him anyway.  Instead he focused on the more dangerous of his current adversaries, lashing out at the armored genasi and the two quaggoth.  

The long neck darted down and caught Taktak on the shoulder, the dragon’s powerful jaws tearing into the quaggoth’s muscled torso.  The quaggoth barbarian roared and tore free, trailing hot splatters of fresh blood from the gaping wound.  The dragon followed the attack with tearing claws that slashed further wounds into the creature.  

The grievous wounds, combined with the effects of the dragon’s breath, should have dropped any adversary.  Somehow the quaggoth remained standing, however, and somehow even managed to bring his mace up in an underhanded arc that caught the dragon squarely under its jaw.  

The other combatants used the dragon’s momentary focus on Taktak to press their attacks, even as the dragon continued to lash out at them.  It continued to beat its wings in a fierce accompaniment to its attacks, distracting its foes as well as hitting with considerable force.  Benzan, meanwhile, had to dodge a sudden slash of its long tail as he got into position on the opposite flank of the creature, and was unable to avoid a sharp stinging blow to his thigh that burned with pain even through his magical armor.  

The dragon seemed invincible, shrugging off even those few attacks that made it through its incredible defenses.  Lok scored another hit, this time cutting deep enough into the dragon’s shoulder to release a jet of hot blood.  Rakkath and Dana kept at it with their own attacks, while on the far side of the beast Benzan thrust into it with his longsword.  The bronze blade bit deep, and the dragon hissed in pain as it drew back its bloody jaws.  

Cal, meanwhile, had not been idle.  Realizing that the creature would not likely be fooled by his illusions, he focused on his other supporting magics.  Bolstered by his _haste_ he first conjured a magical _shield_ in front of him, then moved forward until he could touch Dana, protecting her with _displacement_.  

The dragon, meanwhile, had not missed the reactions of the others to the injuries suffered by the woman.  With a sudden twist of its body, Draxaranthilus shot its head out like a whip, not at all fooled by the concealing power of Cal’s spell as its jaws snapped suddenly on Dana’s face.  

“No!” Benzan screamed, too late. 

Had those jaws locked, Dana would have died in that instant.  But she managed to dodge back just enough so that the dragon’s head only caught her a glancing blow.  Even that was enough to knock her roughly back, and she fell in a jumbled heap hard on the stone floor, just a few feet from where Cal stood, a look of horror growing on his face.  

The dragon’s attack cost it in the form of retaliation—although the attacks it took seemed pitiful in the face of the damage it was dishing out.  Lok continued to whittle away at its chest, and while he was having an effect it seemed by the shallowness of the cuts that his trusty axe had suddenly gone dull.  Rakkath managed finally to draw blood with his axe, but that cut too was little more than a flesh wound.  Taktak raised his mace for another blow, looking like a grim spectre of death with his terrible wounds, but before he could strike the dragon’s wing caught him solidly on the head, and he stumbled back, finally giving way to the full tally of his injuries.  

Benzan took another lash from the dragon’s tail, but his own desperate stroke went wild.  He tried to fight on, although the image of Dana going down screamed in his mind and filled his eyes even through the terrible reality of the dragon.  

Then the dragon reared up, and breathed again.


----------



## Krellic

Ouch.., and er... ouch again.  Damn those botched saves!


----------



## Maldur

Yuk, dipped in acid 
Continue, please. I wanna know.


----------



## Horacio

Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!
Will they survive? Will they defeat the dragon? Evil cliffhanger, give us more!


----------



## CoopersPale

I really love this story hour.

If only I played characters nearly as heroic as these guys....

I really like Taktak and Rakkath, I think one of them should become a sorceror to replace delem - and go adventuring with the heroes 

If they aren't made into a fleshy paste by the dragon....

Assuming survival, my prediction is for a Dana/Benzan get together. I want my hollywood ending !

thanks Lazybones


----------



## LightPhoenix

I have a confession Lazybones...

I haven't read your storyhour.   

However, in deciding to rectify this grievous oversight, I realized that all the links in your signature point to the test boards on cyberstreet - are the first books stored anywhere else?


----------



## Maldur

LightPhoenix, LB's stories are in the collected storyhours on the ENworld main page.


Have fun reading them!


----------



## Lazybones

CoopersPale said:
			
		

> *I really like Taktak and Rakkath, I think one of them should become a sorceror to replace delem - and go adventuring with the heroes *




Oops.

Anyway, thanks for posting, and welcome aboard, CoopersPale!  I'm always happy to greet a new reader.  Have you been reading all along, or have you just been with us for Book V? 

LP: Glad you came by.  Thanks for the heads-up on my sig. links; I'll get those fixed straightaway.  Actually, all the threads are still here, and the books are downloadable in doc format at my website (that link still works ).  Also, as Maldur noted, the complete saga through book IV are available as a single huge PDF download (nearly a meg, now) from the Hosted Story Hours page that Morrus runs.  

P.S. I'm playtesting the sequel to "The Crossroads" on Sunday mornings now (I think Ludo is the only participant from your group), and hopefully will have be able to add another session soon for you guys from the Wednesday night crew.  Hopefully Willo will be able to join us for more NWN goodness.  In the meantime, I'm running Crossroads HCR and it's working out really well to this point (a few glitches here and there, but that's to be expected).  

Maldur, Horacio, Krellic: thanks for your posts, and here's your update!

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 28

The cone of flesh-eating gas blasted into Lok and Rakkath.  The quaggoth screamed as its fur began to dissolve, and for a terrible moment it just stood there, quivering, before it collapsed in a noisome pile of bone, muscle, and blood.  Lok did not make a sound as the deadly gas soaked into the cracks and crevices of his armor, into the openings in his helm, melting away his skin at its touch.  Blood dripped down into his eyes, nearly blinding him, and every inch of his body felt as though it was on fire.  

But when the spray of gas cleared, Lok still stood there, holding his axe, his chest heaving even as his blood dripped out of the gaps in his armor to form in puddles on the stone floor.  

Slowly the axe came up again.

Meanwhile, Benzan was doing his best to land a telling blow while the dragon’s attention was directed away from him.  He thrust again with his magical blade, and cursed as the thick dragon hide turned what might have been a deep thrust into yet another shallow gash.  The dragon did not react to the attack, keeping its attention focused on Lok.  

Cal had not spent those few moments idly.  Even as Dana crumpled he rushed to her side, calling upon the power of his bardic magic to summon a healing song.  The magic stabilized her, although she remained unconscious, still terribly wounded from the dragon’s attacks.  He looked up to see the dragon’s second breath attack, and Rakkath’s death.  He felt his heart freeze in his chest as he saw Lok emerge from the cloud, barely standing, and the dragon still looming above him, ready to finish him.  

The gnome did not hesitate, even though the idea that popped into his head seemed like madness.  He took up his crossbow and loaded a bolt as he circled to the left, trying to get clear of Dana so that his desperate plan would not jeopardize her.  

His _haste_ still in effect, it only took him a few seconds to move into position.  Then, as he raised his crossbow, he shouted in his typically loud, clear voice, “Let’s see how you like these dragonbane bolts, you ugly lizard!”

His shot missed, barely coming close to the darting and twisting head of the dragon, but he definitely got its attention. 

Draxaranthilus was not the sort of creature that panicked in a battle, even one as violent as the current fray.  Dragonbane weapons were, however, not uncommon in the Underdark, and as fate would have it the dragon had personal experience with them, having had the misfortune of running into a derro warrior who’d carried a few bolts thus enchanted while he was still just a few years old.  Drax had survived that encounter, if barely, but carried the memory of that particular agony with him for all the years since then.  

The dragon shifted, and drew back in upon itself into a sudden crouch, its wings folding back around its body like twin shields.  Then, like an explosion, it launched itself forward, slamming Benzan and Lok roughly back with its wings as it came, bearing down on the hapless gnome in just a few short dragon-strides.  

The little gnome just stood there, waiting, his crossbow coming up again as the dragon charged.  He opened his mouth, as if to utter one last comment…

…and began to sing.

The dragon’s jaws snapped down on the gnome, but closed only on empty air as Cal’s combined defenses—bracers, his _shield,_ and the magical _haste_—allowed him to narrowly escape the attack.  Even all those protections, however, could not fully absorb the dragon’s onslaught, and as he dodged back he took a vicious rake from one of the dragon’s claws.  He staggered back, and fired his crossbow point-blank into the dragon’s chest.  The bolt sank into the dragon’s hide with a thick ‘plop’, adding another minor injury to the dragon’s tally.  

The dragon instantly realized that it had been tricked, and its anger was apparent as it redoubled its efforts to tear through Cal’s defenses.  Cal dropped the crossbow and drew his pitifully small sword, glowing with the light of the enchantment placed on it by the dwarves of Citadel Adbar.  The dragon, however, struck first, its head darting out in a sudden strike that tore through the _shield_.  The gnome tried to jump back, but the dragon’s jaws snapped onto his leg, crushing the limb and tearing his flesh.  Cal screamed as the dragon whipped its head back, flinging the gnome roughly across the room until he slammed hard into the wall of the chamber.  The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and he fell hard to the ground ten feet below, landing in a torn and battered heap.  

Cal’s self-sacrifice, however, had bought his companions precious seconds, which they had not spent idly.  Lok tore his helmet from his head, pausing only to wipe the blood from his eyes before rushing back to the attack.  He came at the dragon’s hind-quarters, only to suffer a solid blow from the dragon’s tail as it snapped around in a defensive arc.  Ignoring the blow—although it was clear that even the mighty genasi could not take many more hits—Lok sliced at the dragon’s body, only to miss as the dragon’s movements threw off the timing of his attack.  

On the opposite flank, Benzan rushed in as well, now driven beyond conscious thought by the sheer intensity of the melee.  Despite the lingering effects of the duergar poison he felt beyond such mundane effects as weakness or exhaustion, and his sword seemed to pulse in his hand as he ran forward and thrust at the dragon with all of his might.  This time, his stroke was true, and the blade penetrated deeply into the dragon’s body, releasing a torrent of hot blood that flowed down over his hands as he was dragged forward.

Draxaranthilus roared in pain, twisting around so quickly that Benzan was only barely able to draw his sword out of the wound he had just inflicted.  The dragon unleashed a whirlwind of attacks on the tiefling, tearing into his armored torso with its powerful claws, snapping at his face with its deadly teeth.  Benzan tried to dodge back, but as he staggered away the dragon caught him full in the face with a snap of his wing, and the tiefling crumpled, blood erupting in a fountain from his shattered nose.  

“Only one remaining,” the dragon hissed, turning to face the last foe left standing.  For all its intellect and wisdom the beast felt nearly giddy, caught up like its enemies in the pure bloodlust of battle.  Or maybe it was the effects of its many injuries finally catching up with it… in either case, the dragon savored the anticipation of victory as it swiveled toward the battered genasi warrior.  It moved somewhat more ponderously now, its body heaving as blood continued to pulse out of its wounds.  

As it turned, Lok brought his axe down in a powerful stroke that caught the dragon solidly on the side of the neck.  

Draxaranthilus staggered as the critical hit from the axe slashed through flesh and muscle and scored the bones underneath.  The dragon’s head flailed weakly at the end of its wounded neck, and its hiss was like that of air escaping from a punctured wineskin.  It tried to draw back, to recenter itself, and it actually managed to balance on its four legs while it tried to control the movements of its head.  

It succeeded just in time to take the blow to the other side of its neck.  

The dragon’s body collapsed as its head flew off a few feet away, landing in a slick of blood on the cold stone.  Its eyes glowed for an instant longer, finally fading away into the numb darkness of death.  

* * * * * 

Coming Friday: the cliffhanger to end all cliffhangers, stay tuned...


----------



## Krellic

There's nothing like a good axe stroke..., except another good axe stroke...  Genasi dwarves, every party should have one apparently...


----------



## Horacio

And intelligent groups should have a pair of Genasi Dwarves...


----------



## LightPhoenix

Yeah, I've been catching up on Story Hours I should have read... it's a good way to veg after work 

Yay, more Crossroads!!!  Though I don't know what my schedule is like, and like I said before, I'll be working Wednesday nights, so if an opening appears in the Sunday group, I might have to join them.  Though that won't be until after Labor Day.

Hey, btw, I posted a question in Software about how the CHR rules are working, it seems more appropriate for there...

Now to start reading...


----------



## Maldur

Brutal combat! Genasi dwarfs are TOUGH! 

OUCH! LB is announcing his Cliffhangers now!!!!!

I have got a bad feeling about this!

Sorry about me not joining yur nwn games, but I still haven't gotten my own copy of nwn ( and I dont think I will as I dont really like the interface)


----------



## Lazybones

Hey, my 15 minutes of fame have started, as Rizzen, the creator of the Neverwinter Connections website, has published an interview with me as this week's cover story.  The link is www.neverwinterconnections.com. Drop by and take a look, and while you're there, sign up and get involved in a great D&D online community playing Neverwinter Nights.  

* * * * * 

Book V, Part 29

Cal slowly picked himself up off the floor and limped over to where Benzan’s battered form lay.  The gnome crouched over the body of his friend, and after a moment’s examination uttered a sigh of relief, followed by the soft lilting melody of his healing song.  As the tiefling began to stir, Cal moved over to where Dana had fallen, and tended to her in the same fashion.  

Lok just stood there over the body of the dragon, his body heaving as he silently regarded his fallen foe.  He seemed barely able to keep to his feet, with runnels of blood caught in the wrinkles of his face and caked in the matted length of his beard.  The blade of his axe had fallen until it touched the floor, the haft clutched almost desperately in his tired fingers.  

Benzan rose, still groggy and half-stunned despite the restorative power of Cal’s magic.  He bent down and recovered his sword from where he had dropped it, and crossed to where Cal was helping Dana.  

“How is she?” Benzan asked, his feelings clear in his stricken expression.  

“She’ll be all right,” Cal reassured him, and in fact the young woman began to stir as he finished his spell, groaning in pain as she shifted slightly.

“Take it easy,” Cal said to her.  “You’re hurt bad—we all are.”

“What… what happened?” Dana asked, as she looked up.  She still looked horrible, with her exposed skin ravaged by the dragon’s breath, but there was a hint of her natural fire in her eyes as she gained her bearings and gazed around.  The stick with the _everburning flame_ was still stuck in her belt, and its radiance brightened as Cal helped her rise to a seated position.  

Cal didn’t answer her, just looked at the body of the dragon and its severed head a short distance away.  Lok’s silent form, standing there over the body of the beast like a sentinel, was answer enough.  

“Help me up,” she said, trying to rise and failing before Benzan caught her.  “What about the quaggoths?”

“Dead,” Benzan reported.  “And we quite nearly joined them.  How we’re going to get out of this place with our skins intact, though, is a puzzle that’s beyond me right now.”

“One problem at a time, Benzan,” Cal said.  

“Well, at least no one came running at the sound of that fight,” the tiefling noted.  “That’s something.”

Lok, meanwhile, had turned and started walking slowly, almost grudgingly, toward the rear part of the chamber from which the dragon had emerged.  The shadows there seemed almost tangible, as if they were actively resisting the probing rays of Dana’s light, but they could just make out the thick lines of a massive stone door recessed within the far wall of the place. 

“Lok, wait,” Cal said.  “There’s no way we can go on—even you can barely stand!”

But Lok, caught up within the grasp of some other call, did not seem to hear him.  His companions had no choice but to hurriedly gather up their weapons and follow as best they could.  By the time that the first of them reached him, however, the genasi had already reached the stone door.

The portal was large enough to accommodate a giant, yet it opened smoothly at Lok’s touch.  As it opened light spilled out from the space beyond, as did a droning, continuous sound that they all quickly realized was someone chanting.  

Lok stepped through, the others only a moment behind him.  

Into the innermost depths of the Sanctum: the ritual chamber.  

* * * * * 

The interior of the cavern dwarfed even the considerable spaces that they’d traveled through thus far in the duergar complex, although it seemed crowded with the mesh of activities going on as they entered.  Their attentions were drawn to the massive pillar of silvery metal in the center of the place, resplendent with glowing gemstones that seemed to sparkle like stars in the night sky.  But even that mysterious and wondrous sight did not make them overlook the more immediate concerns directly before them.  

The floor of the cavern was crowded with slumped, half-conscious forms, most of them apparently dwarves with a smattering of other races thrown in, that looked emaciated and ill-used through the ragged outlines of the tunics they wore as dress.  The poor creatures were mostly insensate to what was going on around them, although some of them mumbled incomprehensible gibberish or clawed vaguely at the air with cracked, dirty hands.  In their eyes burned an admixture of madness and despair that was utterly disconcerting.  

Other than the gathered slaves, only two other figures were in the cavern.  One was a duergar female, clad in layered robes of fine cloth.  She was the source of the eerie chanting, and seemed as unaware of what was going on around her as the drugged slaves.  

The other figure, however, was far different.  His back was to them as they entered, so all they could discern of him was that he seemed human, muscular, his bare torso as perfect as if it had been shaped by a master sculptor’s chisel in fine marble.  His head was bald, and he wore a long skirt that shone with a metallic sheen in the light from the dozen or so brands that ringed the circumference of the chamber.  

That was what they companions saw as they entered the chamber.  But on another, more basic level, they could also sense the undercurrents of what was happening here, the source of the disquiet that Benzan and Dana had felt earlier.  A palpable feeling of power was present here, felt as a tingling on the skin that was almost uncomfortable in its intensity.  On the edges of perception they could just detect the flows of power that connected everything in the room, drawing from the gathered slaves but also from the world beyond, through the half-naked man, and from him focused into a tight line that vanished into the substance of the pillar.  

“They’re dying,” Lok said, staring in horror at the gathered slaves.

“By the gods,” Cal whispered.  

At the same moment, Dana cried out, her mystic sensitivity allowing her to more fully perceive the abominous nature of what was being worked here.  

Benzan reacted differently, drawing an arrow and in a smooth motion nocking, sighting, and releasing a shot that slammed squarely into the center of the bald man’s back.  It stuck there, although no blood issued from the puncture.  

As one, the captives shuddered once and then fell still.  The chanting ceased, and the duergar woman slumped to the ground.  The flows of energy stopped flowing, but the stored power was still there, waiting, almost eager to resume its flow.  

The youth turned.  As he faced them, they could see that his face matched the rest of his features, youthful lines that while perfect in form, lacked the depth of expression.  His eyebrows were stylized designs that formed runic whirls above his eyes, which in turn were deep pools of pure blackness that shone with an otherworldly and ancient intelligence.   

If he was at all hindered by the arrow stuck squarely in his back, he did not show it.  And when he spoke, his voice seemed to come from someplace cavernous deep within, filling the air with its sonorous rumble.  

“Foolish mortals, treading as you always do in matters beyond your ken.”

Cal stepped forward.  “Look, I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing, but we’ve come for the urdunnir, and you’d do well to hand them over before things get ugly.  We took care of your duergar friends, and your little dragon, and we’ll do the same to you if we have to.”

“Big words from such a little creature.  You are all nothing to me, small beings who seek to interfere in things they do not understand.  Balander Calloran, who sings his little songs and fears to let his comrades down…  Dana Ilgarten, so very bored with her perfect little life, angry that daddy didn’t pay any attention to her… Benzan, a creature after my own heart, unwilling to confront the true meaning of what he is… And finally Lok, mighty defender of the downtrodden, who does not even know that he is just a pawn in yet another game of the divine powers…”

“You know a great deal, but now it is you who hurls empty words,” Cal replied.  “We are committed, and no idle comments will sway us from our purpose.”

“Bravely spoken, indeed.  But if you think that you have the power to hinder me, you are sadly mistaken.  Since the Time of Troubles my power has been sundered, divided into three separate channels following my confrontations with the god-king Gilgeam.  Since then, my many followers have been scattered by the fall of once-glorious Unther.  On my own plane I have been humbled, forced into alliances and concessions that ill befitted one of my standing.  But here, in this desolate wasteland, that which is rightfully mine will be joined once again to the essence of what I am.  Can you not feel it, already?  This marvelous stele is but a tool, amplifying the life-energy of these pitiful wretches into a wedge that will allow me to take back what was stolen from me.”

“Nice speech, villain,” Benzan said.  “I’d give it a six, maybe a seven, personally.”

Cal’s expression, however, had darkened as the inkling of recognition flared in his eyes at the youth’s words.  “Who are you?” he managed to ask.  

“Have you not already guessed?  In my once-mortal life I was Tchazzar, the Red Wyrm of Unther.  Now I am the Avatar of Tiamat, and with that revelation your souls are forfeit!”

“Whatever you are, die!” Benzan cried, drawing his bow and firing another shot.  The missile flew true, but the youth almost carelessly deflected it with a swat of his hand.

Even as the companions started to act, the Avatar raised his other hand and held it like a claw, outstretched toward them.  A glowing bolt of sinuous green energy lanced out and struck the ground before them, exploding into a web of twisting, living tendrils that lashed into them, penetrating their clothing and armor as if it wasn’t there and vanishing into their bodies.  As each glowing strand passed into their flesh each of them felt a sudden numbness that held their muscles fast, leaving them unable to move.  

“Now, witness your doom!” the Avatar said, raising both of his arms high above his head, his hands outstretched in an expansive gesture.  

The smoothly sculpted lines of the youth’s body began to change, twisting and shifting in a gut-wrenching transformation that the four of them could only watch in helpless horror.  As his form changed he grew and grew, until the empty space around him was filled with the still amorphous outline of his new form.  Then the form began to take solidity once again, resolving into an image normally reserved for the darkest, most disturbing nightmares.  

It was a dragon, huge beyond huge, its body rising high up into the vastness of the cavern above them.  Atop its thick torso protruded not one but five distinct necks, each topped by a massive dragon’s head in one of the five chromatic colors: white, black, green, blue, and, in the center, red.  As the Avatar assumed its true form each of the heads opened and bellowed in a draconic roar that shook the cavern to its very foundations.

The companions shivered in fear as the dark reality of what confronted them finally sank in.  They had fought many deadly foes, both mundane and bizarre, had confronted demons and wizards and evil clerics and somehow always managed to win out even against the worst odds.  But nothing they had faced could compare to this.  

“It has truly been my pleasure to call each of you my friend,” Cal said, unable to shift his head even to look at them.

Benzan, however, was able to manage that feat with great effort, twisting his head just enough so that he could look at Dana.  “I love you, Dana.”

Tears streaked the young woman’s face as her gaze met his.  “I know.”

Lok, however, through an incredible effort of willpower and fortitude, managed to take a single difficult step forward.  His face still streaked with his own blood, he lumbered awkwardly forward a few more paces, fighting the Avatar’s fell magic with each step, until he halted, bringing his axe up before him. 

“Come on, then!” he cried out, in defiance of the inevitable death before him.


----------



## Horacio

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Benzan, however, was able to manage that feat with great effort, twisting his head just enough so that he could look at Dana.  “I love you, Dana.”
> 
> Tears streaked the young woman’s face as her gaze met his.  “I know.”
> *




And she heard a small voice in her mind, the voice of a so-called Story Hour Addict, who said to her: "I knew it too, girl, but you should have told him you love him too!"

_Sorry, I was too involved in the story_


----------



## wolff96

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Benzan, however, was able to manage that feat with great effort, twisting his head just enough so that he could look at Dana.  “I love you, Dana.”
> 
> Tears streaked the young woman’s face as her gaze met his.  “I know.”*




Shades of Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi...  I like it.

*



			Lok, however, through an incredible effort of willpower and fortitude, managed to take a single difficult step forward.  His face still streaked with his own blood, he lumbered awkwardly forward a few more paces, fighting the Avatar’s fell magic with each step, until he halted, bringing his axe up before him. 

“Come on, then!” he cried out, in defiance of the inevitable death before him.
		
Click to expand...


*
You know, I've said it before, I'll say it again...  Lok is just a TOTAL badass.

Of course, you're just plain evil for leaving something like that hanging until Monday...


----------



## Krellic

Still deep in it and far deeper and stinkier dragon droppings than I expected...


----------



## Broccli_Head

Finished page 1! I'm one quarter of the way caught up...

So now I am on part 11....


----------



## Maldur

LB is I ever meet you in person, Im first gonna congratulate you on writing a first class story. After that Im punching you in the nose for leaving us with these ENOURMOUS cliffhangers.

Youll better put your "Cliffhanger King title" in your sig.
Or well make sure morres puts it in your custom title


----------



## Ziggy

Hi LB!

Incredible twist on the last episode, took me (almost) completly by suprise. How on earth are they going to get out of this one ? Also excellent writing in the last part, I have seldom seen defiance and courage expressed so believable. 

. Ziggy (just back from 3 weeks of holiday in Thailand and Cambodia)


----------



## Lazybones

Ack!  Monday!

I've got good news and bad news.  The good news is that I have the climax of the story and its conclusion completely mapped out, and I hope that it lives up to your expectations for dramatic TTtWW book endings. 

The bad news... well, you can already see there's no update.  My office just moved to a new building, and with that and my wedding approaching (less than two months!) I haven't had time to be my usual prolific self in writing. 

Sorry to leave you hanging a bit longer.  I'll get the finale up sometime in the next few days. 

Lazybones


----------



## Lazybones

Heh-- I guess I overestimated the level of anticipation of my readership, as only five people read the above post since I put it up this morning.  Ah, well.  Those reading now can ignore that post, for this afternoon I found a stray hour, and this came out of my keyboard...


* * * * * 

Book V, Part 30

“Come on, then!” 

The Avatar of Tiamat regarded the genasi with a withering stare from its five heads.  For an instant Lok stared fully into the eyes of a god, and although he nearly staggered from the impact of that stare, he managed somehow to hold his ground.  Then the red dragon-head came fully up, and from its eyes twin beams of black, roiling energy blasted into Lok’s chest.  The connection between the two lasted only an instant, over and done so quickly that an eyeblink would have been enough to miss it.

But that instant was enough, for Lok.  He cried out, a cry of heart-wrenching despair as the god reached into him and touched the very essence of his being where his soul resided.  Then he stiffened, and in the next heartbeat collapsed into a limp heap.

“Noooo!” Dana cried, but neither she nor the others could do anything to intervene.  The Avatar’s draconic heads seemed to smile as it came nearer, the stone floor under them shaking with each monstrous step…

A single sound shattered the deadly scene, the sound of metal striking stone that filled the chamber like a thunderclap.  With that sound, the companions felt the magic binding them dissolve, and as their straining muscles gave way they fell clumsily to the cold stone of the cavern floor.  Confused, the three of them looked back behind them to the source of the sound.  

A dwarf stood there in the entry of the chamber, a familiar face that was now garbed in an expression that oddly seemed to mix sadness and anger. 

“Athumba!” Cal cried.

The ancient dwarf carried a thick, gnarled staff in his wrinkled hands—where it had come from they could only guess, as he hadn’t had it the last time they’d seen him.  Once more he slammed its butt end into the ground, repeating the sound that they’d heard earlier.  

He’d clearly gotten Tiamat’s attention, for all five of the dragon mother’s heads were now fully focused on him, the companions all but forgotten as they huddled between the two figures.  Forcing her battered and still reluctant muscles to obey her commands, Dana crawled to where Lok was lying just a few paces from one of the Avatar’s massive claws.  

“You…” the god-dragon hissed, the words coming from all five heads at once in a disturbing cacophony.  What was even more jarring was at the same instant as the spoken sound each of the companions _felt_ the words in their minds, roughly thrusting their own private thoughts to the side in the full force of the god’s power.  

And this was only a physical manifestation of the god, only a partial reflection of all that it truly was.

“You have no business being here!” the Avatar continued, its physical and mental voices filling the cavern much like the echo from the dwarf’s staff.

Athumba spoke simply and plainly in a calm and determined voice.  “I have as much right as you, ancient enemy.  Did you think that your coming to the Prime would escape notice?”

The dragon did not reply in words, but in the echoes of its mental voice in their minds the companions could hear laughter.  “No, I knew that one would come, and it is only fitting that it is you, my old adversary.  Though you did not intervene when Gilgeam needed your aid, did you?”

“It was not my place,” the old dwarf replied.  “For I never was bound up in the affairs of the Untherics as tightly as you were.”

“No, and for that I missed the chance to destroy both of my most hated foes in one fell swoop.  Perhaps mighty AO may give us another chance, someday…”

“You seek another Time of Troubles?  A mad wish, even for you.”

“Perhaps, although there is still some small part of me that remembers my mortal life, before my ascension into what I now am.  But that part of me that is divine Tiamat remembers what was lost, that part of my divine essence that was stolen from me.  I seek only restoration of my full measure; I will not be deprived of what is rightfully mine.  I will that I am, and I am that I will.  Neither you nor your lackeys will stand in my way!”

“You overestimate yourself.”

“And you underestimate me!  Here you are without advantage, and I am not unprepared for your challenge!”

“Nor am I.  And I am not the only one that you have offended with your plans here.”

With those words, Lok suddenly shifted slightly, causing Dana to draw back in sudden surprise.  With ponderous but inexorable movements the genasi warrior rose to a crouch, and then stood, his axe still clutched tightly in his hand. 

“Lok!” Dana breathed in wonder.  But when he had lifted himself enough for her to look into his eyes, she saw something… _else_ than the presence of her friend.  

Tiamat apparently saw it too, for the dragon’s heads hissed in agitation and anger.  “You!  You are nothing but a feeble shadow, Old Dwarf.  I will make you regret coming here…”

Lok spoke, and his voice too was unfamiliar, a rumbling sound of rocks grating together that seemed to come from a vast cavern deep inside his body.  “And I will make you regret the harm you have caused to my people, lizard.”

“This is your final opportunity,” Athumba said.  “Desist and depart immediately, or accept the consequences of your choice.”

For an instant—a long time, in the minds of gods—the Avatar seemed to hesitate.  But then the chromatic dragon drew itself up to its full height, the others mere specks before it, its terrible and mighty presence filling the cavern with the full power of its being.  

“Too long I have waited!  You will not stand in my way!”

Later, when they had time to reflect on the matter, the three mortals present and conscious would not be able to clearly describe what happened next, although Cal would spend a goodly portion of his future days trying.  The “battle” that took place in the dark cavern lasted all of a few seconds, at least as time was measured on the Material Plane.  The best that those present could do was to describe impressions, fleeting glimpses of things that were beyond their perceptions.  The image of Tiamat was a familiar one, even more dreadful in the full force of its ambition and frustration and rage.  Superimposed on this image was the shadow of an aged dwarf warrior, still potent for all his years, wielding a hammer whose blows carried the force to crack the very foundations of the world.  And a final image, a majestic and beautiful dragon, its smooth lines forming an outline of platinum perfection, its eyes holding in them the wisdom of a thousand eras.  

The brief clash of gods resounded throughout the world of Toril.  Thousands of miles away mortal beings cried out in their slumber, and in the great cities above and below the surface of the earth powerful mages and clerics felt a shudder in the world and wondered at what it portended.  

On the myriad outer planes, gods turned their many-seeing eyes momentarily toward the struggle.  Some watched with keen interest in the outcome, while others simply viewed the event as a brief distraction before returning to more particular concerns. 

And then it was over.  The three mortal companions stirred, momentarily confused before memory awoke and realization came flooding back. 

The cavern was empty save for them and the unconscious forms of the slaves of the duergar, a gathering of hundreds of bodies as still as a mass grave.  But in this place of darkness life still clung tenaciously, and the dreams of those silent figures were no longer tormented by the chill touch of torment and death.  

But while the urdunnir and the other captives lived, death had claimed one other upon this battlefield of gods.  The three companions gathered around the body of their fallen friend, lying motionless upon the cold, unforgiving stone.  

Lok, the warrior genasi, was dead.


----------



## Old One

*Woah!*

LB -

Powerful and somewhat unexpected ending (at least you don't get too attached to your characters)!  Congrats on the NWN honor, when do we get to sign up for a game?

~ Old One


----------



## Horacio

Wow!
That was a climax!



Wonderful!


----------



## Maldur

eeeeeerghhhhh!!  I think something is leaking from myears 

wow, and Grats on your wedding !


----------



## wolff96

Dang!  

You killed off my favorite character!

Still, that was one HECK of an ending to this book... Any chance of a ressurection??


----------



## Talon

Damn LB,
 You did it again! What a great book.
 The Party has lost their Mage, and now their frontline Fighter. How will they survive the next events of thier lives? 

I can't wait to see what you do in your next installment.

Chris


----------



## Lazybones

Heh heh... just a quick note that there was no "End of Book V" in the last post.  The Epilogue will be forthcoming in the next few days (and yes, it will largely focus on Lok's fate).  

Thanks again for all your feedback.  This latest book had its ups and downs but I enjoyed writing it.  

Old One: I run all my Neverwinter Nights games at Neverwinter Connections, feel free to PM me there if you want to join one of my games.  I've had a lot of fun with other ENWorlders (LightPhoenix, Farganger, Bagpuss, and a few others have made appearances in my games there), and I'll always save a chair for Mr. Faded Glory!


----------



## Krellic

Excellent stuff, a well written and well paced story.  After teasing us with a series of RBDM cliffhangers I must compliment you on a masterful climax.  I'm sure Lok's role in this epic is not over, though I doubt mere resurrection will be enough.

I trust your players are enjoying this campaign as much as your readers...


----------



## Horacio

Krellic said:
			
		

> *I trust your players are enjoying this campaign as much as your readers...
> *




There are no players, my friend...


----------



## Lazybones

Oh, ye of little faith... 

* * * * * 


Book V, Epilogue 


Gradually, the warrior stirred back into awareness.  Memory and perception were still clouded, but slowly the fog around him dissolved until he once again felt himself as a tangible presence, and the space around him as a tangible locale.  

He was in a cavern, the same sort of place that he dimly recalled leaving—when?  It was all so confusing.  But this place was very different than that dark place, that was immediately clear.  The atmosphere here was cozy and inviting, not stark and cold.  

He turned around slowly, getting used to the feel of his body again.  To one side of the cavern stood a banked forge, surrounded by shelves and racks holding hundreds of tools, a variety of stock metals in neat piles, and a display rack holding numerous completed or semi-completed weapons and pieces of armor.  

The warrior felt drawn to that display, the amazing quality of the work evident even from a distance, but he forced himself to continue his visual exploration of the place. 

The other end of the cavern had been decorated as a comfortable, if spartan, living space.  A cold hearth resided in one wall, near which stood a large chair fashioned of simple slabs of unadorned stone.  Thick rugs made from the fur of various huge beasts covered the floor near that seat, and shelves carved into the very rock of the walls held a plethora of diverse items, knickknacks that all had in common the obvious signs of patient and skilled craftsmanship.  Some were made of wood or stone or clay, but others looked as though they had been fashioned from precious metals, silver and gold and platinum and other, unfamiliar metals.  Even a casual examination of the hundreds of displayed items would fill days, the warrior decided, as he took it all in.  

Several exits offered other areas to explore, but the warrior found himself drawn to the comfortable space near the hearth, until he found himself standing before the great stone chair.  

A sound alerted him that he was no longer alone.  Reflexively his hand darted to the haft of a weapon that was no longer there.  Belatedly he realized that he wasn’t wearing his armor, either, only a simple robe of course brown cloth.  

The newcomer was an ancient dwarf, his features somehow familiar, his face a maze of canyons and ridges and his beard a thick white cascade that ran down his chest to well below his belt.  The light of a forge-fire seemed to dance in his eyes, but he looked tired, battered down, as he entered the cavern.  His expression didn’t change as he looked upon Lok, but the smile in his eyes was plain to see. 

“Ah, me boy.  So at last you have returned.”

“What is this place?” the warrior asked.

“It is a chamber of secrets,” the old dwarf said, as he crossed to the stone chair and wearily sank into it.  “A fitting place, perhaps, for me—once the keeper of secrets, rapidly becoming a well-kept secret himself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, no.”  The old dwarf sagged in the chair, and for a moment he looked truly ancient.  But his eyes still glowed as he fixed them on the warrior.  

“It is not yet time.  You have accomplished much, but you are not ready.  Bahamut helped me to bring you here, and for that I am now doubly indebted to the Draconis Nobilis.  But as much as I would like to keep you here with me, you must return to the Prime, must complete the forging of your destiny.  Your companions have need of you, and you and they will have much yet to do…”

The warrior just stood there, not fully comprehending.  The fog that hung over his thoughts was still there, although he sensed that complete understanding lay just beneath the surface, almost within his reach.  

“So I send ye back into the world, my Lok, as a defender of the urdunnir and those others that need thy aid.  I send you not as a missionary, for my star has already passed its zenith, and even now descends swiftly toward its nadir.  But you, who have walked the many diverse pathways of the world, will not make the same mistakes that I made…  That is my hope, my son.”

As if the speaking of his name had finally cleared away the cobwebs in his mind, Lok regarded the old dwarf with amazement.  “Dumathoin…”

But the old dwarf was already leaning forward, and as he placed his gnarled hand on the warrior’s forehead a light flared where their skin touched.  “I have little power left to me, but I grant you what blessing I may yet possess.  Go, and uncover the treasures that lie within your being!”

And once again Lok was swallowed up in the Void. 

* * * * *  


Back in the dark place far under Toril’s sunlit surface, three companions gathered in a silent vigil of shared sadness.  Around them some of the duergars’ captives were beginning to stir, waking from their own nightmare, and soon they would need the assistance of the battered companions.  But for the moment, the three friends clung briefly to a time that was theirs alone, pooling their grief in a silent unity.  

Dana was crying, clinging to the supportive embrace of Benzan.  The tiefling looked confused, uncertain what to do or how to feel as a cascade of emotions came and went in his expression.  And Cal just looked stricken, as if a part of him had been torn away with the loss of his friend.  

Finally, Dana pulled back, and the movement seemed to shatter the holy stillness of the moment.  Cal crouched beside the fallen form of the warrior, and whispered a quiet message.

“Farewell, my friend.”

“Maybe we can bring him back,” Benzan said.  “We brought you back, Cal… Dana, maybe you could…”

The priestess nodded, and Cal forced a smile at the suggestion.  Both knew what Benzan didn’t, that Lok had been struck down by a god, and that it might not be as easy as casting a spell…

Or maybe Benzan did know, but was unwilling to release whatever small hope they could still cling to.  

“We’ll bring him back with us,” Cal said, turning away from the corpse.  “But first, we have a job to do, the job that Lok brought us here to do.”  He looked out over the gathering of creatures, mostly Lok’s people, some of which were now groaning as they stirred from their unnatural slumber.  

Getting them out was going to be a challenge, they all recognized.  Even if the duergar were well and truly beaten, which itself was not a certainty.  Their thoughts traveled back to the many dangers of the Underdark that they had traversed to get here, and which they would have to face again with a small army behind them… no, that was the wrong word, as one glance at the weak and emaciated forms that surrounded them told them.  

As these dark thoughts warred with their grief a sudden gasp from behind drew them around, and as they turned each of them stiffened and stood there in shocked amazement, unable to speak. 

Lok stirred, opened his eyes, and then slowly, gingerly, rose to a sitting position.  He reached out and grasped his axe, which lay next to him, then looked up at his companions. 

“Greetings, my friends.”



END OF BOOK V


----------



## Maldur

HUZZAH!

Lok lives 

woeoeoeheoeeoe

LB I like to thank you for this grand story. I had a great time reading it , and Im sure you had a great time finding new Cliffhangers to torment us with.

Reading this made me try to write stuff, and when I feel its good enough to show others Ill post it here first.

Thanks again, Bazz  

(edit: I think this is the first time I put my IRL name on this forum)


----------



## Horacio

Lok is alive!
Lok is alive!

A last "Lok is alive!" before going in Germany for 10 days (I don't know if I'll find a computer with internet).

Read you in 10 days!


----------



## CoopersPale

That was fantastic.

Lok's such a little battler.

(sniff)

Dana and Benzan together. I was hanging out for it!

(sniff)

you da man lazybones!
I'm hanging out for when the story makes it's triumphant return....

It must take a lot of time and effort to write this story hour.  It's appreciated!

thanks 

oh, and to answer your previous question: I've been reading all along. Morrus changed my name for me from Bludgeon to CoopersPale. It's more, ah, subtle and is my favourite Aussie beer.


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks all, for the kudos.  Yes, it is a lot of "work" to write this story, but it's the _good_ kind of work, being creative and doing something I enjoy as opposed to the _bad_ kind where you sit at a desk all day writing boring reports and entering data.  

If it wasn't for the time I sneak in writing the story, I'd probably have quit and/or gone insane long ago.

That said, I've been writing TttWW for eight months now, and it's time for a little break.  My latest novel has been languishing unattended, and I think I'm going to go back and force myself to write a few chapters, see how it goes.  Take a break from the warm adulation I get here and go remember what good old-fashion rejection feels like as I submit chapters of my work to publishers and agents again .   

But I've got a ton of ideas for TttWW, so never fear, Book VI will be forthcoming.  Some changes are in store for the group...

When I get a chance, I'll add Book V to the full compilation of the story and send it off to Morrus for his SH hosting page.


----------



## Maldur

HE LB, 

Are you getting a writers itch allready


----------



## Horacio

Maldur said:
			
		

> *HE LB,
> 
> Are you getting a writers itch allready  *




I hope so!


----------



## Lazybones

Heh, just on "break" right now... work has been really busy for once so I haven't had time to write, plus I was getting a little tired of TttWW for a while there.  I'm in a PnP group now (though not as DM) and running three NWN campaigns, so my leisure time is full of 3e goodness.  

But TttWW will return!  Book 6 is planned out, or at least the first six or so chapters, and I have some really good ideas for stuff further on down the road.  We have to figure out what happened to Delem (although my poll drew a tie, so that doesn't help any...  ).  Lok now bears responsibility for an entire people, as Defender of the urdunnir.  Benzan and Dana will find that an admission of feelings isn't enough to forge a healthy relationship, especially with Delem's fate hanging over them like a shadow.  And Cal will find himself facing choices as he starts to walk the pathways toward true arcane power.  

Book 6 will see new villains, as well as some familiar faces.  At one point I think I counted about 30 loose plot threads that I'd left dangling in books 1-5, and new ones are constantly cropping up.  

Thanks for your interest!  

LB


----------



## Broccli_Head

Good! That gives me time to catch up!


----------



## Lazybones

Greetings!

Just a little update (don't want interest in TttWW to wane as it drops down to page 2 or below  ).  

I've sent Morrus the compilation PDF of Books I-V; it should be available for download in a couple of days.  The file comes to 435 pages, 260,000 words! (the zip is nearly 1.5 megs)  I believe that's the longest story hour extant here at ENWorld, though I may be mistaken.  

I tried, but I just couldn't get back into my latest novel (#7 for me, if you don't count TttWW).  I think the difference is that I did a lot of my novel writing during summers in grad school or during stretches when I was temporarily unemployed, where I'd often turn out 8-10 pages a day.  It's hard to get that kind of focus when stealing an hour here and there at work between tasks (like I do for TttWW  ).  

Good news for my readers here, as I found myself drawn back to this story.  I've begun the prologue to Book VI and hope to have something to post in a week or so (maybe less).  I'm going to continue in this thread rather than start a new one, since high page view counts help attract more readers.  

*Warning label:* Book VI is going to deal with some darker themes, beyond the usual gory violence common in D&D stories (including mine).  Nothing graphic to alienate Eric's grandmother (certainly nothing beyond Piratecat's necropede or baby shields, or Wulf's colorful euphemisms), but I wanted to make note for younger readers.  

As always, thanks for reading,

Lazybones


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## Horacio

That means good news!


----------



## Maldur

YEAH!!!!!! The return of TTTWW!!!!

Sorry to hear about your novel, but that means more LOK, BENZAN, DANA and CAL for US!!!


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## Lazybones

Maldur said:
			
		

> *YEAH!!!!!! The return of TTTWW!!!!
> 
> Sorry to hear about your novel, but that means more LOK, BENZAN, DANA and CAL for US!!! *




Don't forget Delem... I haven't.


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## Maldur

And DELEM off course!!

stupid of me


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## Horacio

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Don't forget Delem... I haven't.    *




Oh my God, Delem is coming back!
I'm not sure that means good news for the group...


----------



## Maldur

This could get gruesome.

LB your readers are ready, how are you?


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## Broccli_Head

AMAZING! 

How did you know that Dumathoin was my favorite of the dwarven gods?  

Or that deep dragons are the bomb! 

What an amazing story! I am glad that I finally finished it. Sorry it took so long. 

Whew! Glad Lok lives....too bad about the quaggoths. I was hoping that Taktak would survive. 

your tale has inspired me to start an underdark campaign. should be fun! can't wait until the next book. 

take care, 

Broc


----------



## Lazybones

Travels through the Wild West: A Forgotten Realms Story
Book VI

Prologue


Delem stirred, and opened his eyes.  For a moment, images of horror and evil and violence flashed through his mind, but as his conscious mind took stock of his surroundings those feelings quickly faded, like a nightmare that gave way before the light of the day. 

He looked around.  It was morning, by the bright slash of sunlight that came in through the window and illuminated the foot of the bed.  Tiny motes of dust hung suspended in that radiance, dancing in the air as if they sought to greet the morning with their own festive expression of joy.  

That was a silly thought, Delem thought to himself as he lifted himself up on his elbows and looked around the room.  He felt uneasy, perhaps the lingering feelings of the nightmare.  

The room wasn’t large, but it was homey and clearly lived in, full of soft touches and little details that clearly indicated a woman’s presence.  It was familiar and strange at the same time, and as he looked around at the various items of furniture and the little knickknacks scattered around the young man felt a buzzing in the back of his skull, as if his subconscious were trying to tell him something.  

Whatever that message was, it was drowned out as he heard a woman’s voice, elsewhere in the house.  As if borne by the sound he also became aware of a hearty smell of cooking food, a tasty medley of odors that somehow did not awaken his appetite.  He didn’t feel hungry, although there was a strange emptiness deep inside him that he couldn’t quite identify. 

He heard the sound of footfalls, and knew the woman was approaching.  And then she was there, standing in the doorway of the bedroom.  

“Well, sleepyhead, are you going to stay in bed all day, or are you going to get up and have some breakfast?”

“Dana...”

She was beautiful—just as he remembered her, flawless, exquisite.  She wore only a light robe that clung to the lines of her figure, accentuating all the curves that were burned into his memory like runes carved into stone.  The buzzing in the back of his mind returned, but he ignored it as he drank in the sight of her.  

She looked at him with a sparkle in her eyes.  “Of course, there’s nothing wrong with staying in bed all day, either...”

As she spoke, she ran her hands up and down the length of her body in a way that made his blood boil within his veins.  That part of his mind that had sought to warn him before was screaming at him now, insisting that this was all... _wrong_.  But this... it was all that he had ever wanted. 

Evidently she did not read the confusion that was visible in his expression, for a moment later she came forward and climbed onto the bed, crawling forward until she was on top of him.  Delem looked up at her, and his body reacted to her, although for some reason his muscles felt listless, reluctant to obey his commands.  She pressed her body against his, and it felt as though an electric shock passed through him at her touch.  

“Sweet Delem,” she said.  “My sweet boy.”

The listlessness in his body grew more pronounced even as his heart raced and his blood seemed to pound in his temples.  She slid forward, opening her robe so that their skin touched directly.  The heady smell of sex filled his nostrils, although it wasn’t right, wasn’t all that he’d dreamed of a million times before.  She lifted her body and arched her back, but although the sunlight limned her form like that of an angel, he could only feel the sickening wrench in his gut that threatened to overcome him with nausea.  

“No...” he said, closing his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to lift his hands to push her away.  

He heard laughter.  Dark, mocking laughter.  

His body wracked by conflicting sensations of pleasure and dread, he opened his eyes.  

The sunlight was gone.  The cozy bedchamber was gone.  Even the soft bed was gone, replaced with a writhing mass of sickening forms that sucked at his flesh and scored his back with tiny bites.  And the woman on top of him... 

Not Dana Ilgarten, but a twisted mockery of the female form.  The dark ovals of her eyes were filled not with love, but with contempt and mockery.  He tried to push her away, tried to call upon his magic, remembering too late that his power was lost to him, that emptiness inside of him that was twin to the pit of despair that filled his heart.  The succubus only laughed as she continued the corruption of the act of love.  Delem tried to fight her, but his body, ultimately, betrayed him. 

He closed his eyes as she drew back from him, but her laughter sounded in his ears as she bent down and laid a single kiss on his forehead.  His skin burned where her lips touched his flesh, and he felt just that much more of his life energy drain away at her touch.  Later, he knew, it would be restored, but only so that he would be whole when it was time to face the torments once more. 

“Farewell then, lover.  Thank you for the... gift...”

A sob passed through him as she retreated, but even through closed eyes he could not push out the horrors that surrounded him.  It was all there, now, memory restored with each twisted detail of the time... how long had it been, that he’d been trapped here in this place?  Trapped in the abyss, his only awareness that of pain, and torments dreamed up by minds that embodied the corruption of evil.  He no longer even knew who controlled those torments, what demon pulled the strings of the minions sent to plague him.  In moments of lucidity—increasingly rare, now—he thought he sensed an intelligence behind it all, a pattern to what was being done to him.  But as each new torment tore deeper into what shreds of humanity he’d managed to keep close around his soul, such glimpses of awareness were becoming more tenuous.  

Perhaps, he thought, it would be better if he didn’t fight, if he let himself go into whatever oblivion the demons had planned for his soul.  

A thought popped into his head, so insidious that he didn’t know if it had originated from within his mind, or without.  

_There are no easy escapes waiting for you, sorcerer,_ the thought whispered.  

The moment’s leisure to think freely finally shattered as Delem became aware of movement around him.  He didn’t have to open his eyes to recognize the furtive movements through the mire in which he lay.  Dretches, at least a half-dozen of them, coming closer. 

He retained enough conscious memory to know what would happen, but the knowledge that there was no “death” in this place was no comfort.  In fact, it was another form of torment, as he lay there, unable to move to defend himself in any way.  

In the Abyss, awareness was a curse.

Long before the demons even touched him, Delem screamed.


----------



## Corwyn

Apparently Lazybones isn't finished with writing jet  

Lucky for us who need their story hour fix 

Now .... more updates


----------



## Talindra

Yay!!  I am so excited.  Lazybones is back.  Even when I have no time to read, I have to read this one, even when I should be working.  I'm on pins and needles.........


----------



## Broccli_Head

Poor Delem....

Did I ever tell you that I hate succubi?

...but I love to use them against PCs. Inevitably they forget their player knowledge, have a brain fart, and let the demoness drain away a level...


----------



## Ziggy

Hi Lazybones!

Nice to see you back  I

'm looking forward to the new direction you are taking the story, the start definitely looks promising.

.Ziggy


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## wolff96

He's back!

Good to see you, Lazybones.

Delem in the hands of nasty succubus, tortured by demons, and getting nasty thoughts placed into his thoughts... I love it! Of course, considering how long he's been down there, he might have a lot of half-fiend little buggers running around now...


----------



## Maldur

You started!!!!!!  woohoo!!!!

That was a great start, great to have you back LB


----------



## Lazybones

Hey, thanks everyone for the positive posts.  Part 1 went a little longer than my typical chapters, so I'm going to break it into two installments, presented today and tomorrow.  

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 1 (post 1)


Goran strode into the chamber, his bare feet making barely a sound on the cold stone floor.  The only light was a pair of braziers full of brightly glowing coals, which flanked a plain stone bier near the far wall from the dark entry.  In the red radiance from the coals Goran was little more than a shadow, but as he came forward the light glistened on the sheen of sweat and blood that covered his muscular frame.  There was more of the former than the latter, but not by much; the purification rituals had been long and arduous.  

But if the man was in pain, he did not show it.  Few who came here did; one didn’t get this far without learning to carefully mask their inner feelings.  

As he came forward, Goran’s eyes crept reflexively upward to the large emblem that hung over the far wall.  The representation of the Dark Sun was impressive at first glance, easily eight feet across, but Goran didn’t need to examine it closely to know that it was a temporary device, a hastily made construct that could be taken down quickly if the cell needed to suddenly change location.  That was a common expediency, as followers of the Father of Lies were not generally liked by those around them.  Concealment, and creeping around in the shadows, was almost a necessity.  

Goran snorted, not caring if the others saw it.  That would change, if he had his way.  

As he approached the bier the others became visible, mere shadows themselves in the cowled black cloaks that concealed their lean frames.  All kept their faces hidden, although Goran could identify most by the subtle hints in the way they carried themselves or the way that they moved.  

That was another skill common to those of his ilk; the ability to read subtle clues that were ignored by less perceptive men.  

Of course, in this sect, the less perceptive tended to be the less... _alive_ eventually.  

One of the black shadows detached itself from the others and came to stand behind the bier.  He reached up with a pale, bony hand and pulled back his cowl, revealing the emaciated features of a man who looked older than his years.  His eyes shown in the reflected light of the glowing coals, and seemed to hold a glow of their own as they fixed on the nude form of the solitary approaching figure.  

The cloaked man smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes.  Goran could read those eyes like words written on a scroll, could read the subtle mockery in the man’s stance, the anticipation matched with ever-present ambition.  There was no pride in him, no concern, no respect; even though Malifex was the individual most responsible for who he was, what he had become.  Goran didn’t even bother looking at the others; he knew their functions in this equation, understood them and dismissed them as irrelevant to what now needed to be done.  

Goran came forward and knelt before the bier.  The massive stone was large enough to support a man lying spread-eagle upon its surface, but the only ones to do that were those slated to have their lives torn from their bodies.  Another ritual entirely, and nothing to do with what was about to happen here. 

Of course, he could still lose his life here, but that was unlikely.  That understanding caused Goran no concern; he was so far beyond thoughts of life and death that the promise of such a fate held no terror for him.  

Malifex came around the bier, creeping forward like a wary cat until he was perched behind the kneeling warrior.  His voice was like a hiss as he asked, “Have you undergone purification, supplicant?”

Goran did not stir, his eyes fixed forward on some distant nothing as he replied, “Yes.”

“Are you prepared to receive the blessing of the Dark God, if he judges you worthy?”

“I am unworthy, but prepared to accept His judgment, be it for power or for death.”

“The prepare to meet your fate,” Malifex muttered.  Goran did not shift or flinch as he heard the sound of metal sliding on metal, as the cloaked priest reached into the brazier and drew an object out of the coals.  Malifex, of course, was protected against the burning heat of the brand as he lifted it before him—although some priests were known to forego such warding during the ritual, accepting the pain of the flesh as a way of proving their dedication to their dread god. 

Goran thought little of such fanatics—they were dangerous and unpredictable, those, and did as much to undermine their cause as to advance it.  Malifex was not one of those, although Goran knew all too well that the man’s brilliance was matched to an insanity so profound that it defined everything that he was.  It was Malifex who, decades ago in another life, had dragged him onto the path of service to Cyric by destroying everything that he had been, everything that he had once loved.  

Pain exploded through his back as the priest thrust the brand against his bare flesh, scoring him with the sigil of the Dark Sun.  The pressure felt as though Malifex sought to drive the metal through his body, but to Goran, who had been treated to far worse in his life, the pain was just a distraction to be felt, identified, and then placed away in a distant compartment for later analysis.  Malifex recognized the self-control and let out a small cackle that was hidden in the sound of searing flesh as the brand finished its work and he replaced it carelessly in the brazier with a loud clatter.  

“Rise, supplicant,” the priest hissed.  

Goran rose, overcoming the weakness of his battered body through the marshaled force of his will.  The robed figures gathered closer around the bier, forming a ring around him and the stone.  Their chanting filled the chamber, and Goran could sense their power gathering—power that he, personally, had never been able to tap himself.  For all that his identity was now irrevocably tied to Cyric, he’d never been able to embark upon that surrender of self that was required for entry into the priesthood of the Prince of Lies.  Goran felt the same contempt for his master that the clerics felt for all other life, a paradox that led him to amusement on those rare occasions when he felt inclined to a philosophical mood.  

For all his feelings on the subject, however, there was no denying the reality of the power that rose at the call of the gathered priests.  The result of that calling was swiftly apparent, as the air above the bier began to twist and shimmer.  A black cloud formed out of the air, a roiling mass of chaos and corruption that seemed to pulse in an almost living cadence as it took form.  Then a form erupted out of the cloud, an image hanging in the darkness.  It was a skull, humanoid in shape but missing its lower jaw, and jagged flames limned its surface as it hung there in the air.  The skull turned slowly in a wide arc, taking in each of the gathered priests in turn before fixing its empty eyesockets upon Goran. 

_Greetings, Goran._

Goran felt the words fill his mind, and knew without doubt their source.  He momentarily wondered if the others heard them as well, then decided he didn’t care.  Nor did he try to conceal his thoughts, his feelings, from the presence that crept into his mind—his soul—like a second skin.

_Yes, I feel your hatred for me, the hate that you cannot seem to muster for your fellow men.  That hate will sustain you as you fulfill your destiny in my service, Goran, for you are my Chosen, and I mark you as such!_

The skull screamed, an inhuman sound that seemed to tear at the very fabric of reality.  The skull and the flames and the cloud swept forward, growing... or shrinking, it was impossible to tell which exactly, from one instant to the next...  until the image vanished into Goran. 

The supplicant jerked and staggered, nearly falling before he somehow managed to catch himself.  His eyes flared wildly and his features twisted into a rictus of sudden terror and confusion.  The gathered priests leaned forward despite themselves, like a pack of carrion birds awaiting the fall of a dying beast.  One of them laughed, a desperate sound of released tension.  Goran righted himself momentarily, then stumbled forward and fell once again to his knees.  The dark presence that had just occupied this place was gone, and the stillness of the chamber was broken only by the haggard breathing of those gathered. 

“Well, supplicant?” came Malifex’s voice, unable to fully conceal the eager edge in his tone.  One hand had crept under the shroud of his cloak, no doubt to the hilt of a waiting blade.  The fact that Goran still lived meant that he’d passed one test, but there had been those who had survived only to descend utterly into insanity.

For a moment Goran remained hunched over, kneeling before the bier, his head lowered so that his chin pressed against his heaving chest.  Then, slowly, he rose, turning leisurely so that each of those present could look into his eyes, could sense the presence of the god’s touch that was now in him.

When he finally faced Malifex, the old priest’s smile grew more terrible and his eyes burned with passion.  “Long have I waited for this,” he hissed quietly, so that only Goran could hear.  “All the preparation that I put into you, it was all for this moment.”  In a louder voice, he added, “All hail the Spur Lord!” 

“Hail the Spur Lord!” came the chorus from the gathered priests.  Some of the praises were fervent, some reluctant, but all were tinged by the respect that came with power.  

“You did not think that I would receive the full measure of the power,” Goran said to Malifex.  “You did not think that I was ready—or deserving.”

Malifex smiled, but for one instant his eyes betrayed the truth of what Goran had said.  “It was worth the gamble, my pupil—my son.”

Goran nearly laughed.  No, not a pupil, although in one sense, perhaps, Malifex _was_ his father, the one that had birthed him to a new life to replace the one that the priest had stolen from him so many years ago.  Malifex, with the gifts of his warped and twisted genius, had broken him, torn down the foundations of the identity he’d been born with so that he could craft a distorted shadow of a man in its place.  The voice he’d heard had been right—he was beyond hatred of mere mortal men, the emotion burned out of him by the transformation into what he had become.  Emotions no longer governed his actions... did not govern what he did now.  

Malifex saw it, finally, too late.  


(continued tomorrow)


----------



## Horacio

Lazybones is back!
And even better than before!!!!


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## Maldur

Yeah, that was way beyone just a good read!

Superb.

Cant wait till tomorrow!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VI, Part 1 (post 2)

Goran spun his wrist, and as he did so, a longsword appeared suddenly in his hand out of nowhere.  The blade was forged of black steel, and the red light of the coals cast a reflective sheen on its length as though the blade had been dipped in water.  

The priest’s eyes widened in surprise.  “But... you have only just ascended... how can you know the mystery of the _secret blade_?”

Goran’s answer was a powerful stroke that tore into the cleric’s chest.  Malifex was no fool, though, and as the blade bit it was clear that the priest had not come to this gathering unprepared.  Instead of cleaving through flesh and bone, the blow met the resistance under the priest’s cloak, striking either armor or some other magical form of protection.  Even so, the impact was enough to knock the cleric backward, and he cried out in pain as the acid that coated Goran’s magical blade—a weapon of power named _Gulgathor_—sizzled at the shallow gash in his flesh where the edge of the sword had bitten through Malifex’s defenses.  

Malifex’s gaze burned with hatred as he locked his eyes upon the new Spur Lord.  “He has gone mad!  Slay him!” he cried to the gathered clerics.  

One dark cloaked man rushed immediately at Goran’s flank, only to crumple as the Spur Lord spun and lashed out with a blow that tore open the man’s throat.  As the acolyte fell, his blood gushing in a fountain on the stones before him, the warrior spun and adjusted his position to face the others, bringing his blade up in a defensive stance.  Had their perceptions been as trained to combat as Goran’s they might have noticed that the Spur Lord’s wounds seemed to have closed as he fought, and that no fresh blood drained from the numerous small cuts that covered his body from the ritual of purification that had come earlier.  

There was a moment’s pause as the clerics hesitated in their rush.  One of them cast a quick spell, calling upon Cyric’s power to _hold_ the rogue warrior, but as the magic washed over him the potency of its power disintegrated, and the image of a skull burning with black flames appeared briefly over Goran’s head. 

“Fool!  He possesses the _dark bond_... do not target him directly!” Malifex cried.  The high priest had drawn back to a safer distance, putting his underlings between him and the dangerous—but still apparently suicidal, facing five powerful clerics—warrior.  

The priest whose spell had failed joined another comrade and cautiously moved to flank the warrior, drawing heavy maces of black iron out from under their cloaks as they came forward.   The weapons bore wicked spikes and numerous enchantments, and from the way that they held them the two cloaked clerics were not unfamiliar with their use.  Behind them, the next pair of priests began casting more spells; the first beginning an intricate spell to conjure an otherworldly ally while the second rattled off a quick litany that resulted in a black glow of magical fire erupting around his hands.  

Goran exploded like a coiled spring, launching into the pair of clerics before they could fully flank him.  His first attack was a probing thrust that drove the first cleric back.  The second took advantage of the distraction to launch a quick strike at the Spur Lord’s exposed flank, but Goran narrowly dodged out of the path of the blow.  The cleric recovered quickly, but not as quickly as the veteran warrior.  Goran stepped inside his reach and around him, like a dancer executing some intricate maneuver on the ballroom floor.  The cleric shuddered, then turned to reveal a long gash up the length of his side under his arm where Goran had dragged his blade, the magical acid from _Gulgathor_ burning deeper into the vicious wound.  

Even as the cleric fell Goran was already pressing his attack against his other adversary, deflecting two powerful but clumsy swipes of the cleric’s mace with his blade, and following with a deep lunge that penetrated the man’s armor and tore several inches into his chest.  The cleric continued to fight, but it was clear that the stroke had hurt him badly as he tried in vain to adjust to the warrior’s continued attacks. 

In the meantime the cleric working the summoning had nearly finished his incantation, when his neighbor turned and reached out and touched him with the black flames burning around his hands.  The evil fire surged into the cleric’s body with almost eager force, and the cleric screamed, his casting disrupted as he staggered blindly to the side in a vain effort to escape the sudden attack.  

Malifex, meanwhile, had not been idle.  He himself had nearly unleashed a _flame strike_ upon the betrayer, but when he saw the appearance of the black skull above Goran’s head at the casting of his brother cleric’s spell, he knew that the favor of his god was with the treacherous usurper.  His powers were great, and his selection of spells had the power to unmake armies, but they would not avail him against the _dark bond_ of a Spur Lord.  His fury nearly drove him to join the physical attack against the betrayer, but the dark priest had not survived as long as he had by giving into weak passions.  Snarling, he turned and ran for the doorway of the ritual chamber.  

But before he reached the exit, he heard the unmistakable sounds of combat coming through the plain wooden door, and understood immediately what that meant.  

The cold hand of fear touched him through his anger as he turned to face his enemy. 

Goran’s third adversary fell to the ground as the he slammed his blade hard through the hapless cleric’s defenses.  The naked warrior paused and shot a glance back at the sole remaining priest, the one that had struck down his ally with the black flames.  The cleric just stood there, awaiting the outcome of this final confrontation, clearly not willing to intervene further.  The Spur Lord nodded, and stepped forward over the body of his most recent victim to face Malifex.  

“A fine betrayal, worthy of my best student,” the priest said with a forced chuckle.  His hands had vanished under his cloak, and as the two men faced off the high priest drew a sword that issued from its sheath with a sibilant hiss of metal on leather.  “But you will not find me an easy kill, even with that black blade of yours.”  

“Cyric has deserted you, old man,” Goran said.  “Time to meet your fate.”

Malifex snarled in rage, but as he opened his mind to the power of his god, seeking to call upon the _divine power_ of the Prince of Lies, he suddenly realized that the Spur Lord spoke truth.  Where that burning touch of power had resided now lay only a black emptiness, the cold presence of the grave.

Even without that power, however, Malifex was a considerable adversary, and he was armored while the man before him lacked even the protection of a leather shirt.  The cleric came at him with a measured series of attacks, which Goran met with smooth parries with _Gulgathor_.  The cleric’s weapon also bore a powerful enchantment, as it was a _skull blade_, an unholy weapon that hungered to tear the flesh of those of good hearts.  Against Goran, however, it was merely a sharp sword, and despite Malifex’s cunning the cleric found each stroke turned as _Gulgathor_ darted to meet it.  

The two sparred for a few moments, Goran parrying the cleric’s attacks without launching an assault of his own.  Malifex, of course, saw that Goran was fighting defensively, and as he realized what was happening, came the understanding that his fate was indeed sealed.  

“I’ll see you in the Abyss!” he cursed, spitting in the direction of the Spur Lord even as two blades slammed hard into his back.  The cleric screamed and staggered forward, right into the downward thrust from _Gulgathor_ that clove deeply into his chest.  

The high priest gurgled something unintelligible and collapsed in a heap.  

Goran looked down at the corpse of his greatest foe, unable to summon even a momentary emotion for the man who had so dominated his life.  He looked up at the two men who had come to his aid.  Both were clad in suits of full plate armor, covered with sharp edges and protruding spikes that would make close combat with either a dangerous proposition.  Both saluted him, slamming their sword hilts against their armored chests.  

“The chapel is secure, general.”

“Very good.  Inform the others I will join them shortly.  Leave my armor in the antechamber.”

The two soldiers—Knights of the Ebon Spur—saluted again, then turned and departed.  Clad in cumbersome metal armor, they should have made an incredible clatter as they moved, but they made barely a sound as they slipped out of the room.  That enchantment had been expensive and difficult to get, but at that moment Goran considered the investment well worth the cost.

Goran walked over to where the remaining priest stood waiting for him.

“I see you made your choice, Karak.”

“Far be it for me to challenge the will of the Dark Sun,” the man replied with a faint, almost mocking bow.  

“Malifex was brilliant in his own way, but he would only hold us back in what we must now do,” Goran said.  

“Indeed.  The glories of Cyric’s name will soon spread far and wide among the unbelievers, and our enemies will taste the dust that is their undoing.”  The two shared a knowing look-Karak wasn’t a fanatic in the sense of some of the mindless drones that served in the clergy of the Prince of Lies, and Goran knew that, but sometimes a mantra had to be maintained even when both sides knew the bounds of such truths.  

Goran spun his wrist, and his sword vanished back into the nothingness from which had originally sprung.  The cleric asked, “I must admit, curiosity is a weakness that I cannot deny possessing.  Malifex was right—how is that you possess knowledge of the _secret blade_, given that you were only just initiated as a Spur Lord?  The power of the _dark bond_ was yours the moment Cyric blessed you, and I can see why you waited for it to challenge Malifex, but it normally takes months, if not years, to uncover the other gifts of the Dark Sun.”

“I arranged to go through the initiation ritual secretly six months ago, using my connections within one of the rival sects,” Goran said plainly.  “Though it was... reassuring... to have Cyric’s faith in me confirmed.”

Karak laughed, and the slight bow he gave the other was one of genuine respect this time.  “The coming year promises to be an interesting one, Spur Lord.  I will inform the lesser priests of the change of leadership, and we will wait on your command.”

Goran nodded, and without further comment turned and left the chamber, his bare feet trailing footprints of blood from the slain across the stone floor as he left.


* * * * * 

The *Spur Lord* prestige class can be found in _Lords of Darkness_.


----------



## Maldur

A fearsum opponent for our heroes.

I forsee a terible struggle.


Good start LB, it seems your writing improved over the hiatus. Great combat scenes as usual though


----------



## Maldur

Why am I the only one reading this story? Is there a large lurking population?


----------



## Horacio

Of course you aren't the only one!
What do you think?
I'm here, as addict as ever!


----------



## Lazybones

Don't worry, Maldur; I'll keep writing it even if only you, me, and and Horacio are here...  I suspect a number of readers are like me, dropping in to visit our favorite threads once every few weeks to catch up on updates.  Thanks again for the bumps (I saw the thread dropping off of page 1 yesterday, but I make it a point of honor to never bump my own threads).    

Of course, with TttWW, you miss a week and you can miss a lot...

I must still be in "novel mode," for part 2 ended up being longer than I anticipated as well.  I generally try for posts that are from 8-12,000 characters long, otherwise it is too much to read given the serial format of a messageboard story.  I'll post part 2 over today and tomorrow, like I did with part 1. 

Still setting up the story and catching up with our heroes, but I promise we'll get to the action soon enough!

* * * * * 


Book VI, Part 2 (1st post)

Cal awoke with a start, the fleeting shards of his dream scattering before the harder edges of reality.  He didn’t try to hold onto the departing visions of his dream—he rarely did, anymore—and instead rose and sat quietly on the edge of his bed.  It was still dark, the land outside his bedroom window barely glowing with the light of the false dawn, but the gnome’s low-light vision—and his familiarity with his dwelling—allowed him to navigate the darkened room without difficulty as he rose and walked into the outer chamber.  

The place was familiar, filled with the little touches that marked a place as being lived-in.  He’d only been here six months, but already the place looked as though he’d lived here all his life.  That thought troubled him, for some reason.  

He walked past his worktable, a long stretch of heavy wood that ran along most of the back wall of the room.  He laid his hand on the smooth wooden surface, feeling the familiar grain of the wood beneath his fingers.  His eyes traveled inevitably to where his most recent project was laid out across the center of the workspace.  It was foolish, but for a moment he felt as though it was mocking him, sitting there unfinished.

He leaned over and picked up the wand from its cradle.  Even without its power the slender piece of polished blueleaf felt impressive, exquisitely formed and painstakingly carved with spidery runes of power.  Everything was ready, from the wand to the materials that he would need to complete it, but for some reason he’d let this project sit unfinished for several weeks now.  

With a sigh he placed the uncharged wand back in its cradle.  He knew what the problem was, the reason for his hesitation.  It wasn’t uncertainty whether he would be able to complete the wand successfully; he’d made several in his first weeks here, although those were lesser items that were easy compared to the effort that this wand—a _wand of invisibility_ it would be, once he was finished—would require.  No, it was more what the wand and its power represented, a reminder of what he was, and what he was doing here.  His power had grown, since he and the others had returned from the Underdark, and he had established a comfortable niche for himself here, but...

Well.  That was it, in a nutshell, he thought.  He was here, in a comfortable home, living a stable and settled existence rather than the chaotic life of the road that he and the others had pursued through much of the previous year.  The life of the adventurer.  They’d complained so often about the trials of the road when they were on that course, but now that he’d eschewed it that life seemed to call to him, whispering little mutterings of discontent into the edges of his conscious thoughts.  

So why was he still here?  

Cal turned away from the worktable, and opened the sliding door that led out onto the back patio.  The morning air was cold, bracing, even though there was still a fair amount of summer to go before the season could properly be called autumn.  For a moment he felt tempted to go back inside and fetch his _ring of warmth,_ but in a tiny little gesture of self-denial he decided to stay, and face the morning on its own terms.  

Even in the soft haze of the morning, when the streets were all but deserted, Silverymoon looked wondrous.  Or maybe it was the absence of activity that heightened the effect, making the wonders of the northern city stand out in all its stark and magnificent beauty.  Massive trees, some of which contained dwellings within their boughs, filled the streets, and hundreds of structures in dozens of architectural styles were visible from his vista.  Though the Silver Marches lacked the sense of ancient durability of places like Waterdeep, it had its own majesty, due in part to the presence of such wonders against the harsh backdrop of the Silver Marches.  In these wild and largely untamed lands, Silverymoon stood as a glowing symbol of civilization against the constant threats posed against its very existence.  

Cal leaned back against the rail of the patio and sighed again.  He liked it here.  Silverymoon was different, very different, from his home of Waterdeep, but it was a place that had its own diversity and character.  Those features appealed very much to the traveled gnome, and he’d made friendships here, and earned respect among those who possessed power.  

But he still missed his friends.  

He hadn’t seen Lok in nearly a year, ever since they had parted company on their return to the abandoned underground town of the urdunnir.  The parting had been a sad one, for even though Lok had been returned to them from death they had to give him up once again in the face of his people’s need.  The several hundred urdunnir that had survived their enslavement needed a leader now, and Lok’s determination to help them had not ended with their freedom from the duergar.  Something about him had changed, although he had not spoken to them of what he had experienced in his brief brush with the afterlife.  Cal, who had been there himself, understood completely and gave the genasi the space he needed.   

For about the thousandth time, the gnome wondered how his friend was faring, as he went about the task of rebuilding a society from the foundations up.  Cal had been researching a new spell, one that would allow him to view familiar persons from a great distance, but thus far its secrets had evaded him.  It wasn’t that the spell was beyond his power—he’d already mastered several enchantments of equivalent difficulty—but more a mental block that came up each time he tried to venture the complex equations scribed on the vellum surface of the spell scroll he’d purchased from one of the local mages.  

Maybe a part of him didn’t want to learn the spell of scrying, Cal mused as he looked out over the quiet city.  He wanted to see his friends, but maybe he was afraid of what he might find if he did.  

That realization brought his thoughts to Dana and Benzan.  There love for each other was now out in the open, and on the long journey back Cal had seen the bond between the two of them start to flourish and grow.  But he’d also seen the tension that still existed between them, a tension that he realized and understood because he felt the source of it himself.  A shadow that all four of them shared, the fate of a friend lost to them.  

The three of them had parted in Silverymoon six months ago.  Cal had elected to remain to study with the mages of the city and see what, if any, lore he could uncover about demons and the possible fate of Delem’s soul.  Dana and Benzan, meanwhile, were to continue on to the Sword Coast, to Waterdeep and ultimately to Baldur’s Gate.  There they would meet again with Ilyessa Beldarin, high priestess of Tymora in that city, whose mandate had sent them on a journey halfway around the world what seemed like so long ago.  While they had sent a message ahead of them explaining the ill fate that befallen that mission, and the death of Ruath, Ilyessa’s agent on that trip, they all agreed that they owed the Lady a face-to-face visit to more fully explain what had happened.  

Cal had fully intended to follow after once he was finished in Silverymoon, but as the weeks had crept into months he found himself finding one excuse after another not to go.  Perhaps it was the idea of returning to Waterdeep, the place he had so long called home, although he could not fully grasp why the idea of returning there would make him uncomfortable.

Eventually, as more time passed without word from Benzan and Dana, the impetus to leave diminished.  And his work here was progressing, with new powers opening to his study.  In a way, his explorations continued, just down a new course than before...

No, that was a rationalization, Cal thought, as he shook his head.  A cold gust of wind from the north—probably all the way from the Spine of the World—blew over the porch, causing him to shiver.  He turned to head back into the house...

...and hesitated, as he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye.  Curious, he approached the object resting on the floor on the far edge of the patio.  

It was a bird, or at least it looked like one at first glance, but as he drew nearer Cal could see that it was far more remarkable.  It perched on the very edge of the patio, facing toward the interior of his workroom.  It was roughly the size of a real raven, and its color was the same jet black, but that’s where the similarity to a living avian ended.  For even in the pale glow of the predawn it was obvious that the bird was carved from stone, its outline marked by the rougher edges of the sculptors chisel rather than from the natural lines of feathers and skin.  

Cal wondered who might have left the thing here, on the back patio.  A low fence separated the back of his house from other nearby residences, but it was not a barrier that would serve to keep out a determined visitor.  Another thought occurred to him, and he called to mind the words of a minor cantrip. 

Before he could cast the spell, however, the bird figure itself confirmed his suspicion as its head lifted and it stared directly at him.

“Balander Calloran, I bear thee a message,” the stone bird spoke, in a quiet but clear voice.  Then, before the gnome could react, it crumbled into a small pile of broken pieces of stone.  

Still wary, but with his curiosity now stronger than his caution, Cal crept forward and bent down to examine the remains of the stone bird.  He quickly found what he was looking for, a slender metal tube that had apparently been contained within the body of the stone bird.  His fingers ran up the length of the tube, outlining the runes etched lightly into its surface.


(continued tomorrow)


----------



## Lazybones

P.S. The characters are now ECL 11; I'll try to get an update to the Rogues' Gallery thread before the weekend (State Board meeting today: lots of time to develop plot twists in the margins of my notebook, but no access to a computer).  

LB


----------



## Maldur

Horacio:  How could I doubt your presence 

LB Even thought these are a series of shorter chapters, it starts to be of novel size! I dont mind long chapters, im always dissapointed the update ends


----------



## Rugger

Been a while...but the thought of such a great story dropping off the front page makes me sad...


BUMPO!

Great to have you back LB!!

-Rugger

"I Lurk!"


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## Reg Dword

I am still here too Lazybones. Great start to the next chapter!


----------



## Broccli_Head

Maldur said:
			
		

> *
> LB Even thought these are a series of shorter chapters, it starts to be of novel size! I dont mind long chapters, im always dissapointed the update ends  *




I echo that sentiment! 

I see that there is a trend evolving in some of the stories to have some time pass before they continue....see _Knights of Spellforge Keep_

I know that in my current campaign we are going to soon reach that point where I want the heroes to take a break for a year or two and then pick up their swords and spellbooks once again.


----------



## wolff96

And never forget about the lurkers, like me!

I loop through the Story Hour forums about once a week, looking for new stories.

I post about once every two weeks in the few storys I follow -- and this is definitely one I don't miss.

So whether I'm currently posting or not, I'm here for every update. Love the story as always, LB... Keep it up, please!


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## MasterOfHeaven

Hmmm.  It's been a while.  I don't know what's going on.  At least Delem might be back.  The only reason I read this story hour now is the hope that Delem returns and rips the ungrateful scum that used to be his party members to pieces, and roasts Benzan over a slow fire.   Yes.  Yesssss.  Muahahaahhaha!


----------



## Talindra

I'm still here too......I faithfully check every time LB posts, but I don't post myself as often as I should.  As long as you keep writing, I'll keep reading!


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## Lazybones

Thanks everyone for the expressions of support.  I keep all your comments and frequently read them when I need positive writing reinforcement.  Sometimes I think I should be focusing more on my "real" writing, i.e. the novels that keep piling up rejections from publishers and agents, but the fact is, I am having more fun writing _Travels,_ and that, after all, is the whole point.  

P.S. The reason for this brief post, in addition to the thanks, is that I updated the character stats in the Rogues' Gallery thread (see the link in my sig).  The characters are now ECL 11, and the spellcasters are starting to get to the point where they can do some... _interesting_ things (as we shall soon see in the story). 

Update tomorrow morning.


----------



## Horacio

_Travels thought the Wild West_ has more (objetively) quality than most FR novels I've read. Maybe you should try to submit the first book to someone at WotC...


----------



## Maldur

I hate to say this but Horacio is right


----------



## Horacio

Maldur said:
			
		

> *I hate to say this but Horacio is right  *




Why do you hate to say it?


----------



## Maldur

I hate to agree with people 

actually its a "standard" figure of speech wich does not translate well into english


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## Horacio

Maldur said:
			
		

> *I hate to agree with people
> 
> actually its a "standard" figure of speech wich does not translate well into english  *




I suppused it, we have the same expression in Spanish


----------



## Maldur

And if you are agreed to too much, your head may grow to big for your hat


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys.  When I started _Travels_, I knew it was going to just be for myself and for my online readers, given that it is set in a trademarked campaign setting. But maybe I will send the folks at WotC (if there are any left after all the layoffs  ) a prospectus of the story, just for the heck of it. 

Of course, if it _were_ to get published, I wouldn't be able to post new updates here for you guys .  


* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 2 (2nd post)


He found and broke the seal at one end of the tube with his thumb, and drew out the tightly rolled scroll contained within.  Actually two scrolls, he discovered, separating the two sheets of paper.  He turned to head inside the house, to find a lamp, but when he looked down at the top sheet of paper he saw that the lines of script written therein shone with a faint but clearly distinguishable glow.  A human might not have been able to read by that light, but the words were clearly legible to Cal’s sharp eyes.

It was not a particularly difficult trick, but not especially common, and it let Cal recognize the source of the message even before he read the familiar letterhead at the top of the scroll.  It was a design that wove across the top of the page, a collection of whirls and loops that formed the shapes of birds and leaves in a complex pattern.  Cal felt a pang of memory as he looked at that letterhead, then his eyes traveled down to the text below.   

It was a letter, addressed to him.  

_To my great-nephew Balander, resident of Silverymoon:

It has been years now, since we have last spoken, my boy, but know that my thoughts have often been with you since you left.  I have watched you, from time to time, and so it is that I know to call upon you in my hour of need.

Time is short, so I will get straight to the point.  Two days ago, my grandson Nelan—your cousin—in direct defiance of my wishes, entered Undermountain through the gateway in the Yawning Portal in the company of a small band of unproven adventurers.  You will recall that your cousin has always been foolish and headstrong, but never has he done anything this reckless.  As you no doubt already know, magic works strangely within the halls of Halaster’s domain, and I have been unsuccessful in my efforts to track Nelan or his companions.  Reports are that the upper levels have been particularly active of late, so much so that Durnan had sealed his gateway to all passage.  Nelan, apparently was able to persuade him to make an exception—you know how disarmingly charming that young rake can be.

The sun sets over the city as I write this, which I hope will reach your hands by the following dawn.  Fortunately I had this messenger on hand, and I will be watching to see if you receive it.  I was so desperate that I even considered hiring adventurers to go into Undermountain in search of Nelan, but this is a matter best left to family.  And so I turn to you, Balander, and implore your aid.  You chose to leave us for the wider world, a decision that I understood and supported, but now your family needs your talents. 

Enclosed with this message you will find a scroll of teleportation, which I know you are now able to use.  You may target the study in my old house—I know you are well familiar with it, and it has changed little since you last were here.  I have also sent word to your cousin Pelanther, but he is even more difficult to reach than you in his chosen haunts within the Ardeep Forest. 

I ask this of you, not as the matriarch of our family, but as the old woman who you called ‘Nana’ when you were just a child, bouncing on my knee.  Fate has been cruel to me, over the years, taking from me so many I loved and called my own.  Nelan is all that I have left to me.  I ask—no, I beg—please help.  

Great-Aunt Alera Calloran 
Matriarch of Family Calloran_

Cal lowered the scroll, his thoughts jumbled in a confused whirl as he tried to sort out the implications of the message.  He remembered Nelan, of course; it took a bit of effort, however, for him to reconcile the image of the irrepressible boy who was always darting around underfoot at family gatherings with the description of an adventurer who would brave the perils of Undermountain.  Or maybe the two images weren’t that different, after all; as a Waterdhavian Cal had been particularly familiar with the many tales of the vast halls of the mad mage Halaster, and even in his most adventurous moods he’d never been tempted to organize an expedition to that most deadly of Faerûn’s dungeons.  

He hadn’t seen Nelan in... four years?  A lot could change in a person over that time, particularly for the young.  Whatever his motivations were in defying his grandmother’s wishes, Cal genuinely feared for him.  Two days was a long time, in the dark places of the world.  

Ultimately, however, he knew that there was only one thing that he could do.  He owed Alera, as everyone in their family did.  The strong-willed old gnome had been the glue that had kept them together through numerous tough times, and even though part of him rankled at the subtle ways she was manipulating him in the carefully chosen words of her message, he knew that there was no way that he could refuse her.   

Resolved, the gnome turned once again to return inside.  There would be a lot to do, and little time for preparations.  And despite Alera’s praises, there was a real chance that the teleport scroll would be beyond his abilities...

As he turned, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye.  A shadow had detached itself from the lee of the building across the way, and before he could fully shift his attention it crossed to the structure that contained his apartments and vanished around the corner to the back side.  It might have been nothing, a trick of the light, or a scavenging animal trying to find a meal before the daylight fully arrived.  But Cal was too experienced to dismiss his instincts so quickly. 

Quietly he slipped back into his workroom, and crossed to the heavy iron-bound chest that contained his adventuring gear.  Twenty heartbeats later he had several of his more potent items in place on his person, their various magical auras settling into place like a familiar second skin.  Last he took a final item from the bottom of the chest, the magical lute that his friends had given him.  

_It’s laid there, forgotten, for too long,_ Cal thought to himself, strumming a faint melody on the lute that resonated with magical energy as the power of a _mage armor_ spell settled around him.  For a moment a pale glow surrounded him, but he knew that it would fade into an invisible field of protection in just a few moments. 

A knock came at the door, quiet enough so that it wouldn’t carry to the other dwellings within the building.  Cautiously, Cal crossed to the door, where he hesitated briefly.  Finally he told himself he was being silly—what sort of marauder would bother to knock?  

He opened the door, revealing an apparently empty hallway beyond.  The only light came from the windows behind him, but it was enough for him to see that there was no one there waiting.  

He nearly closed the door, but just then a tall shadow emerged from the darkness of the hallway, startling him.  

“I have come for you, Balander Calloran!”

The voice was dark and menacing, and the darkness that cloaked the tall figure persisted even in the light in the doorway, clearly unnatural.  But Cal had already recognized the intruder, and after the first initial moment of shock leapt forward to embrace the dark stranger.

“Benzan!”


----------



## Horacio

Wow! The groups is getting together again!


----------



## Horacio

Wow! The groups is getting together again!


----------



## Maldur

Allright, the game is a foot!!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VI, Part 3


“You’re lucky that I didn’t unleash a spell upon you—I’ve got some new ones in my repertoire now, you know.”

“Ah, like a _fireball,_ perhaps?” It was intended as a joke, since both men knew that Cal’s specialty was illusion, a focus that precluded the study of evocation spells like the fireball.  But the joke fell flat, and both of them knew why, even though they didn’t put it into words.

“It’s fortuitous that you should drop by today,” Cal said.  “If you’d come tomorrow, you’d have found only a vacant house.”

“Oh?” Benzan replied, sipping his tea.  The two of them were seated in Cal’s living room, a small but comfortable space that adjoined the even smaller kitchen and the workroom.  “Going on a trip?”

“Of a sorts.  We can speak of that in a moment, but first, where’s Dana?”

Benzan shifted, and Cal could see that the simple question had made his friend uncomfortable.  Suddenly the bottom of his mug seemed to have gotten very interesting, as the tiefling fixed his attention upon that spot.  Cal just waited, not pushing the matter.

“We parted ways about two months ago,” he finally explained.  “South of Waterdeep, actually, near Daggerford.  She... she said that she needed some time, wanted to meet with some high-ups from the church of Selûne that had an outpost or monastery or something in the region.  I would have gone with her, but... well, even before then, there had been something brewing between us, that same old thing...”

He looked up at Cal, as if seeking a shared understanding, and the gnome nodded.  Cal understood, still had the dreams—the nightmares—of what he’d seen that day in the depths of Caer Dulthain.  The uncertainty, the “what ifs” had been worse, and had not lost their ability to twist daggers of possibility into his thoughts even with the passage of months since then.  

“She needs answers.”

“We all do,” Cal said reflexively.

Benzan nodded.  “Anyway, she went off to see her friends, and I went down to see the priestess of Tymora, like we’d promised.  We spent almost a whole day, talking... she said I’d changed a lot since she’d last seen us.”

_We all have,_ Cal thought, but he didn’t say anything.

“I’d planned on spending some time in Baldur’s Gate, but there didn’t seem to be anything for me there.  Two days after I got there, I booked passage on a ship back up the Sword Coast, and by the time I’d gotten back to Waterdeep, I’d pretty much decided to come back here.”

“I’m glad you did,” Cal said, and his smile was full of genuine warmth.  For all that had happened in the short time since he’d awakened that morning, the twin arrivals that had come to shake up the life he’d crafted here in the last months, he felt more alive than he had since he’d come here, since he’d parted with his friends.  

“Any word from Lok?” Benzan asked.

“No, nothing.  I expect he’s been busy rebuilding the urdunnir settlement—there was a lot of work to be done, and those people really needed a leader.” 

“Maybe we can get up and see him again.  Don’t tell him I said so, but I miss the lug.”

“So do I.”

Benzan drained the last of his tea and placed the mug on the small table beside his chair.  “So, what’s this about a trip?”

Cal took the two scrolls out of the pocket of his robe, holding them in his hand for a moment before he looked up at his friend.

“Well, I got this message this morning, through an unusual messenger...”

* * * * * 

One scant hour later, Benzan and Cal stood together in the center of his workroom.  The place was a bit untidy, as a number of things had been hastily moved in the last hour.  Both adventurers looked ready to travel, their gear and weapons and magical items all in their accustomed places about their persons.  Cal had spoken briefly with his landlord, and left hasty messages for some of his friends in Silverymoon.  

The gnome glanced at the worktable, where the _wand of invisibility_ rested in its cradle, unfinished. 

Oh well, that would have to wait.  

Cal looked up at his friend.  “Ready?” 

Benzan nodded, then cracked a smile.  “It’s good to be back,” he said.

Cal nodded, and unrolled the second scroll, the one with the teleport scroll.  He read its contents, the difficult arcane phrases rolling off his tongue.  

The two men shimmered for a moment, and then disappeared.


----------



## MasterOfHeaven

Damn.  I actually _liked_ Benzan in that part of the story.  How horrifying!    When will Delem be back?  Will he ever be back?  Why couldn't you have killed one of the annoying characters, like Dana or Benzan?  Why did it have to be Delemmmmmm?!


PS

Looking forward to more.


----------



## Maldur

Well Masterofheaven Delem will be back, the question is HOW?!

LB, great stuff!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VI, Part 4

Dana Ilgarten walked barefoot through the field, the soft, wet grass feeling cool against her feet as she made her way up toward the rise at the far edge of the meadow.  To her right rose the ancient trunks of the Misty Forest, while to her left she could just make out the silvery line of the Delimbiyr River in the moonlight.  The glow of the rising moon limned her face it a nimbus of soft light, and she sighed as she tried to let her troubles go and enjoy the beauty of the night in this place of natural wonder.  

It was a difficult effort, given all of the dark thoughts that had dogged her steps in recent months.

Once she had reached the top of the rise, where the meadow gave way to a copse of trees, she paused and looked back over the valley behind her.  In the moonlight the surrounding terrain took on almost a surreal glow, as if the landscape were a painting that a gifted artist had laid out on a canvas rather than a real place.  In that direction, down the length of the river, stood the town of Daggerford, although she was too far away to make out the collection of comfortable stone houses around the bend in the river.  

Thinking of the town brought to mind thoughts of Benzan, and her eyes limned with tears as she stood there, hesitating.  For the last few months she’d traveled widely, speaking to high-ranking clerics not only of her own religion, but followers of Silvanus, Oghma, and Lathander.  For a time she’d even considered traveling far to the south, to visit Cadderly, the Chosen of Deneir, at his Spirit Soaring cathedral.  She hadn’t found many of the answers she was seeking; if anything, more questions filled her mind now than when she had begun.  She’d fought battles and faced trials, and bore a few new scars that had not been fully healed by her divine magic.  Selûne was with her, and her strength as a cleric continued to grow, but as the days continued to pass she felt increasingly alone.  The logical part of her mind told her that she only had herself to blame, that she’d pushed away everyone who cared for her, but when she closed her eyes she still saw his ruined body, still felt the terror she’d felt when they’d defeated the demon only to see Delem’s soul drain away into the Abyss with its going.  

Dana closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting it drain out of her along with her doubts.  

Tonight, she would find some answers.  

Determination replaced grief on her face as she turned and strode resolutely into the wood.  

The clearing wasn’t far, perhaps a few hundred yards from the edge of the wood.  Even before she reached it, she could feel the faint tingle of power in the air, like a caress on her skin.  She was clad only in a soft robe of flowing cotton from Calimshan, her other equipment left behind in the encampment that she’d been sharing with several of the other pilgrims who had gathered here in this sacred place to greet the coming of the full moon.  She’d wanted to come here on her own, however, seeking the solitude of the night to clear her thoughts and gather the purity of purpose that she would need, and the others had of course respected her wishes.  

She reached the edge of the clearing.  Most of the others were there, women both young and old, some dressed like her in simple robes, others clad in battle armor with their maces ready in their hands.  Several of the warders spotted her and nodded in greeting before returning to their vigilant search, their role here one of protection and defense of the ritual that was most sacred to the followers of Selûne.  

Dana passed through the ring of warders and approached the altar that occupied the center of the clearing.  Created from a single piece of white rock through the power of divine magic, it now formed the shape of a crescent moon.  The moonlight seemed to focus on the altar, until it glowed as though it itself was hanging up in the sky, rather than being bound to earth in a quiet wood.  

The supplicants gathered around the stone, some of them laying objects upon the grass near its base.  Two approached carrying silver pitchers, and stood flanking the altar, waiting.  

Jerym Galorwin approached from the far side of the altar, her long hair glowing silver in the moonlight, her aged face appearing young again in the soft glow.  She and Dana had spoken several times in the past weeks, and the young mystic wanderer had come to rely upon the older woman’s wisdom. 

_“What exactly is it that you are seeking, sister?”_ she had asked. 

_“I need to give my friend’s soul peace,”_ Dana had replied.  _“The thought of him existing in torment in the Abyss...”_

_“And what of your friends?  Do they not share your suffering?”_

_“Yes, of course they do.  It’s just... I cannot...”_

_“I cannot give you easy answers, Dana.  But I can tell you that you will never be able to help your friend, as long as your own soul is not at ease.  If you allow the darkness to claim you, then it is two souls that the demon has managed to enslave...”_

Dana knew that the words were true, but she could not let go that easily.  Even here, in this place of peace, dark emotions roiled within her, only just beneath the surface of her conscious mind.  Only just under control.  

Jerym stepped up to the altar, he arms outstretched as if to encompass all those gathered.  Several of the women gathered began to sing, a soft, haunting melody without words that filled the clearing and seemed to resonate against the vast open sky above them.

“Mother Goddess, we come to greet you in the fullness of your coming.  We ask that you share your blessing with we your servants, that we might bring the power of your light to the world that you brighten with your glow.”

The two flagon bearers came forward with their burdens, and as the song continued its intricate weaving they poured their contents upon the stone.  Wine and milk, together symbolizing the flow of life, and the natural flows of a woman’s body in harmony with the cycles of the moon.  When the goddess shared her blessing upon the ritual, the mixed fluids would be transformed into _moonfire_, and become infused with magical power.  

Dana did not see whether the blessing was granted this night.  Even as the two women came forward to bless the altar, she was becoming lost in the song, falling into the warm embrace of Selûne’s power.  Her gaze turned inward, not outward, and she felt her call echo out into the vastness above her.  

For a moment, there was only darkness around her, then a voice filled her mind.

*Ask your questions, daughter.*

Dana had prepared for this, although it was still startling to feel the actual _communing_ with the goddess.  She knew that she could ask nine questions, and had thought long and hard about what those would be.

She formed each question in her mind.  _Is Delem’s soul trapped in the Abyss?_

*Yes.*

Dana’s heart leapt, and she nearly fell out of the link, but she refocused her thoughts with a discipline born of learning and experience.  

_Does the ghour demon that we battled still have him?_

*No.*

Her inquiries thus far had given her at least a few scattered bits of information about demons and the Abyss, so she knew of a few more follow-up questions that she could ask. 

_Has his soul been traded to another power?_ 

*Yes.*

_Is this power a demon prince?_

*Yes.*

Dana’s heart skipped a beat, and only reflexive self-control kept her focused on her task.  

_Has Delem soul been restored to corporeal form?_

*Yes.*

_Is he still... intact as a sentient entity?_

*Yes.*

_Can the _plane shift_ spell be used to travel to where he is being imprisoned?_

*Yes.*

It wasn’t as simple as that, she knew, even setting aside for the moment the demons that filled the Abyss like vermin infesting a rotting corpse.  From her conversations with the various high-ranking clerics she knew that traveling the planes was a difficult proposition, and required both detailed knowledge and specific foci that this _commune_ could not provide.  

Dana paused briefly before asking her next question.  The purpose of this _commune_ was to find out about Delem, but she could not pass up this chance to find out about her other friends. 

_Are Benzan, Cal, and Lok alive and well?_

*Yes.* 

Relief. 

Dana took a deep breath, and asked her final question.  It sort of pushed the boundaries of the “rules,” in that it asked for an opinion rather than fact, but she desperately needed some sort of guidance to aid her.

_Should my companions and I _plane shift_ to the Abyss, and try to get Delem back?_

There was a long pause, and at first Dana thought that the link had broken, her question unanswered.  Then, finally she felt a soft touch in the back of her mind, almost a whisper.

*You will not have to.*

Dana’s mind whirled in confusion, but before she could ponder the significance of that reply, she felt her connection to the goddess dissolving.  As the link faded, Dana fell back into the darkness, which enveloped her like a womb.


----------



## Maldur

Three down, one to go.
Im very curious how Lok turned out, after being a leader for a while.

Nice LB, im getting more and more curious of what is gonna happen.


----------



## Horacio

WONDERFUL!


----------



## MasterOfHeaven

Let's see....  Delems soul restored to a corporeal form, which is in service to a Demon Prince.  The companions do not have to search Delem out.  Conclusion:  Delem is coming back with a vengeance, and the rest of the companions are going to BURNNNNNNNNNN.

PS

Assuming my hypothesis is correct, Lazybones, I petition you to give Delem unkillable villian status, the same status applied to such great villians as The Joker, Mephisto/Satan, the Kingpin, and more.  Besides, I already had to have my favorite character die once before, and it wouldn't be fair to have it happen again.  Delem, the eternal villian.  Muahahahaha!


----------



## Maldur

Some deamon prince has his soul.
LB did not say he was working for some deamon prince so Delem might not be a villian!


----------



## MasterOfHeaven

Ah, but remember the cheesy prophecy?  I'm 2 for 2 on predicting them so far.  Loks going to become a God, and Delem will become the Bane Of Nations.  I predicted Cal will be the one to retire in peace, and Benzans soul is going to be permanently consumed by fire.  

Never forget, the cheesy prophecy must be fulfilled, for the cheesy prophecies are never wrong.


----------



## Lazybones

Maldur: we'll get to Lok shortly, and see that it's been "business as usual" in the Underdark... 

As for Delem, we'll be seeing more of him a little later in book 6. 

Hope you guys don't mind all the "development" posts, I promise we'll get down to some good old fashioned brawling soon enough. 

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 5


Waterdeep, City of Splendors, bustled with activity in the arrival of a new day.  Even though the hour was still early, thousands of people were present on the streets, going about their business, or conducting it in the city’s numerous open-air markets and busy public squares.  The pedestrians represented dozens of regions and almost all of the major races of Faerûn.  In Waterdeep, it was not uncommon to see a gold dwarf priest walking a few paces away from a sun elf wizard, or a halfling forest scout from distant Luiren crossing paths with a sun-darkened Calime trader.  The City of Splendors was exactly that, and its residents took pride in the diversity that could be found in its streets.  

Waterdeep was also a city of contrasts, its different districts each like a world unto itself.  Over it all hung three ever present constants; the smell of the sea, the noise of the crowd, and the looming presence of Mount Waterdeep, under which lay the multilayered halls of Undermountain.  

Perhaps the busiest of the city’s sectors was the bustling South District, the gateway into the city for travelers and the trade they brought with them.  At every street corner a dozen street merchants hawked their wares, their loud cries blending together into a general cacophony.  Large wooden signs along the streets indicated inns, taverns, shops, artisans, and every other kind of craft and service imaginable.  Every now and again a sudden hue and cry revealed the presence of less savory sorts of individuals within the general crowd, but such interruptions barely slowed the flow of people through the city’s streets.  If the city was a body, its residents and visitors were its blood, and hard-faced men in the livery of the City Watch were conspicuous as they monitored that flow of energy, ensuring its smooth operation.  

Cal and Benzan walked together along one of those busy streets.  Benzan looked annoyed, his sharp eyes darting through the crowd, but Cal had a grin on his face, as each sight and smell and sound brought back memories of the many years that he had spent in this place.  

“You couldn’t have transported us to a nice tavern, or even the interior of the one of the city’s brothels,” Benzan said.  “No, we have to end up in the middle of a trash-choked alley.”

“I said I was sorry,” Cal said, but he refused to let Benzan’s criticism sour his mood.  “The spell was just a bit above my abilities, and I was rushed to boot.  At least we didn’t end up ten miles out to sea, or on the inside of a stone wall.”

Benzan shot him a penetrating look, as if trying to judge whether the gnome was serious.  Cal’s face, however, had taken on the impenetrable look that they were so familiar with from Lok.  “Yeah, well, I noticed that _you_ didn’t land in a refuse pile.”

Cal smiled slightly as they passed through a massive stone gate into the city’s North Ward.  

Their surroundings changed almost immediately.  Although the bustle of activity around them continued at the same constant pace, the buildings were noticeably cleaner and in better repair, and the passersby more fashionably attired.  The Watch was more noticeable as well, and their gazes lingered slightly on Benzan as the pair of travelers made their way deeper into the city.  Benzan met their looks boldly, and reflected the challenge implied therein with defiance. 

“Easy there,” Cal cautioned him.  “We’re not looking for trouble.”

“I’m tired of being challenged everywhere I go, just because of what I am.”

“Difference can be scary.  Sometimes it’s worse when it isn’t immediately obvious, but only suggested, under the surface.”

Benzan didn’t reply, but he eased his body language as they turned down one of the side streets—only marginally less busy than the main thoroughfare—and made their way into a more residential district.  There were still shops and businesses about, but most of them were more specialized, catering to the more affluent residents of this part of the city.  The ground was beginning to slope upward, as the city ran up onto one of the shoulders of Mount Waterdeep.   

“Ah, here, High Fenwaith Street,” Cal said, guiding them onto a cobbled way that twisted up along the lines of a beveled ridge.  Fairly expensive homes lined both sides of the street, some on fairly copious lots surrounded by stone walls and iron gates.  While not the wealthiest neighborhood in Waterdeep—the estates of the truly rich tended to be at the tops of the hills, not on the slopes—the homes here definitely belonged to at least the more prosperous section of the city’s middle class, the _haute bourgeoisie_.  

“Reminds me a little of Elturel,” Benzan commented.  “Remember that nobleman’s house, where we battled that demon?”

“Yes, I remember,” Cal replied.

 “Oh, sorry.  Damn, sometimes I just need to remember to shut up.”

“It’s all right,” Cal said.  “While I’m not glad that it happened, it’s shaped who I am now.  And I’m _very_ glad that I had friends who were able to bring me back... I wasn’t ready for eternity, not by a long shot.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

“Ah, here we are.”

“Here” was a corner parcel dominated by a sprawling, two-story structure that formed a wide “U” shape around a central garden plaza.  While certainly not as ornate as many of the other buildings along High Fenwaith Street, the place looked inviting and comfortable, with flowers in windowboxes and neat garden plots that looked like they received regular care.  A few people were about, a mix of gnomes and humans that were busy about a variety of chores.  It looked like a perfect street scene, but a faint cloud of unease hung about the place that both veteran adventurers picked up on immediately.

Benzan looked down at his friend.  “I had no idea that your family was so... comfortable.  What, is your aunt one of the Masked Lords or something?”

“There have been some who have suggested as much,” Cal mentioned deadpan, leaving Benzan to wonder again as he walked ahead and unlatched the low gnome-sized gate.  The house didn’t have a wall around the property, although well-tended hedges tended to channel visitors up the broad main walk or the side entrance on the facing street.  

As they walked up the main walk, someone noticed them.  A middle-aged gnome clad in the garb of a gardener or handyman came up to them, nodding as he greeted them.  Cal didn’t recognize him.

“Good morning, sirs.  Can I be of help to you?”

“No thank you.  I am expected, and I know the way.”

“Very good, sirs.”  Apparently satisfied, the man went back to his work, vanishing around the far side of the building.  

A few other curious looks were shot their way as the two made their way through the landscaped garden to the wide front door.  There Cal hesitated a moment, reluctant for the first time since he’d made his decision a few hours ago that morning, on receiving Alera’s scroll.  

Apparently his arrival had been noted, however, for before he could knock or open the doors one of the portal swung inward, and an elderly gnome woman appeared in the entry.

“Why if it isn’t young Bally, returned home!  Mistress Alera said that you’d be coming, and like that here you are.  It’s good to see you back at Calloran House, after all this time.”

“Nora.  It’s good to see you,” Cal said, accepting the old woman’s embrace, then following her into the house.  

“Bally?” Benzan queried quietly, with a raised eyebrow.  

Cal shot him a covert warning look as the two of them followed after Nora, the old gnome chattering on about a wide-ranging variety of topics.  Cal barely heard her, focused instead on the familiar sights and sounds and smells in the old house.  To his eyes the house hadn’t changed at all, every detail fixed in place through the efforts of Alera and the household staff.  As far as he knew only a few members of the extended family still lived here, but he didn’t see anyone else he recognized as she led him up a wide flight of stairs and down a plushly carpeted hallway to the back study.  

As she opened the door Cal felt a momentary flashback to a time decades ago, when he’d been brought down this same hall for an... “audience” with the family matriarch.  He couldn’t remember what offense had precipitated the visit, but the forceful personality of Alera Calloran remained fresh in his mind, even though he’d come a long way since then.  

“Would you like me to show you to the kitchen—perhaps you’d like an early lunch?” Nora said to Benzan, the diminutive gnome woman standing in the doorway like a sentinel.  

“I suspect that my friend will want to hear what Alera has to say,” Cal said, taking the matter into his own hands by brushing past the old woman and into the study.  Benzan followed him.


----------



## MasterOfHeaven

Lazybones, I love your characters, I love your writing style, and I like the way you portray the world.  I actually like your development posts more than the battle posts.  But, please, Lazybones, do not use the cheesy prophecy!  Do not let it come to pass!  At least let ONE companion flip his finger at fate.  Regardless, I'm looking forward to more.


----------



## Horacio

The writting is wonderful, and I also like this more than combat


----------



## Lazybones

Book VI, Part 6


The room smelled of age and experience, paper and old leather mixed with faint undertones of flowers.  Bookshelves covered the walls, punctuated by occasional space left for well-done paintings of family members or other mementos of the Calloran family history.  There were odd juxtapositions, with a menacing-looking battleaxe hanging just a pace from the frayed stole of an elder priest.  There was no dust visible on any surface, and the light that sifted through the room’s five windows was unmarred by the slightest blemish.  

A broad but low desk sized for a gnome dominated the far side of the room, flanked by a small hearth one on side and what Cal recognized as a wizard’s worktable on the other.  Even a cursory look was enough for him to notice several foci that were of considerable rarity and value, including a metal-bound spellbook that was almost a full foot thick.  

Alera Calloran looked up as they entered.  She didn’t seem that imposing at first, an elderly gnome with wrinkled features and shoulder-length hair of pure white, barely three feet in height as she sat in a high-backed chair that almost swallowed her up in its padded bulk.  But her eyes danced with energy and life as they fixed on the two newcomers, weighing both her great-nephew and his companion in a single sweep, and an aura of power barely checked seemed to hang about her as she slowly rose and came around the desk to face them.

“Matriarch, it is good to see you, even if the occasion is a sad one,” Cal said, meeting the old woman in a warm embrace.  

“Thank you, Nora,” Alera said, dismissing the woman still hovering in the doorway.  She waited until the door had closed, then she turned back toward the desk and her chair.  

“Thank you for coming, Balander.  Please, sit down,” she said, indicating two smaller chairs in front of the desk. 

She shifted her attention to Benzan.  “I’m sorry that circumstances do not allow me the luxury of polite conversation, so I must be blunt.  I do not know you, sir, and I can honestly say that I have not had the occasion to entertain one of your bloodline in my house before.  You come as a guest of my great-nephew, however, so I will give you the benefit of the doubt unless your actions indicate otherwise.”

“This is my blood-friend, Benzan, Matriarch.”

Benzan met the old woman’s look without flinching.  “I don’t expect that you’re ever anything but blunt, Matriarch.  I don’t know you either, but I’ve known your great-nephew here for a while, and anyone that could hold a family like this one together has earned my respect.  And no offense intended, but from what Cal has told me about your problem here, I’d guess that you could use all the help you can get, at this juncture.”

“No offense taken,” Alera replied.  “In fact, from what I’ve seen of you in action, Benzan, your help would be greatly appreciated.”

Benzan looked a little surprised, but she did not elaborate, turning instead back to Cal.

“I thank you for coming so swiftly at my call, Balander, but time is brief.  Earlier this morning, I consulted with the high priest of Oghma, Telan Caroth.  Old Tel owes the family a few favors, so I was able to prevail upon him for some magical assistance.”

“As you no doubt know, most forms of divination and transportation magic function very erratically, if at all, in the halls of the Mad Mage.  My own resources are not inconsiderable, but my own divinations have not proven fruitful in this matter.  My thought was that perhaps divine magic would have a chance where the arcane failed.”

“The priest’s divinations met with some of the same difficulties as my own, but the trip was not a complete waste.  We were able to determine that Nelan still lives, although...”

For a moment, the shell of iron that surrounded the old woman’s feelings cracked enough for them to see the very real grief that she carried around with her.  She quickly regained control, however.  

“What I mean, is that... he lives, but he is not fully _well_.  I cannot be more specific, only that his aura has been corrupted somehow.”

“I fully know the gravity of what I ask you, Balander, fully understand the lethal dangers of the Undermountain.  Were I a few decades younger, I would go myself, and the responsibilities of my position be damned.  Nelan is the last of my direct line that yet lives, and I do *not* want to be one of those rare and cursed parents to outlive all of their descendants...”  The last thought tore Alera’s veil of self-control yet again, and a sob wrenched itself free from her as she sagged back into the padding of the chair.  

“Please, bring my boy back to me.  He is all that I have left...”

Cal glanced at Benzan, and the tiefling nodded.  The two rose, as did the aged gnome matron.  

“I will not send you into such danger without all of the aid that I can provide.”  She reached into a drawer in the desk, and withdrew a polished mahogany box that she lifted with some effort onto the desktop in front of them.  The box had a lid that folded back, and Alera opened it, revealing a small collection of items.  She catalogued the contents of the box quickly for them, removing each item in turn and placing it in a row across the edge of the desk.

“While visiting the church of Oghma, I picked up these potions.”  She laid the six stoppered vials out on the desk.  “_Cure serious wounds_, among the most potent healing aids you will find in a bottle.”

“I know that you are familiar with wands, Balander,” she continued, holding up a slender piece of polished black wood.  “This _wand of acid arrows_ is approximately half-charged, but even so is capable of unleashing considerable damage.  The command word is ‘malicar’.”

“Perhaps you might find these useful, Benzan.” She held up a thick bundle of arrows, each of which was covered in runes along the shaft and bore a wedge-shaped arrowhead of dull gray metal.  “_Ice arrows_, which inflict additional cold damage upon impact.”

Finally, she lifted a cluster of metal tubes similar to the ones that Cal had gotten from the stone messenger bird.  “For you, Balander, a collection of scrolls by my own hand, bearing some of the most potent spells from my arsenal.  Use them as you see fit, but understand that their efficacy might be affected by the strange auras that exist in Undermountain.”

“I understand,” Cal said, taking the scrolls.  He and Benzan shared out the other gear, adding the items of power to their arsenal.  

“Even with these items, it’ll be tough, with only the two of us,” Benzan said.

“Did you hear from Pelanther?” Cal asked.  “I know we’ve had our differences, but his skills would be useful on this mission.”

Alera sighed, a gesture full of meaning.  “He will be here.  I will send him to you, at the Yawning Portal.”

Benzan looked at both gnomes, but neither seemed in a mood to elaborate.  

“Even so, a few hired swords might be helpful,” the tiefling finally ventured.

“I considered using mercenaries, or hiring adventurers,” Alera admitted.  “But ultimately, I decided to leave this in the family.  Undermountain... the place has been known to do strange things to those who brave its corridors, and I think you would be better served with sound allies at your back, people you know and trust.”

“Given the limits of divination magic there, how are we supposed to find Nelan?” Cal asked.  

Alera hesitated, then reached into a pocket of her robe and drew out a small item, which she placed upon the desk.  It was a small sculpture of a dog, expertly carved from black onyx. 

“His name is Valor, and he comes at its call,” she said.  “Please be careful with him... he is very dear to me.”

“A magical figurine...” Benzan said, as he admired the small item.  “Are you saying a real dog comes when you call its name?”

“Better than a real dog,” Alera insisted.  “His tracking abilities are unmatched, and while he is brave, he is not much stronger than a real dog in combat.  He can only remain on our plane for up to six hours a tenday, so you must be prepared to be swift, once you call him.”

“Is there something of Nelan’s we can bring, to give it the scent?” Cal asked, picking up the figurine.

“Valor knows Nelan’s scent,” Alera said.  “You will find him far more intelligent than an average dog.”

“We’d better get going, then,” Benzan said.

Alera closed her eyes for a moment, and mouthed something silently; she seemed to be talking to herself.  When she opened her eyes, she said, “Horses will be waiting for you in the courtyard, and one of the staff will take you directly to the Yawning Portal.  I have already made arrangements with Durnan to let you use the shaft down, although he has kept it closed to general use of late.”

“We’ll find him,” Cal said.  He went around the desk and embraced his kinswoman once more, then the two turned and left the room.  

“Gods be with you,” Alera whispered after they had gone, suddenly looking very small indeed within the warm embrace of her chair, behind the heavy desk.


----------



## Horacio

Wow! Did I say I love this new book?


----------



## Broccli_Head

Gotta Say, LB, that I love Undermountain.  Will definitely be fascinated with your treatment of Halaster's Halls.


----------



## Maldur

Getting outfitted this good doesn't bode well.

My players would get very nervous if I did something like thst

No earthshattering cliffhangers yet. But Im looking (eagerly) forward to the next episode!


----------



## Lazybones

I will briefly break my own no-bumping-my-own-thread rule to announce that the complete PDF edition of _Travels through the Wild West_, books I-V, is now available for download at Morrus's fancy-schmancy new story hour hosting page.  The entire file, zipped, comes to 1 1/2 megs. 

Here's the link: http://enworld.cyberstreet.com/news...e=Downloads&file=index&req=viewdownload&cid=4

EDIT: Grrr.... the site where I've stored the file seems to be down, and I get an error when I try to do a download of the file.  I'll try and fix it tomorrow.  Sorry!

EDIT 9-20: Still having a few problems uploading the file to ENWorld (file too big, getting timeout errors!).  Anyway, if you really want the PDF, just copy this url into your browser: http://lazybones18.tripod.com/tttww1-5.zip .  Sorry for the hassle.  

Anyway, I'll try to get an update posted this afternoon.  Have to staff a boring Commission meeting all day at work today... good news for the story, though, since I get my best plots worked out during their meetings!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VI, Part 7


“Descent into Undermountain...  sounds like another grand adventure for the heroes of the ‘wild west,’ eh Cal?”

Cal didn’t respond to Benzan’s comment, his mind focused on other things as they rode swiftly through the streets of Waterdeep, guided by a young human man who was part of Alera’s staff.  The man, named Ulan, was really little more than a boy, probably in his late teens, but he knew the streets of the city, and in less than a quarter hour after leaving Calloran House they reined in before the famous (or infamous, depending on who you asked) inn best known for its open portal to the twisting corridors of Undermountain.   

“Thanks, lad,” Benzan said, tossing the youth a silver piece as he dismounted from his borrowed horse.  “Tell Alera not to worry, we’ll get her grandson back.”

“I’m to stay, in case there’s word,” Ulan insisted, taking the reins of the three horses but not otherwise budging from his position in the street.  

“Well, might as well come in and get a beer then,” the tiefling noted.  “This might take a while.”  He turned to Cal, who’d also dismounted but still looked distracted, as if he was thinking about a puzzle that he couldn’t quite solve. 

“Are you all right, Cal?”

Cal looked up, and forced a smile.  “I am ready.  Let’s go then.”

* * * * * 

The tavern was deceptively spacious inside, with a larger interior space than first seemed evident on examining the exterior.  At this early hour there were only a few patrons present in the common room, mostly local craftsmen and laborers by the look of them.  The welcome smell of food being prepared in anticipation of the lunchtime rush wafted out to them from the half-doors that led into the kitchen area.  

Everything was clean and obviously well-kept, from the long bar along the right wall to the polished hardwood floors.  But what drew their attention was what gave the place its name.  The portal was like a great well, its opening easily ten paces across, rimmed by a stone wall just under four feet in height.  At the moment, however, the portal was closed by a heavy lattice of metal wire strung across its mouth, secured to the surrounding floor by heavy iron pitons that were driven through holes in the floor into the very foundation of the inn.  That webbing in turn was covered by a thick canvas tarp that covered all but one corner of the opening, where the canvas was folded back.  Even that small opening seemed foreboding, although nothing but inky blackness was visible through the web of cable strands.  A metal winching apparatus was folded to one side of the pit, partially covered by another heavy tarp.  

Benzan whistled softly.  “Now that’s something.  The entrance to the most dangerous dungeon on all of Faerûn, and its right in the middle of an inn."  

“It’s amazing what people can get used to,” Cal said.  “I came here a few times, years back, when adventurers would come here to try Halaster’s Halls.  Some would come back with pouches filled with gold and stories of traps and monsters they’d defeated.  Others wouldn’t come back at all.  I remember that people would wager on the outcomes, and watch folks descending into the pit as though it was some sort of entertainment.”

A tall, balding man in a leather apron noticed their entry and came over to them from the bar.  “Can I help you gentlemen?”

“We’re looking for Durnan,” Cal explained. 

“He’s not here right now—had an errand he had to run up the coast a bit on short notice.  My name’s Alcar, I’m lookin’ after the place while the boss is out.  You must be the gents that Alera’s sending over; I’m to let you through the Portal, I understand.”

“Yes.  Were you told what happened?”

“Terrible thing, truly.  But it’s always been that way, the Portal drawing them bold youngsters like a spilled pot of honey drawing flies.  If’n the Portal weren’t there, though, they’d be findin’ another way to get into trouble, I reckon.”

 “Has there been any... trouble lately?” Benzan asked.

“Been quiet as the grave, last few weeks,” Alcar said, glancing back at the covered opening as though reassuring himself that it was still so.  

“Why’d Durnan close it in the first place?” Cal queried.

“There were a number of... incidents, a few months back.  Small things, at first; a few flights of stirges flew up into the inn, one time even a couple of rabid dire bats.  A few patrons were hurt, but Durnan provided healing free of charge, and our trade even went up after that.  The Portal’s always been the big lure, here, and it’s like folks are drawn to the possibility of danger, like the risk of something comin’ up and layin’ the hurt on you makes your ale taste sweeter or something.”  The old man shook his head, as though he couldn’t quite grasp the concept himself. 

“Then what happened?” Cal asked, sensing that the story wasn’t quite finished.

“Well, we had a real busy crowd one evening.  Some folks got a bit tipsy, and started daring each other to lean down into the pit, some started tossing stuff in there, even though Durnan don’t take well to such games—calls it ‘provokin’ the pit’.  Anyway, suddenly somebody starts shootin’ from down there!  One guy takes a bolt and falls into pit, another takes one through the heart and falls to the floor of the inn, dead as day.  Durnan and some others went down into the pit to find the first guy’s body, but they didn’t find anything.  The next day, he had the pit sealed up like you see here now.”

“But he let Nelan and his friends go down.”  

“I wasn’t there, friend, but Durnan’s never believed that it was his job to save people from themselves.”

Cal and Benzan shared a look, one that showed that they were thinking the same thing.  Business as usual, for them, and with half their usual number not present this time, the task lying ahead was not going to be an enviable one.  

Alcar offered to bring them a meal while they waited, and while Benzan tore into the offered fare with gusto, Cal still seemed distracted.  The gnome used the time to glance over some of the scrolls that Alera had given him, impressed by the potency of some of the spells stored within the neat lines of magical writing.  Several of them were well beyond his current level of magical skill, and as with the _teleport_ scroll would have to be used most judiciously.  The place grew busier as the noon hour arrived, and people from the surrounding district dropped by for some hot food and good conversation before returning to their day’s labors.  But even in the general stir of activity the covered pit constantly drew the eye, and its presence was never forgotten.  

As he finished his meal, Benzan belched loudly and rose.  “Well, if we have some more time, I’m going to see if I can find a shop where I can top off with a little more gear.  Some more arrows, in particular...”

He was interrupted as the outside doors opened and a newcomer arrived.  A pair of newcomers, really, a stout, muscular gnome accompanied by the largest wolf that any of them had ever seen.  It caused a stir, momentarily, as the gathered patrons reacted, most commonly in sudden alarm, to the presence of the massive creature.  Even standing, Benzan would only have come up to the beast’s shoulder.

“Ah, don’t worry yerselves, Fenrus here is housebroken,” the gnome drawled, ignoring the gestures of Alcar as the old man sputtered something in protest, crossing the room to where Cal and Benzan were seated.  The wolf, unconcerned with the reaction its presence had provoked, curled up in a mound near the door and started out into the room with its penetrating canine eyes.   

“Well, if it isn’t the Prodigal himself, returned from his self-imposed exile,” the gnome said as he drew himself up before them.  Even without the backdrop of the massive wolf, there was a feral hint to him, his hair running wild and uncombed in a wave down his back, his face lined with the effects of years of exposure to the vagaries of the weather out of doors.  He was well into middle-age but still looked hale, his bare arms thick with muscle, and the leather covering the hilt of the scimitar slung across his back was worn with frequent use.  He wore a vest of thick leather that had been detailed with various spiraling designs etched into its surface.  The pattern was reminiscent of the Calloran family crest that Cal had recognized atop Alera’s message, and it seemed to suit the manner of this wild gnome who stood with an almost defiant cast facing them.

“Nice to see you too, Pel,” Cal said.  “Still like to make a dramatic entrance, I see.”

“I’m here because the Family needs me,” the gnome said.  

Cal sighed.  “So be it, then.  I was hoping that you’d let old water pass under the bridge, but if there’s anything we Callorans are good at, it’s nursing grudges.”

“I wasn’t the one who ran out on his obligations,” Pelanther responded.

“In any case, we don’t have time for this,” Cal said, rising quickly and grabbing his pack.  “As you said, we are needed now, and we have a most difficult task ahead of us.  Shall we agree to a truce, then?”

“Aye.  But after, we may be needing to have a conversation, you and I.”

“All right then.” 

The two gnomes locked stares for a moment longer, then Pelanther retreated to recover his animal companion.  Benzan commented, “So I take it there’s a little love lost between you two?” 

“It’s a long story,” Cal said, gathering up his gear and checking his pouches to make sure that everything was in its proper place.  “For another time,” he added, turning toward the portal as Pelanther rejoined them, Fenrus now in tow.  The effect added to the gnome’s presence, although it looked as though the wolf could down Pelanther in a single gulp if he was so inclined.  

“Nice doggy,” Benzan said, as the wolf gave him a quick once-over, the two standing virtually eye-to-eye.  

“I don’t generally bring Fenrus into the city, but I was thinking we might be needing a bit of back up on this little expedition.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Cal said, moving to the edge of the well.  Every eye in the place had been on them since Pelanther’s dramatic arrival, and now a stir traveled through the otherwise silent crowd, as they realized that they would be witnessing the beginning of another excursion into Undermountain.

Alcar and a few helpers from the staff uncovered and set up the winch with rapid efficiency, and then undid enough of the moorings of the steel mesh to uncover enough of the pit to let them through.  

“That won’t be necessary,” Cal told them.  “My _feather fall_ spell will accommodate all of us—even the wolf.”

“Keep your spell,” Pel said.  “Fenrus and I will take the rope down.”

The winch apparatus had been designed to accommodate a wide variety of passengers, and it only took the staff a few moments to hook up a harness that would fit the massive wolf.  Fenrus stood there placidly while several very wary men hooked up the harness around his torso, then at Pel’s command the wolf climbed up over the lip of the pit.  Pelanther leapt onto the wolf’s back, steadying himself by grabbing the heavy line that led up to the winch.  With a half-dozen men working the winch, wolf and gnome together descended down into the darkness.

“Well, shall we?” Benzan said.  

Cal nodded.  Alcar had placed a two-step wooden stepladder against the lip of the well, so the two companions climbed up to the edge, and looked down into the darkness.  Both could actually see rather well, Cal’s low-light vision letting him make out the outline of Fenrus and Pel quite clearly below, and Benzan’s darkvision giving him a similar advantage.  

“After you go down, we’ll reattach the mesh, but will leave the tarp pulled back over this corner,” Alcor was saying.  “If you need to come back up, just make a ruckus and we’ll open the mesh.”

The two adventurers nodded.  “Ready?” Benzan asked.  When Cal nodded, the two of them turned forward and stepped off into the darkness.  

As they disappeared into the pit, the audience crowded around, peering in after them.  

Among the more adventurous, the wagering had already begun.


----------



## Maldur

he, you forgot some of the party !!

Great start, LB.  Keep it comming.


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## Horacio

I always thought the "portal to Undermountain in a inn's floor" to be a silly idea... until I read your story. Now I find it rather intriguing. Thanks, LB!


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## wolff96

I think I have a new favorite character...

Lazybones, your writing is amazing, as always. I really love the new character, Pel...  I'm assuming that's a druid, but it could be a ranger, I suppose. Any chance of getting a character sheet?

Nice description of Fenrus (nice name!) by the way... although it seems their arrival made Benzan forget all about the need for more arrows.

Looking forward to more!


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## Lazybones

Thanks guys.  I reviewed my copy of Undermountain this weekend, and charted out a course for our doughty adventurers.  They will visit some of the familiar places (though keep in mind, 3rd edition FR is set about 20 years later), but I can tell you that a lot of what will happen is going to take us to the un-keyed areas of those huge maps.  

Wolff, I'll get Pelanther (and Fenrus!) statted up and on the Rogues' Gallery thread this week.  My original conception for him was as a druid/ranger or druid/rogue, but I'm dithering because of the sacrifice of higher-level druid magic that this would require.  What do you guys think?

Also, I should mention that I'll be gone for most of October (honeymoon in Hawaii, yay!), but I'm working on a "contingency plan" to keep the story thread active in my absence.  Keep posted! 

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 8

The sounds of hammers and chisels hard at work in a dozen pairs of hands echoed through the caverns and tunnels of the Underdark.  The halls of the urdunnir town, until recently haunted only by the eerie sounds of an undead infestation, now resounded with the busy noise of activity as the dwarves sought to rebuild their lives.  There was not much laughter, or sounds of happiness, not yet.  But that would come in time.

At the ruined fortification known as the Shield Wall, a party of deep dwarves was hard at work making repairs.  This task was a high priority, for even though the duergar had been all but crushed by the companions from the surface world, the dwarves knew all too well that many other dangers lurked in this harsh realm.  Lok had taken the unprecedented step of sending messages to other, distant settlements of the urdunnir, and even to the shield dwarves above, seeking aid as this community worked to rebuild.  Normally the urdunnir were even more isolationist than most dwarves, eschewing contact with their neighbors, but in this case no one, even the most traditionalist of the elders, spoke in opposition to the genasi who had taken almost a legendary status among them.  

Lok himself was mostly quiet, and he often spent time in solitude.  That is not to say that he wasn’t an excellent leader; he provided direction and was always there to help when a particularly difficult project required his assistance.  But inside he felt somewhat apart from this community, not fully part of these people, his people, despite all that he had done for them.  Those he had most wanted to see, his mother most of all, were not to be found among the slaves that he and his companions had freed.  The others spoke of the terrible time of the assault on their homeland and the even harsher days that followed, when many of their people died at the rough treatment of the duergar.  The urdunnir vowed that this would never happen to them again, and one of the first things that they did upon returning was to stoke the forges and set to work crafting arms and armor.  Lok spent much time there, using his skills to give his people the tools they would need to defend themselves.  

This morning—though such terms were often meaningless this far under the ground—the workers at the Shield Wall were rebuilding the hinges that would support the massive pair of guardian portals.  The entire community would join in the actual task of mounting the doors, which each would weigh many tons.  One dwarven mason, still thin from his experiences as a slave, was crafting a pivot bolt with the help of two younger apprentices.  He looked down at the device that he was shaping, not fully happy with its upper bevel.  His expression grew focused as he reached down and with his hands pressed _into_ the stone, molding it with the power of his mind and the empathy with the rock that was the heritage of his people.  

It was exactly that skill that had made the urdunnir so valuable to the duergar in their mad plot to summon a god.  

Within moments, work that would have taken hours using conventional tools was finished, and the mason smiled at his handiwork. 

Then the sound came, disturbing his focus.  The mason looked up, along with all of the other workers, their combined gazes drawn to the dark tunnel that ran off into forever.

The tunnel that they were working to ward against the many dangers that lurked beyond.

The sound came again, grew louder.  It was still faint, but recognizable now as a combined babble, the sound of many voices, of movement.  

“Sound the alert!” the stonemason shouted, as he and his fellow dwarves rushed into activity.  Arms and armor were situated close by, in the case of just such an occasion, and the craftsmen became warriors as they quickly equipped themselves.  Several of the younger apprentices were sent to alert the rest of the settlement, following the drills that they had already practiced many times under Lok’s direction.  Within minutes, every dwarf in the urdunnir town would be preparing to deal with whatever threat was approaching from the dark ways of the Underdark.

The main entrance to the dwarf town was not entirely undefended, although the temporary barriers that the dwarves had created were not nearly as effective as the completed Shield Wall would be.  A low trench had been excavated across the width of the passageway, to delay any assault, and at its far side a metal grating had been constructed across the entire passageway, filling the tunnel to half its height of fifteen feet, topped by a line of curving spikes that would make climbing it a dicey proposition.  

The dwarves readied their weapons took up their prepared positions behind the grate, facing out into the darkness of the tunnel.  Several knelt and pressed their ears down to the stone, trying to determine more about those who were approaching through their connection to the stone.  

What they sensed became immediately obvious to all of them, as the noises became louder, building upon themselves through the strange acoustics of the Underdark.  The faint voices became a confused medley, raining down a torrent of gibberish that held a distinct undertone of madness that all of those that had suffered at the hands of the duergar could identify with, at least on some level.  

But the dwarves, hardened beyond the toughness of the stone they resembled by their ordeals, waited stoically for whatever was coming.  

They did not have to wait long.  Within two minutes the first crest of an onrushing wave of dark forms emerged at the edge of their darkvision, filling the tunnel in a crowd twenty feet abreast and many ranks deep.  The creatures that comprised that horde were small, hairy, almost indistinguishable within the mass, their chaotic gibbering taking on a new intensity as they spotted the defenders.  

Gibberlings, the humanoid equivalent of army ants, relentless and unstoppable save through death.  

The first rank of defenders fired their crossbows through the grating into the onrushing horde.  The bolts could hardly miss, but the few gibberlings that fell barely made a dent in the oncoming mass.  There were hundreds of them, at least, the ranks of creatures running well back into the tunnel until they blended together in an indistinguishable seething mass.    

The dwarves reloaded and kept firing, holding their positions even as the mad caterwauling coming from the rush of gibberlings threatened to break through even their stoic front.  The defenders numbered ten dwarves, but they were outnumbered at least twenty to one by the attackers. 

The gibberlings reached the trench, and without hesitation the wave poured into it without breaking.  The creatures were canny climbers, using their own fellows as ladders as they filled the pit and pressed up the far side.  An untold number were crushed by the fall or by the pressure of their own companions upon their bodies, but the horde paid no heed to its losses.  If anything, now that they were nearly upon their prey their manner grew more fierce, more eager.  The first few that clambered onto the grate died swiftly, run through by dwarven spears or impaling themselves on the sharp metal edges that had affixed to the defensive structure.  But they came on, and the grating began to shake as more and more of the gibberlings clambered up onto it.  

“Fall back!” one of the dwarves cried, and the dwarves retreated, falling back to the chamber behind them.  Ahead of them lay the main corridor that ran up into the urdunnir town, only moments away from being filled with swarming gibberlings eager only to kill and destroy.  

“Rally behind me!” a voice cried from that corridor, a bold voice that resolved into a figure that emerged into the chamber a few moments later.  Its owner was a familiar form, clad entirely in plate armor, with a heavy shield forged from bluesteel on one arm, and a frost-rimmed battleaxe held at the ready by the other.  Behind the warrior were several other armored dwarves, too few.  

“Defensive wedge!” Lok cried, his presence alone bolstering them and fortifying them against their fear.  The dwarves retreating from the Wall joined their comrades from the town and formed a double line that formed to a point, and at that point stood the mighty genasi fighter.  The dwarven defender, champion of his people, chosen of a god.  

The gibberlings had amassed enough numbers to push madly forward into the gate, and with a loud crash that echoed through the place it toppled heavily to the stone floor.  More were crushed as the falling gate pinioned them against the floor, or were trampled by their allies rushing up from the pit, but that still left more than a hundred that came forward now in a disorganized but inexorable rush to battle.

Lok took one step forward, placing himself even more out in advance of his comrades, and squared himself in a defensive stance as he slammed the head of his axe down against the floor.  The impact sent a single solid note through the chamber, as if stating with resolution, _here I stand_.  

The dwarves gathered a final collective breath, steadying their courage, and then the wave crashed down upon them.


----------



## Maldur

Now thats what I call a dwarven defender!!


ps Dont worry about oktober, Im on vacation as well  Egypt, might not have as much beach, but much more sand!


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## wolff96

I'd like to vote for pure class druid.

Considering that I'm currently _playing_ a druid, I might be just a *bit* biased, though...  

I, too, went with the Dire Wolf. My dwarven druid (whose clan was destroyed) really identifies with the image of the lone wolf, though his understanding of nature eventually led him to realize that even a lone wolf seeks out a new pack -- thus he joined an adventuring party and now calls them his pack.

------------------

Anyway, irrelevant character blather aside, it depends on what rules you're using. 

If you use the rules updates from Masters of the Wild, then Pel needs to be at least a 6th level druid or 12th level ranger to have a 6HD animal companion, as the rules update says that a travelling druid can't have more than his Caster Level in animal companions (which means a ranger needs 2x his level).

My suggestion would be to also use the ritual rules from MotW and allow a higher level druid to advance his animal companions, rather than getting new ones all the time. This is what my DM has allowed me to do...

All that said, if you go pure-class druid, here are (from an old file of mine) the stats for a Dire Wolf that has been advanced to 11 HD. Also included for free (it was in the file) are the stats of an 11HD Dire Wolf that has had Animal Growth cast on him.

		Advanced Dire Wolf
		Large Animal
Hit Dice:		11d8+33 (82 hp)
Initiative:		+2 (Dex)
Speed:		50 ft.
AC:		14 (-1 size, +2 Dex, +3 natural)
Attacks:		Bite +15 melee
Damage:		Bite 1d8+10
Face/Reach: 	5 ft. by 10 ft./5 ft.
Special Attacks:	Trip
Special Qualities:	Scent
Saves:		Fort +10, Ref +9, Will +8
Abilities:		Str 25, Dex 15, Con 17,
		Int 2, Wis 12, Cha 10
Skills:		Hide +5, Listen +6, Move Silently +5,
		Spot +6, Wilderness Lore +1*

----------------------------------------

		Advanced Dire Wolf (Animal Growth)
		Huge Animal
Hit Dice:		22d8 + 110 (209 hp)
Initiative:		+1 (Dex)
Speed:		50 ft.
AC:		15 (-2 size, +1 Dex, +6 natural)
Attacks:		Bite +26 melee
Damage:		Bite 2d6 + 16
Face/Reach: 	10 ft. by 30 ft./10 ft.
Special Attacks:	Trip
Special Qualities:	Scent
Saves:		Fort +18, Ref +14, Will +14
Abilities:		Str 33, Dex 13, Con 21,
		Int 2, Wis 12, Cha 10
Skills:		Hide +4, Listen +6, Move Silently +4,
		Spot +6, Wilderness Lore +1*

Obviously, all of this stuff is yours to take or leave. If you don't want it, I can also edit it out of the post to save space in your thread.

-----------------------------------------------

Final note (I swear! ): My druid's favorite trick at level 11 was to summon 1d3 Dire Lions and then cast Animal Growth on the Lions and my animal companion. 

If you have prep time, you can summon more animals and cast Animal Growth on all of them; after all, at level 11 you can use it on up to 5 animals. So if I had time (and the spells) before a fight, I would summon 1d3 dire lions and a dire bear and then animal growth the lions, the bear, and my advanced dire wolf.

NASTY!


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## Lazybones

All I can say, wolff, is.... suwheeeeeet.

Consider your ideas stolen.    I'd already decided to make Fenrus advanced at least a few HD, and I do like the MotW errata (I'd always considered 2HD/level somewhat overpowered, especially once you start getting to the tougher dire animals).  So I'll look at making Pel a single class druid and stat him out a little later this week.


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## Horacio

Wonderful description of Dwarven dire defense, really. 
For October, if you have already written the story, you can send me it and I will post an update daily for you


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## Lazybones

Horacio, you read my mind...

I was thinking I could get a bit ahead and send you, say, 4-6 chapters, and you could post them for me over the two week period that I'll be on honeymoon.  Not one every day, maybe one every two or three days.  As the Ultimate Story Hour Addict, you deserve to know what happens in advance of everyone else... 

It all depends on how slow things are here at work, of course, and how far I am able to write in the story.  

I am trying to fold in some twists that even MasterOfHeaven cannot see coming.  Book 6 is in many ways a "development" part of the story, with the party separated and the ongoing resolution of Delem's fate mixed in (we'll revisit him several times in the course of the book).  Of course we'll have our share of action, especially in the Undermountain plotline.  But all of the developing events will build into Book 7, where we are going to see some major events that will affect all of western Faerun, and of course all our heroes will be directly involved.  

At the moment, my writer's block is gone and the stuff is pouring off my keyboard.  Thanks to everyone who backed the story.  

Lazy

P.S. Update later today; I need to make some corrections and edits.


----------



## wolff96

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Update later today; I need to make some corrections and edits. *




Excellent.  

Also, congratulations and have a good time on your honeymoon. And how thoughtful to provide for the addicted on this message board during your absence! Such a gracious host...

------------------

Glad you liked the tactics and bits from part of my druidic experience. Considering the reactions around the table when I announced my decision to play a druid -- loud groans for the most part -- I spend most of my time amazing the other players with just how powerful a druid really is if you do some thinking and planning ahead.

The druid -- IMO -- is one of the most underrated classes in the DMG. At mid to high levels, they come close to being unstoppable. Besides, what other class can run down a monk without magic? (Granted, it takes wildshape, but... )


----------



## Lazybones

For me, it was reading Sepulchrave's _Heretic of Wyre_ thread that really drew me into the idea of a high-level druid.  Nwm, to put it simply, rocks.  

The _Travels_ characters are fast approaching the higher levels of power, given that they are now in double-digits level-wise.  Admittedly my multiclassing choices have cost some of them in terms of spell power, but as I've noted in earlier threads I've always put game power in second place to character development.  Even so, Dana's ability to cast 5th level spells (including _teleport_, which she gets through her travel domain) will likely impact the story significantly, and Cal will join her up there pretty soon (he will probably take mage levels from here on out).  

Thanks for the feedback, now here's today's update.

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 9


Within the many-layered and twisting passages that made up the Underdark of Faerûn, a horde of gibberlings descended upon an embattled handful of dwarf warriors. 

Lok let out a battlecry as his axe met the first surge of the gibberling assault.  His first swing took down three of the loathsome creatures, their cries turning to squeals of pain as they bled out their lives upon the cold stone.  Others flooded over their fallen compatriots, however, and surged into the stalwart genasi.  The sheer impact of their assault would have felled most defenders, but Lok’s legs were planted on the stone as though roots had descended down from them into the depths of the earth below.  Several gibberlings latched onto him, clawing with futility at his armored limbs and torso; they might as well have been scratching at the stone itself.  A pair clambered up his left flank, scaling his shield as if it were the face of a great mountain.  Others came at him from the right, wary of the axe that was already proven deadly.  That wariness was demonstrated again as Lok swept the axe in a mighty swath that cleared his enemies like a farmer cutting overripe wheat with a scythe.  More gibberlings fell, their blood mixing with those that had already fallen, their bodies forming a rampart around the warrior. 

But still, they came on.  

The onrushing wave had struck a stone wall in Lok, but it continued around him into his dwarven allies.  The urdunnir line held, though, and their weapons—some forged by Lok himself—bit deeply into the mass of raging gibberlings.  One dwarf staggered as a quartet of gibberlings leapt onto him, screaming and tearing; his companions tried to fight to him but were soon busy fighting off their own knots of foes.  The hapless dwarf managed to dislodge one enemy, but then went down as still more creatures piled onto him, and he vanished in a blur of hairy bodies.

Lok, meanwhile, held his ground, and his axe spawned a storm of death around him.  With each swing up to a half-dozen of the creatures went down, until their bodies formed a ring around him.  Any rational foe would have retreated in the face of that implacable fury, but the gibberlings were beyond reason, driven mad in their lust for destruction.  

They got what they wanted.

One gibberling leapt up over the bodies and screamed as it came down toward Lok’s helmeted head.  Up came the shield, and the gibberling bounced off to the flank, hurled free by a single heave from the mighty warrior.  The creature was cut down an instant later by another dwarf, but the momentary distraction cost Lok as a half-dozen more of the creatures leapt at his right side before he could bring his deadly axe around again.  The creatures grappled him, three of them holding the arm bearing the axe, holding even his considerable strength at bay.  The gibberlings babbled in triumph, and others surged in over the pile of bodies, anticipating the kill.

Their enthusiasm was a bit premature.  

As the gibberlings on his right struggled to hold him, Lok shifted and slammed his shield into the faces of the ones attacking from directly ahead.  Two went down, their faces a smashed ruin, but others grabbed onto the shield, trying to hold his other arm in place.  This obliged Lok, who then slipped his arm from the shield straps and immediately drew his dagger.  As the three gibberlings holding the shield fell awkwardly back, holding their fellows momentarily in check, Lok twisted and carved through the gibberlings holding his axe-arm with the dagger.  One gibberling crumpled with half its neck torn through, and a second stumbled as blood filled its punctured lung.  The last remaining one found that he could not hold the genasi’s arm alone, and a moment later was knocked back as Lok rammed the haft of his axe solidly into its face.  

Still the gibberlings came on, crawling over bodies to reach their deaths.  Lok was covered with blood, nearly all of it belonging to his enemies—other than a few bruises and scratches, he had not been seriously hurt.  He planted his dagger in the chest of a nearby gibberling and took up the axe with both hands, hacking and slashing with mechanical efficiency until the world around him was a sea of red.  

And then it was over.  Finally, the reality of the toll being wreaked upon them had cut through the battle-madness of the gibberlings, activating some more primal instinct for survival.  The broken remnant of the gibberling rush fled in pure terror from the foes, from the demon that had demolished their rush.  Less than fifty survived to retreat back into the trackless tunnels of the Underdark, and never again would any of those survivors wander to within a league of this particular place, even years later.  

The dwarves looked around in amazement, wondering at their survival against such odds.  Of the sixteen that had formed the line behind Lok, four had fallen to the rush, and most of the rest sported wounds that ranged from minor to serious.  Then their eyes turned to the armored figure that stood before them, covered in blood, surrounded by the hacked remains of his enemies.  Many of the gibberling corpses were rimned in frost that was slowly melting in the hot air of the battlefield, their deadly wounds frozen open by the magical power of Lok’s axe. 

Later, when they sorted out all the bodies for disposal, they would tally the slain of gibberling horde.  Six had died in the tunnel, dropped by dwarven bolts or trampled by their fellows in the eagerness of their rush.  Another forty had died in the trench or at the grating, and fully fifty more had been slain before the wedge formed by the defending dwarves.

But the largest group of dead had been clustered in the center of the passageway, lying in bloody heaps around a single point.  Some of the piles reached nearly five feet in height.  When they had unstacked all the bodies and counted them, they tallied fifty-six slain gibberlings whose deaths could be directly attributed to Lok’s attacks.  

And so another day passed in the Underdark.

* * * * * 

EDIT: I've added Pelanther and Fenrus's stats to the Rogues' Gallery thread (link in sig).


----------



## Broccli_Head

Only 56! C'mon Lok, you can do better than that! 

Hey where were the spellcasters?  A few fireballs, flamestrikes, flaming spheres even would have helped...


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## Horacio

Lok rocks 

Now he only needs to find a "Legolas" to begin to bet about bodycount like Gimli did


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## wolff96

They could have come close to stopping the entire invasion with a single well-placed Wall of Fire.

Of course, if you were going to take a large number of people captive and sacrifice them, who would you kill first? The warriors, already deprived of weapons and armor? Or perhaps you would take the spellcasters first -- the ones that can do the most damage with the least amount of equipment. (Not counting monks... )

I'd say that the reason there weren't any spellcasters to help out is because they were all exterminated in the attempt to revive an evil god...


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## Lazybones

Regarding the urdunnir: wolff has the right of it; dwarves in general don't typically have a lot of arcane casters to begin with, and it is likely that the duergar would have slain (or sacrificed) those remaining during the long years of slavery.  And of course, many of the high level urdunnir would have been killed in the assualt on their town, as they would have been most prominent in its defense (and least likely to succumb to the stun gas and/or psionics that the duergar use to take captives).  Most of the duergar that Lok freed had warrior or expert levels, with a few assorted other classes of generally low level thrown into the balance.  The way I conceptualized it, none of those remaining were more than 6th level, with most far lower.  I didn't stat them all out, of course, as they were always intended to be supporting characters.  

But thanks for the questions, I appreciate the opportunity to elaborate on the logic behind the story.  

And now for today's update...

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 10


Delem fled through a tortured landscape, over an expanse of dark gray stone that was all jagged angles and harsh edges.  A thick, acrid smell hung in the air, burning his lungs with each breath, and the sky above was the color of old ashes, lit by a diffuse light that came from no sun or other heavenly body.  When had he last seen the sun, the real sun?  He couldn’t remember.

What he could remember, however, was the demons.  They were coming for him again, chasing him across this nightmare terrain, dark forms that pursued him inexorably across every gap and barrier.  He knew that he could not escape them, yet he ran anyway, his brain unhelpfully filling his thoughts with images of what would happen when they caught up with him.  

He glanced over his shoulder to check their progress, and saw a line of them clamber over the lip of a ridge that he’d traversed only a few scant minutes before.  Dretches, their fat, bulbous bodies carried forward on stick-like legs while their slackened jaws smacked and tasted the fetid air.  Among the least of the demons, they would still have no difficulty tearing his body apart, he knew only too well.

His route carried him into a twisting defilade, and soon the demons dropped out of sight behind him.  They were still there, he knew, still coming for him.  The trail down grew steeper as the stone walls to each side reared up higher and higher, until he was running through a narrow gap between two vertical, crumbling cliffs.  Then the trail bent sharply again, and the cliff to the left fell away, revealing a vast open chasm that seemed to go on forever.  His only recourse was a treacherous ledge that ran back up to the right, and without hesitation he ran in that direction.

A buzzing sound came into his perceptions, a sound that rapidly grew both louder and more persistent, approaching from somewhere down below.  Delem fell back against the dubious shelter of the cliff face, his hands probing for somewhere to hold on, his mind swimming as that droning noise filled his senses and threatened to overcome him.  He felt tired, weak, drifting into a sleep that would never end...

That temptation was almost soothing, but Delem knew too much already, knew that the promise of rest was a false one.  He shouted out in defiance at the air and the stone and the things that filled this terrible place, this perversion of familiar places that were normal and real.  Even the echo of his voice was twisted, coming back to him with an almost mocking tilt to the familiar syllables, teasing him.  

The buzzing noise took on an even higher pitch, its source revealed a moment later as two man-sized forms drifted up over the lip of the ledge from the chasm below.  The creatures were like houseflies grown to the size of sheep, except that their faces were both intelligent and corrupted, demonic visages that sneered at him for resisting the siren call of their magical droning. 

_Chasme demons_, whispered a voice in Delem’s mind, the part of him that remembered all of the terrible things that he’d experienced in the Abyss.

There was no escape, for the things were ahead, blocking his route up the ledge.  But as he fell back his probing hands felt a crack in the stone of the cliff, a tight passage that led off to some other destination.  He knew he was being led, toyed with by the demon masters of this place, but there was nowhere else for him to go, the uncertain dangers of the crack balanced against the very certain perils of the demons that now threatened.  

So he darted into the crack, barely squeezing through the narrow space, seeking escape even while that small rational voice inside him whispered that there was no escape from this place.  

The passage led deep into the stone face of the cliff.  The droning noise fell behind him as he made his way further down the corridor, but he was not so naïve to think that the demons had given up the chase.  Then, so suddenly that he didn’t realize until he was through, the corridor gave way to a chamber, a small round bubble in the stone that was open to the sky above.  No escape that way—the walls all around were hundreds of feet high, and virtually sheer.  

As his eyes darted around frantically, seeking any small possibility for escape, he saw movement in one corner of the confined space.  Three lean, feral forms rose up out of the deep shadows there, and came toward him.  They looked human, almost, until one caught sight of the unnatural way that their bones jutted from under their skin, or the hairless, sloping faces that gave way to jaws full of sharp, rending teeth.  They carried longswords with jagged, serrated edges awkwardly, and their walk was almost a stagger as they ambled closer.  

Delem knew that it was all a lie, that the awkwardness of the three creatures belied a ferocious strength and speed that would be unleashed once they were close enough to their prey.  Rutterkin demons, vicious and stupid and cruel things that delighted in inflicting torments upon sentient creatures weaker than they.  

They spread out in a half-ring that closed in upon him, driving him back until there was nowhere for him to go.  Their jaws drooled thick gobs of saliva in anticipation of the kill, and they slashed the air with their blades, delighting in the look of terror that flitted across Delem’s face with each step closer they came.  

“No escape, manling,” one hissed.  

_No escape..._

Something snapped inside of him, a burning rage that came so suddenly that it overran his terror in a raging torrent.  It coursed through him like a wildfire, sweeping away all doubt and thought until only the white-hot purity of his hatred was left.  

And then the power came to him.

The demons laughed and rushed at him, but their evil cackles turned to cries of pain as their world exploded in fire.  Delem extended his hands and launched a second stream of _burning hands_ at them, and then a third, until their leathery flesh had become blackened and charred and the three rutterkin collapsed in smoking piles of ruin.  

Even as the last of the rutterkin stopped twitching, however, he heard the familiar buzzing noise from up above.  Delem looked up to see the two chasme demons swooping down from above, closing the distance to him rapidly. 

But Delem no longer felt fear, and the power came once again at his call.  The first chasme staggered as the full force of an _Aganazzar’s scorcher_ blasted into it, ravaging its insectile form. The flames scorched its wings, causing it to veer awkwardly off to the side.  The second tried to dodge out of the way, but it avoided its smoldering comrade only to take a blast from a second _scorcher_ that tore into its bulbous belly.  Its buzzing replaced by an incoherent screeching, the injured demon retreated swiftly back up into the air toward the top of the canyon above.  The first demon tried to do the same, but its injured wings did not carry it fast enough as Delem fired a series of blazing _magic missiles_ into its fat body.  It let out a cry of pain as each missile blasted into it, finally subsiding as it fell limply to the hard ground below.  

Delem watched it fall.  He heard a strange sound, a wheezing, awful sound, and belatedly realized that it was coming from him.  

He was laughing.  

Dark forms appeared in the mouth of the narrow passage that led back out to the cliff ledge.  Dretches, shambling forward, a small army of them.  His original pursuers, caught up to him at last.  They made no effort to form a line or organize their numbers, but simply came onward in a disorganized mass, drawn inexorably by the irresistible lure of a living soul.  

“So, you want my power?” Delem said, nearly shouting as he faced the demon horde.  “Very well then, I will give you POWER!”

He pointed, and at his call a bead of liquid fire erupted from his fingertips, blasting across the space that separated him and the demons until it exploded into a massive ball of flaming death in their midst.  Most of the demons were instantly blasted into blackened mounds of crispy flesh, and when the flames and smoke cleared, only a few scattered remnants staggered about, disoriented.  

They didn’t last for long. 

When it was over, Delem stood there alone, breathing heavily, wisps of smoke from the carcasses lying around him curling around his body in the faint hints of wind that made it into the depths of the canyon.  The smell was acrid, terrible, but rather than filling him with disgust it actually brought a kind of exhilaration, welcome payback against the creatures that had tormented him for so long.  His power had returned, and he would not be a helpless victim again.  Logic told him that he was still trapped in the Abyss, and that his meager spells would not hold off the hordes of demons that dwelled in this evil place, but logic didn’t feel as good as the hard proof lying in blackened heaps all around him.  

He felt a disturbance behind him, and turned just in time to see a massive form materialize out of the air, a mere ten paces away from him.  It was a familiar form, warped in shape like all demons, as though someone had taken a collection of disparate parts and forced them all together into a loathsome whole.  It stood nearly nine feet tall, all muscle and power.  It was roughly humanoid, although four arms rather than two spouted from its torso, two ending in huge pincers and a second set that protruded from its chest ending in slender, almost delicate hands.  Its head was like that of a huge wolfhound, except that its large red eyes shone with a cruel and fiendish intelligence.  

It regarded Delem with those eyes, and the sorcerer felt the power rising up within him, almost eager for his call.  

But the demon raised one of its small hands to forestall him, and it kept its distance.

“What do you want, glabrezu?” Delem warned, as flickers of barely-contained flame gathered around the fingers of his left hand.  

The demon guffawed.  “Do not think to test your powers against me, human.  But I have not come to do battle with you this day.  You have regained that which you have lost, and the Master would speak with you now.”

The demon reached out with an almost-human hand, beckoning him to come to it.  Delem hesitated, but then realized that he had no real choice.

Besides, the chance to confront the being behind all of this, behind his torments, was too great—and terrible—to pass up.  

With his power seething in him, he walked over to the demon, and reached up to take its offered hand. 

Both of them shimmered and disappeared.


----------



## Broccli_Head

I thought that all demons had fire resistance around 20. Could I be wrong? Or is Delem wielding something else...like spellfire?

In any case, I am enjoying seeing Delem's descent.


----------



## Horacio

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> *In any case, I am enjoying seeing Delem's descent. *




Me too 

Wonderful, as usual!


----------



## Lazybones

From the SRD:



> Resistances (Ex): Tanar’ri have cold, fire, and acid resistance 20.




So, you're not wrong, in fact, you're exactly right.  Delem should have remembered that his fire had no effect against the ghour demon, but perhaps he can be forgiven, given that he's had a lot on his mind lately.    Hmmm... could someone be manipulating our dearly departed sorcerer? 



Muwhahahahaha... 

More to come...


----------



## Horacio

You're an evil man, Lazybones


----------



## Lazybones

Hey, Horacio, while I've got you here:

You still willing to host my SH while I'm gone in October?  I've been writing furiously, and will hopefully have 6-8 chapters that you can post for me while I'm on vacation.  Can I email you the file next week?  You can reply here or at my work email: kmcdonal@cde.ca.gov.

I may even have a few evil cliffhangers for you to use... 

Thanks,
Lazy


----------



## Maldur

Great update as usual LazyBones!

And Horacio is right, your evil to the core

Good thing Ill be on vacation as well, so I wont be as frustrated as I usually get from your nasty cliffhangers.


----------



## Lazybones

Book VI, Part 11


The sky above was a single flat sheet of thick gray as Dana walked along a lonely road that meandered its way generally to the north.  The air was still, but pregnant with the promise of impending rain.  Far to the north, too far to be threatening, an occasional flash indicated that for some distant place on Faerûn’s surface, an autumn storm had already arrived in all its force.

The road led into a wood, and the muted air of the overcast day deepened further into shadows.  This wasn’t the busy coastal road that ran up the length of the Sword Coast to Waterdeep and beyond, but one of the innumerable backwater tracks that connected the many villages and other isolated settlements scattered throughout the Western Heartlands.  These frontier communities became more rare the farther one penetrated into the North, and the land became harsher even for the most doughty of homesteaders.  

For in the Forgotten Realms, nightmares walked the land, and evil was a real thing that struck without hesitation or mercy.

Dana shook her head to clear it of such gloomy thoughts.  She’d been in a funk ever since that night of the moonfire ritual.  Although most of what she’d learned had not been a surprise to her, fitting with what she and her friends had already deduced, somehow it was that much more painful to have the grim facts of Delem’s fate confirmed for her.  

And there was the enigmatic quality of the goddess’s final message.  That one had given her several sleepness nights already. 

For the moment, her course was not clear to her.  Freed even of the vague mandate to seek out information, she felt unanchored, drifting on an aimless course.  She’d finally decided to head north, although it had taken her a few days to own up to the real reason for that choice.  She had never been very good about acknowledging when she needed help, particularly the sort of help that she needed now.  In some way it was an admission of weakness; an irrational feeling, but one she could not shake deep down within.

She had the power to travel faster now, much faster indeed when it came down to it, but she had deliberately chosen to walk the long leagues that separated places of note in this largely empty land.  She needed time to think, to work things out in her mind, but as the solitary hours blended into one another on the open road she felt no closer to reaching any kind of resolution.  

A sound from the underbrush startled her from her reverie, fairly close.  

“Who’s there?” she queried, shifting her longspear from her shoulder to both hands.  

In response, three shadowy shapes emerged from the brush, around the trunk of a massive tree that fronted the trail, its roots forming a sort of low wall that had aided in their concealment.  As they stepped into the open the three figures resolved into the forms of men, rough-looking men with thick beards and dirty tunics of ragged cloth. 

They were armed, all of them, and they moved with a confident swagger as they approached her.  Which was one the leader was instantly obvious, for he was significantly bigger and stronger than his fellows.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice a leer.  “What do we have here...”

“I will give you one warning, not to trifle with me,” Dana interrupted him.  “I am no common traveler, and while I do not seek trouble, I am prepared to deal with it when it finds me.”  Her voice was calm, but inside she felt the familiar tingle of anticipated action, part rush and part tremor.

The leader laughed, and started to retort, but then he caught sight of something he hadn’t noticed before.  Dana’s _moon mote_, a sliver of liquid fire on a chain around her neck, the marker that identified her as a priestess of Selûne. 

“A child of the moon lady,” the man said, and his lips smacked as though a plate of steaming venison had been laid before him.  “Malar sends us a great gift indeed, boys...”

They came forward, spreading out to take her from all sides at once.  Their expressions now were feral, hungry, and they made no move for the short-hafted axes at their belt as their fingers clawed at the air.  Dana cursed inwardly as she finally realized what she hadn’t seen before, recognized the true nature of these bandits.  

The young woman gave ground slowly, knowing that a sudden movement would bring them down upon her in an instant.  Her spear crackled with the power stored within, its head shifting back and forth as the three closed in around her.  They seemed to be in no hurry, taking the time to enjoy the fear of their prey.

And then they began to change.  Their forms twisted and thickened, their fingers elongating into real claws, fur erupting from their skin, their already feral expressions morphing into something truly monstrous.  

Werewolves.


----------



## Horacio

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Hey, Horacio, while I've got you here:
> 
> You still willing to host my SH while I'm gone in October?  I've been writing furiously, and will hopefully have 6-8 chapters that you can post for me while I'm on vacation.  Can I email you the file next week?  You can reply here or at my work email: kmcdonal@cde.ca.gov.
> 
> I may even have a few evil cliffhangers for you to use...
> 
> Thanks,
> Lazy *




Sorry, yesterday I couldn't use my e-mail, and I won't be able to use it until Monday. Please, send me the chapters and the posting guidelines to my e-mail address (it's shown in my profile). And yes, give me cliffhangers!


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks, Horacio!

Last week was SOOOOO boring at work (and my project load was pretty light), I just went nuts on the writing thing.  Not *only* will I have a "post-a-day" week next week, but I should have a good 7-8 updates to give over to Horacio to cover my two-week absence!  Yay boring state job!

Anyway, have a great weekend everybody (it's pretty much "all wedding all the time" here right now), and I'll see you Monday morning with the next update (left the file at work). 

Horacio, I'll email you the "package" next Friday.


----------



## Maldur

Good, then I can get me a heavy dose of travels just before I go 


Im very envious of your chance of reading the lot Afew weeks before we do Horacio


----------



## Ziggy

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Thanks, Horacio!
> 
> Last week was SOOOOO boring at work (and my project load was pretty light), I just went nuts on the writing thing.  Not only will I have a "post-a-day" week next week, but I should have a good 7-8 updates to give over to Horacio to cover my two-week absence!  Yay boring state job!
> *




Cool, just what I needed on a bleak monday. Looking forward to a gorge-fest LB's excellent story....  

.Ziggy


----------



## Lazybones

Book VI, Part 12

The three werewolves were a terrible thing to behold, but Dana’s mettle had been forged in equally terrible battles, and she did not falter.  Even as the lyncanthropes took on their hybrid forms, she called upon the pure light of Selûne’s power.  The energy of her patron came readily at her call, filling her with _divine power_.  

“Tear her to pieces,” the leader growled, and his two companions rushed at her.  He himself hung back, digging a potion vial out of a pocket of his cloak and downing it in a single swallow.

She was ready for the attack, and dodged rapidly to the side, snapping her spear around to meet the first creature’s rush.  The head of the _shockspear_, boosted by her enhanced strength, tore deeply into the werewolf’s shoulder, and the creature screamed in rage and pain as electrical energy coursed into it.  The other creature darted inside the reach of her spear before she could react, and tore at her with its claws.  She felt pain as one claw tore three shallow gashes across her torso.  The werewolf lunged in to bite her with its huge jaws, but she leapt back, sweeping the haft of her spear around in a sudden strike that caught the werewolf solidly in the head.  The blow didn’t do any real damage to the creature, but it distracted it long enough for her to spin back into a ready defensive position.

The werewolves, all three of them now, were on her almost immediately, forcing her back.  She nimbly avoided their grasping and tearing claws, giving ground as they drove her back along the length of the trail, although it was clear that she would not be able to stay ahead of them for more than a few moments.  The werewolves were nearly as fast and as agile as she was, gifted with the natural talents of the beast that was part of their warped existence.  

But even as they swarmed on her again, Dana called upon the moon goddess once more.  The werewolves leapt at her, slashing with their claws, but she suddenly darted up, straight into the air, leaving them behind.  She took another pair of gashes to her legs but then she was free and beyond their reach.

The two that she had struck gnashed their teeth in frustration, but the leader would not be denied.  He fell into a crouch and threw his cloak out behind him.  The fabric caught the air, although there was no breeze, billowing out and enlongating until a pair of massive bat-wings protruded from his back where the cloak had been.  With powerful strokes, the wings carried the werewolf aloft into the air after the fleeing cleric. 

“You’ll not escape me, pretty,” he called after her.  

“Escape isn’t my intent,” Dana returned.  She darted up through the canopy of leaves and spun to face him.  He was focused on his pursuit, coming on with great speed, ignoring the branches that tore at his face and limbs as he pushed through the forest canopy after her.  In the open air, hundreds of feet above the ground, the two combatants squared off against each other.  

Dana called upon the power of her goddess once again, and a shining ray of _searing light_ blasted into the werewolf’s chest.  The creature screamed in pain, but it came on nonetheless, its magical wings beating furiously as it rushed her.  The werewolf reached down to its belt and lifted an ugly black morningstar.  Dana flew back, trying to set her spear against its rush, but it was too quick for her.  

Her side exploded in pain as the werewolf slammed its weapon into her.  She was knocked roughly around by the force of the blow, and felt the hot trails of blood dripping down her side before they fell away in hot droplets of red into the forest below.  The creature was incredibly strong.  

_Maybe that potion he drank_, she thought, as she tried to recenter herself.  

But the werewolf was pressing in at her, swinging its now-bloody weapon at her again.  She was able to bring the haft of her spear up in time to deflect the attack, but as it tore away the spines of the morningstar caught her forearm, tearing her flesh roughly.  She cried out as she nearly lost her grip on her magical weapon.  

The werewolf cackled and came at her again, but Dana launched herself suddenly straight upward, narrowly avoiding another powerful swing.  With his magical wings he wasn’t as maneuverable as she was with her spell, but he adjusted and pursued, the bat wings beating furiously to catch her.  

He’d nearly reached her when a magical _dimension door_ sprung into existence directly in front of her.  She dove through the doorway and vanished, and the portal disappeared a moment later. 

“Damn you!” the werewolf cried, slashing the air where his prey had been a moment before.  “That’s right, run, bitch!  Run far and fast, or Ohleg will tear you apart!”

Ohleg turned in the air, scanning the empty horizon in each direction, then dropped back down toward the trees.  He saw his two companions below, and veered toward them.  

One of them pointed, shouted a warning. 

Ohleg turned, just in time to see the pegasus dive down out of the treetops, the cleric of Selûne mounted upon its back.  He tried to dodge out of the way as the pair sliced toward him, but the cumbersome wings were not able to move him in time to avoid their charge.  

The spearhead tore with the full weight of the woman and her mount into his chest, crashing through flesh, muscle, and bone and blasting out the far side.  Ohleg’s morningstar felt uselessly from his hand as the momentum of the charge drove him rapidly toward the ground.  The pegasus pulled up twenty paces from the forest floor, its majestic wings catching the air in a smooth glide.  Dana released the spear, now heavy with the weight of the stricken lyncanthrope, and he fell solidly to the hard ground, the spear impaling itself deeply in the packed loam and quivering in the air as the cleric and her summoned ally wheeled away.  

Ohleg’s two companions looked at the corpse of their leader, exchanged a glance, and took off in opposite directions into the wood.  

Dana, meanwhile, curved back toward the site, the pegasus sharing her triumph with a congratulatory whinny as its wings carried it almost effortlessly through the maze of treetrunks.  She let the power of Selûne course through her, healing her wounds, watching as the two werewolves vanished into the forest.  At her direction the pegasus landed beside the body of the dead werewolf, and she dismounted to recover her spear.  Its magical cloak had been ruined, torn by that final thrust.  Oh well.  She wasn’t sure should could have brought herself to wear the awful thing in any case. 

She looked battered, blood caking her side even though her wounds had been healed.  Her skin was still tender where the beasts had slashed her, where Ohleg had slammed her with his weapon.  She found the morningstar lying in the bushes a short distance away, its black head slick with her own blood.  

She turned to the pegasus, which nodded at her in respect before vanishing.  Once again she was alone.  

She hefted the morningstar.  The ugly weapon repulsed her, but for the first time in a while, she felt truly alive.  Fighting for her life had forced her to tear away the cobwebs of doubt that had hung over her, if only for a few moments.  She now knew what she had to do.  

But first, there was still a debt of blood to be paid.  

Calling upon the power of her spell, she lifted up into the air again, flying like a dart in the direction that she’d seen the first werewolf flee.


----------



## Broccli_Head

*Go Dana! *


----------



## Lazybones

Book VI, Part 13


Hot rain pattered down in fat drops upon the barren landscape, the brush on the plain scorched by a particularly long, hot summer.  The thick gray clouds that had just blown in across the Western Heartlands from the Sea of Storms, bringing their typical wet cargo, promised an end to that scorching drought, but for now, the gray above and the brown below formed a bleak picture of desolation.  

That was an illusion, Goran knew, as he surveyed the countryside.  This region was full of life, and while it wasn’t the Heartlands or the ancient kingdoms around the Sea of Fallen Stars or the Shining South, the west was no longer the chaotic, empty frontier that it once had been.  Powerful city-states dotted the map between the ocean to the west and the great inland sea to the east, and the map was still changing, as human and the other civilized races continued to push back against the wilds.  

He didn’t see the house until he was almost upon it, and that was by design, he knew.  The blocky, stone structure was nestled into a dip in the plains, a bowl-shaped dell with steep sides choked with rocks and weeds.  

He was early, and the dell was quiet, empty.  That didn’t necessarily mean that he was the first to arrive, of course; most of those coming would have other means of travel than simple riding cross-country.  Of course, they had much farther to go.  He was acutely aware that this gathering was on his “turf,” and as a result he would be particularly vulnerable here.  

It was a quixotic reversal of logic, but true nonetheless.

“Are you sure about this, general?” Handar asked him, as the small party reined in behind him.  Only four men, clad in armor and bearing weapons with easy familiarity.  They wore no crest or standard, but people familiar with the region might still recognize the subtle clues that identified them.  Someone even more familiar with the darker secrets of the west might even see through that outer layer of identity, and recognize the true nature that lay deeper within. 

Or perhaps not.  

“Wait for me here,” Goran said as he dismounted, not bothering to answer his man’s earlier question.  Inwardly Goran felt that the danger in this meeting was minimal, though among his kind there was always the threat of betrayal.  Even when such things were illogical, even directly contrary to the betrayer’s own interests—that had been one of the very first lessons that Goran had learned, way back when when he had approached his own rebirth. 

He handed the reins of his horse to one of his men, and then descended down into the dell alone.  The rain had not been going on long enough for the ground to become sodden, but it was still difficult going down the slope.  Goran was used to tough hikes, however, even in full armor, and made it down without mishap.  

He crossed to the building, the rain making a hard patter on his armor, as if angry with him.  The building looked even more spartan, almost abandoned, as he drew nearer, the stone edges of its form crumbling with age.  But it was sound, as sound as the stone of the earth itself. 

A narrow, dark doorway beckoned.  He entered, sliding the heavy stone door aside.  The noise would alert anyone already here, if in fact others had already arrived.

The entry chamber was dark, the only light coming from a pair of windows that were narrower even than arrowslits.  The place was barren and nearly empty.  To his left a crude wooden railing fenced off a small portion of the floor, while to his right an equally dilapidated table and a pair of chairs were pressed up against the wall.  

There was one other exit, another door that led deeper into the structure.  Without hesitation Goran crossed to it and opened the portal.

As he did, he felt his armor settle around him, suddenly heavier.  It was a familiar feeling, a not-so-subtle reminder that the meeting room itself was warded against all forms of magic.  A dead zone, as some of the mages called it.  Only this was a deliberate construction, not an accidental creation of the Time of Troubles.  

It meant that he would not be able to call upon his magical sword, but if it came to that, he had other options prepared.

The room was indeed occupied, and as he entered he saw that in fact he was among the last to arrive.  They looked up as one as he entered. 

_Let them think that they have won a small tactical advantage,_ he thought, truly not caring either way.  

It was only then that he removed his helmet, revealing features as neutral as those of the heavy steel mask.  It took only an instant for his eyes to adjust to the light of the pair of hooded lanterns, their flickering flames relatively bright in contrast to the dark exterior room.  

There were three men present, seated around the small stone table in the center of the room.  The first, to his left, was a tall, lean figure, looking almost like someone had taken a common-looking fellow and stretched him some.  He was clad in expensive robes of finely woven linen, colored gray with a purple band running around the borders of the fabric.  He wore rings on each of his hands, and a golden amulet dangled from a chain around his neck.  His dusky coloration marked him as not native to the Western Heartlands, but he could have been from any of a dozen southern lands, his features plain enough so that he could blend fairly easily anywhere.  He was of indeterminate age, his face smooth and unwrinkled, his hair a shock of pure black that was thinning around the temples, but his eyes were those of an old man.  

The second man, seated across from him, was clad in a full hauberk of mail links that covered his entire torso.  He was perhaps forty-five, still muscular, the faint hints of a few scars visible on his face.  His eyes were deep, penetrating, and they instantly reminded Goran of Malifex, shining with that certain kind of ambition—or madness—that was common to all of the clergy of Cyric.  

The final member of the group was perched on the edge of his seat, leaning hard against the table, and for a moment Goran got the mental picture of a vulture, waiting for some carrion scraps to feast upon.  He was younger than either of the other two men, but his face was sallow, and he had a hunted look upon him.  His tunic had long sleeves and a high collar, but could not fully conceal the edges of several tattoos that marked his flesh in swirling loops.  

There were two empty chairs.  Goran took one, and glanced toward the other.  

“Sememmon will not be joining us,” drawled the man in the white and purple robe, his tone lazy as if he could barely be bothered to speak the words. 

Goran raised an eyebrow, but the speaker did not elaborate.  Inwardly, though he did not betray the thought, he was greatly relieved at the news.  Although Sememmon’s power would have been a great boon to their cause, and his knowledge as important, Goran knew that the mage’s power was greater than the rest of them combined, several times over.  Had he been present, Goran suspected that he would have been hard-pressed to even guide the agenda here. 

Not that the three men here would be easy to direct, he knew, but he felt comfortable in understanding the strengths—and weaknesses—of each.

“I heard about your ascension, Goran—my congratulations,” said the armored man.  His eyes were like cut glass, though, and there was an unspoken challenge there, _Do not think to go above yourself, Spur Lord!_

“I thank you, Amon Vero,” Goran replied, his own subtext equally clear, that what happened to Malifex could happen again.  It was not the best way to open a meeting, but Goran knew it was necessary, just another one of the games that these people played.

The robed man laughed, as if he’d read Goran’s thoughts.  “Perhaps we can skip the preliminaries, and get down to business,” he said. 

“Indeed, Jeilu, I do not wish to waste your time.  We have collaborated in the past, on small matters, but as I have noted in my last communication, it is time to risk greater steps.”

“You are ambitious, I’ll grant you that,” Amon Vero interjected.  “Malifex didn’t have a lot of friends, and most of us feel that he had... what happened to him coming.  You’ve created a nice little niche for yourself, but do not forget that the Twin Towers of the Eternal Eclipse are the voice of Cyric’s power in the west.  You would do well to remember that fact, and what has happened to those who have defied Blackwill Akhmelere in the past.”  

“And I will need assurances as well,” the tattooed man added.  “You’ll forgive me, but the lackeys of Cyric,” he gestured to Goran and Amon Vero, “and the Cult of the Dragon,” he added with a wave toward Jeilu, “are hardly the most reliable allies.”

“Ha,” the priest of Cyric laughed.  “Coming from you, that is high comedy indeed.  You, Guthan, are here because you have no friends, in fact, you are an outcast...”

“I have power!” Guthan hissed, and one skeletal hand clawed at the air to punctuate his statement.  “If you would like a demonstration, I can provide it for you, deceiver-priest!”

“Gentlemen,” Goran said, cutting through the growing tension as though the word were a blade.  Reluctantly they drew back from the brewing confrontation, and turned to face him.  This was his one chance, he knew. 

“We each bring out disparate backgrounds and interests to this meeting,” he said.  “Even though Amon Vero and I share the same allegiance, the two of us stand as apart on many issues as Jeilu and Guthan, for example.”  Vero looked like he was going to interject, but Goran silenced him with a look.  Even if the room were not an antimagic zone, his status as a Spur Lord gave him a certain edge vis-à-vis the clerics of his patron god, and he took full advantage of that fact right now.  

“As Guthan so eloquently noted, we are all what we are, and blind trust between us would be a foolish thing indeed.  And yet there is more in common between us than would be evident at first glance.  We all seek power, and respect it, and we all equally despite weakness.  And yet each of us has faced frustration, and failure, and defeat!”

As one the three of them started to protest, anger burning in their eyes, but he kept right on going, riding over their objections through the force of his personality. 

“You, Jeilu, seek ancient secrets, and the power that comes through the teachings of Sammaster.  I have seen a dracolich, and admit that it was a sight that I will not soon forget.  And yet, how many of your creations have fallen in the past year in the North and the West?  Six?  Seven?  It would seem that lately, the operations of your sect have been irresistible to powerful adventurers, and those certain organizations and individuals of Good that back their activities.”

The priest of the Cult of the Dragon shot him a dark look, but did not respond.

“And my dear colleague Amon Vero, comrade in faith.  The twin towers of which you spoke are impressive, and no doubt you could rattle off a list of names from their rosters that are equally impressive.  But let us be honest with ourselves—the reason for the success of that outpost is that it is so far from any place of importance, it manages to escape notice itself.  I would be surprised if the writ of the tower extends more than a day’s ride from its walls, and I know for a fact that Blackwill, for all his power, does everything he can to keep its presence hidden from the world around.  Cyric’s followers hide in the darkness, scheming and plotting, mostly against each other, but accomplishing little in tangible gains.”

Now it was Vero’s turn to smolder.

“And my dear Guthan.  I do not question your power, nor do I wish to test it.  But you too have had setbacks, have you not?  Rejected by your former master, the god Mask; I do not know the exact circumstances of your break, but I do know what it is like to be hunted, and to have a price on your head.  It is not pleasant.  And while I know little of the demons that you now serve, I cannot imagine that you have a pleasant fate awaiting you upon your entry to the next life.”

“As if any of us has,” the wiry man smirked, but Goran saw that his words had stung.  

“And what of you, Goran?” Vero challenged.  “What is your addition to this litany of disasters?”

“Why, my own hierarchy suffered a devastating culling of its leadership just recently,” Goran said with a faintly mocking edge.  “And I belong to an organization that is barely that, graven together through vague ambitions and frustrated power.  We hold a sharp knife that we can only sometimes keep from plunging into our own backs.”

“Let us compare our organizations—for they are similar—with our main rivals.  You know of whom I speak, but if I need to spell it out, it is the Black Hand of Bane and the Zhentarim.  Where we are chaotic and self-destructive, they are organized and efficient.  Where our ambitions lead us to strike out blindly in every direction, they apply force along clearly defined lines, and to clearly evident results.  While we hide in the shadows, their forces move in the daylight, respected and feared throughout Faerûn.”

“You would have us create a second Black Network?” Vero said, his own tone dripping mockery.  “You are a fool, Goran.”

The others looked equally doubtful, and Jeilu even shifted his chair, as if he was preparing to leave.  But Goran was unmoved.

“What is it that the Zhents have that we lack?  A stable base of power.  An organized foundation upon which all their myriad plans can be constructed.  A balance to counter the other Powers of Faerûn that would destroy us, if they could.”

“In short, a state.”

“A state?  You mean, a government, towns, a standing army?  By the gods, you are ambitious, Goran.  Mad, yes, but ambitious indeed.”  Vero stood.  “I would call this trip a waste of time, but the others in the Towers will get a good laugh, when I tell this story.  You pluck at clouds, man.  King Goran.  That is rich indeed.”

Goran simply regarded them with a calm expression.  “I know you are just posturing, all of you, so I will not respond to your comments.  If you do not wish to participate, you are of course free to leave.  But I am not alone in this, nor are these words the rantings of a wild dreamer.  My ambitions, you see, are wedded to the will of another...

And he stood, and as he rose he seemed to swell, to dominate the room by his very presence.  He spoke, and as he spoke, the room grew dark, and a fiery nimbus appeared around his head, and within that blaze a black skull shone deep within. 

“FOR I AM THE CHOSEN OF CYRIC, AND I SPEAK WITH *HIS* VOICE!”

The three observers reeled, stunned, their finely practiced masks of self-control shattered. 

Goran held them with his stare, focusing on each in turn.  _Now, they are mine,_ he thought.  

Even as that thought occurred to him, however, he felt a laughter echo within his mind, and a mocking voice that filled him, reflecting his thoughts, filling him with a tremor of fear.  

_Now, they are *mine*_...


----------



## Horacio

What an update!!! 
Wonderful!


----------



## Broccli_Head

I find myself trying to figure out what Guthan is...an _acolyte of the skin_, maybe? 

But that nagging from my own curiousity does not take away from my enjoyment of your scheming and behind-the-scenes plots! 

Can't wait to see what's cookin'!


----------



## Lazybones

I'll give you a hint: Guthan is *not* a new character.


----------



## Maldur

I really like those views into the enemies camp. All these seperate storylines. I wonder how they will come together.

Thanks, Lazybones.


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## Horacio

Lazybones is a master storyteller.


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the kudos; I really do appreciate it.  


* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 14


Moving with a caution born of hard experience, the three companions—four, counting the great wolf Fenrus—headed into Undermountain.

The floor of the pit was almost a hundred and fifty feet below the well in The Yawning Portal, and by the time they reached the sandy-surfaced floor of the cavern below the light from above was just a diffuse glow far above them, too little for even the sharp-eyed gnomes to see very much.  As they gathered at the bottom of the shaft, and Pel unhooked Fenrus from the winch harness, Cal cast a _light_ spell that drove back the shadows, leaving them in the center of a bubble of light.  

They were in a large chamber, its floor covered in at least several inches of rough sand.  Large shields were hung at irregular intervals along the wall, clearly pitted and useless now as armor.  A large archway to the west was the only exit, where they could see a dark corridor leading deeper into the dungeon.  

“I could’ve saved you that spell, if you’d asked,” Pel was saying, as he and Fenrus joined Cal and Benzan before the arch.  The gnome reached into a pouch at his belt and withdrew a plain iron ring—plain, that is, if one didn’t count the flames that blazed from the ring as the gnome unrapped it from a square of canvas.  The companions, already familiar with _continual flame_ from Dana, did not comment as the gnome put the ring on his left hand.  It was a strange effect, giving his fist the appearance of a torch, the flames forming a nimbus around his hand but not doing any damage to his flesh.  

“Let’s just take this slow and careful,” Cal said.  “We haven’t had time to get familiar with what we all can do, so you’re right, we should be open with our communications until we can develop some team tactics.”

“Yeah, assuming we live that long,” Benzan said.  

The four headed down the corridor, with Benzan slightly ahead, scouring the darkness for any sign of danger.  After a short distance Fenrus moved up beside him, and after a brief look between the tiefling and the wolf the two continued onward, with the gnomes trailing behind. 

“Look, I hope you didn’t mind that ‘doggy’ crack,” Benzan said.  “How about you just watch my back, and I’ll watch yours, eh?”

The wolf looked at him, but did not otherwise reply.  

“Hey, Pelanther, is this wolf intelligent?”

“He’s smarter than most of the city blokes I’ve met,” the gnome replied.

Their banter ended abruptly as the passage turned and they emerged on the edge of a vaulted chamber.  Thick stone pillars rose from the floor to the ceiling high above them, and they could make out several exits, passages that led to the left, right, and straight ahead.  

They couldn’t see anything more before their light sources suddenly flared and died.

“What happened?” Pel asked, as the four suddenly found themselves in complete and utter blackness.

“There’s nothing here,” Benzan said, his vision perfectly fine in the dark.  “No dangers that I can see, anyway.”

“I’ve heard about this,” Cal said, already digging in his pouch for a more conventional light source.  “Antimagic areas; they’re scattered all over Undermountain.”

“Well, isn’t that just great,” Benzan commented. 

“Hold on a second,” Cal said.  By touch he took out his tinderbox and with flint and steel got a small flame going, which he touched to the tip of a slender wax taper.  The wick caught and started burning, casting a faint light around them.  

“That’s not going to be much help in a battle,” Pel commented.  

“These areas are usually limited in size,” Cal said.  “If we get into trouble, we’ll retreat back into the corridor.  Benzan can help; he sees just fine in the dark.”

Pel grunted, but joined them as they moved into the room.  There wasn’t much to see; the place was barren save for some scattered debris in the corners.  All three passages looked more or less identical, although as Benzan moved to the one on the opposite wall, he noticed something.

“Hey, come look at this.  Looks like mirrors, mounted on the walls of this passage.  Goes down quite a way.”

“Hold it!” Cal warned, his voice sounding too-loud in the cavernous darkness around them.  “Don’t go down there!”

Benzan had backed up quickly at the first warning, and now looked at the passage curiously.  “Why, what’s down there?”

“When I was young, I heard a lot of tales about Undermountain.  Some were fantastical, some tragic, some heroic, but they all had a few elements in common.  Several agreed on this point: the Hall of Mirrors is dangerous, and looking at those mirrors can get you into trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Benzan asked.  

“I’m not exactly sure.  Big trouble, I would expect.”

“Ah yes.  The only kind that we know.”

They finished checking the room, but it bore out their initial perceptions; the place was empty.  There were some signs that creatures had come through here, but nothing clear enough for them to read clearly.  

“So where do we go now?” Benzan asked.  “Do you want to call upon that magic dog of Alera’s?”

“Alera gave you Valor?” Pel asked, surprised.  

“She loaned him to me,” Cal clarified.  “And I doubt I could summon him in this magic-dead area anyway.  I’m not sure if he would remain with us, if I summoned him outside and brought him through here; I’d rather not risk it if we can avoid it.”

“Fenrus can track by scent,” Pel said.  “I’ll be right back.”  He took the wolf and retreated to the corridor by which they’d entered.

“Where’s he going?” Benzan asked.  

“I’d guess that he’s leaving the antimagic area, so that he can _speak with animals_.”

“I have to admit, I haven’t known many druids,” Benzan said.  “Never could quite grasp that whole ‘nature’ thing.”

“Don’t let Dana hear you say that,” Cal said.  He regretted the comment a moment later, as Benzan’s reaction was clearly written on his face.  Benzan saw that Cal saw it, and he shrugged his shoulders. 

“What can I say?  I miss her.”

“We’ll see her again—after this is over, I’ll help you track her down.”

“Thanks.”

They turned as Pelanther reentered the room.  Fenrus moved with a purpose, checking each of the exits in turn before coming to face the one Benzan had investigated earlier. 

The one leading into the Hall of Mirrors.

“Of course,” Benzan said grumpily.


----------



## Broccli_Head

Wow! This brings back lots of memories. Can't wait until they get to the Shattered Statue or the Mud Pit...if it's still there after all these years. 

I love Undermountain. It's the place that players in my campaign want to keep going back to again and again even after they've had epic battles in the wilderness. 


thanks LB.

B.H.


----------



## Maldur

It my first trip into the undermountain. But we have a excelent guide


----------



## Lazybones

Broc: I'm not going to spend _too_ much time on the keyed areas, if only because dungeon crawls take forever to write up (sometimes a whole update only takes us through one room!).  But we will see some familiar sites over the next few posts (with some of the contents changed, of course), before the travels of the companions take them into the unkeyed regions on the edges of the megamap. 

Undermountain is pretty massive, though; you could easily spend an entire adventuring career (1st-20th level) on just the first level if the DM completely filled in the map with content.   

I have the "package" for Horacio ready to send, but I have 3 posts to get through first.  So I'll probably post two today, and one tomorrow morning, and then it's over to him as I jet away for two weeks in Hawaii!


* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 15


“Your cousin seems to have had an instinct for Big Trouble,” Benzan said, as they gathered at the entrance to the long hallway.

“It runs in our family,” Pel commented.  Cal looked at him, but the druid’s attention was fixed straight ahead, on the long tunnel that stretched out into darkness.

“All right,” Cal said.  “Keep your gaze fixed straight ahead, and don’t look to either side.  Pel, can you handle Fenrus?” 

“Aye,” the druid said.  He undid his cloak, and draped it over the wolf’s face, shielding his eyes.  Fenrus growled, but Pel patted his fur, whispering something reassuring, and the wolf gave in.  

“Should I do the same for you?” Cal said to Benzan. 

“Not necessary.  I’ve had enough Big Trouble for a lifetime, thank you very much.”

They moved out, cautiously, into the long hallway.  They’d only gone a few steps when their light sources flared back into being.  At least they were through the antimagic area.  The light blazed off the mirrors set into alcoves along the length of the long passageway, but the companions did not waver from their course.

“Why doesn’t someone just break them?” Benzan asked.  

“Some have tried,” Cal said.  “Broken things have a way of finding themselves fixed, in Undermountain.”

And then they were through, the alcoves with their mirrors falling away behind them, the corridor continuing to a fork just ahead.  Pel uncovered Fenrus’s face, and the wolf led them down the left passage.  

They walked down the corridor, their sound of their footfalls muted on the massive flagstones that made up the floor.  The passages around them seemed to go on forever, and it was easy to feel a sense of smallness here, surrounded by the huge expanse of Halaster’s creation.

“Just how big is this place, anyway?” Benzan asked. 

“Let’s just say that the entire population of Waterdeep could fit down here, and not feel crowded,” Cal replied. 

Benzan let out a low whistle.  

They passed a small side chamber that concealed nothing, to they pressed on to another fork in the passage, with a side corridor branching off to their left.  Fenrus sniffed at both passages, and hesitated a moment before leading them to the side.  

“I hope he knows where he’s going,” Benzan said, clutching his bow tightly, one of Alera’s _ice arrows_ nocked but not drawn.  

The corridor bent around to the left a bit and continued for another thirty feet or so before ending in a pair of stone doors.  As they approached, and the light fell over the portals, they could see that one of the doors was ajar, braced open by a small slab of uneven stone lying on the floor.

“What’s that smell?” Cal said, sniffing the air.

“I don’t smell anything,” Benzan said.  But he trusted his friend’s sensitive nose, and drew his arrow back enough to put tension on the string.

Fenrus growled, a low, angry sound. 

A chittering noise because audible from beyond the open door, a scrabble of movement that persisted for a few seconds and then faded.

“Don’t like this,” Benzan whispered, just loud enough for the others to hear. 

Pelanther cast a spell, and his skin darkened and took on a coarse texture, roughening until it obtained the consistency of tough bark.  Cal held his own magic at the ready, but did not release its power.  He held the wand of acid bolts, though, trained at the narrow gap in the doorway.

“All right, let’s go—carefully,” he said to his fellows.

Slowly they approached the doors, almost silent in their movements.  Soon even Benzan could smell what Cal had detected, a musty odor reminiscent of a wet forest.  

They were ten feet away from the door when the chittering sound started up again.

A squirming, twisting form darted through the opening, crawling over the stone block into the corridor.  It was a centipede, nearly as long as Fenrus, its dun-colored body emblazoned with several colorful streaks in blue and orange that gave it an almost festive appearance, for a carnivorous vermin.  

Its antennae twitched, and it darted rapidly toward them. 

Benzan’s arrow transfixed it, driving through whatever passed for a brain in such a creature, and a moment later Fenrus was on it, tearing it to pieces in an eyeblink.  

“Well now, that wasn’t so terrible,” Pelanther commented. 

The chittering sound from beyond the door started up again.  If the earlier noise had been a whisper, this was a loud bustle, building in intensity.  

“Oh, crap...” Benzan said.  His words were immediately followed by an explosion of twisting, color-streaked bodies that seethed in a mass out of the crack, piling over each other in a squirming heap that poured into the corridor like water coursing from an overturned pitcher.


----------



## Maldur

Benzan is becoming a source for oneliners 


Have a nice vacation, LB!


----------



## Horacio

Wonderful as usual!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VI, Part 16


The companions drew back in horror as a crawling horde of monstrous centipedes filled the room, swarming toward them.  

Pelanther and Benzan reacted in the same instant, their swift reflexes honed by experience.  Benzan fired another arrow and then smoothly switched weapons, sliding his bow into the straps across his backpack even as he drew his bronze-bladed longsword with his other hand.  There was no time to unlimber his shield; the creatures were upon them.  

But Pelanther had used that moment of delay wisely as well.  Calling upon the powers of the natural world that were part of his druidic training, he summoned a ball of blazing fire that rolled down the corridor toward the door.  It could not stop the rush, as the corridor was too wide and the centipedes were swarming even up along the walls, but at least a dozen of the creatures were roasted as the ball traveled its flaming course.  The druid’s ultimate goal became clear as the ball rolled into the opening of the door, lodging in the crack to block the portal, burning a few more latecoming vermin as it did so.  The barrier wasn’t complete, as a few centipedes continued to crawl out above the flaming sphere, one even creeping along the ceiling, but it greatly slowed the rush.  

Two centipedes rushed at Cal, their fanged jaws dripping fat gobs of poison as they snapped eagerly at the air.  Fenrus leapt forward to block their path, the wolf’s bulk dominating the width of the corridor.  He caught the first centipede in his massive jaws and crushed the life out of it in a single bite, tossing the fragments of the insect aside as it lunged at the second.  That creature, too, soon died, although it managed to bite the wolf on the shoulder before it was torn apart.  

Then the centipedes were upon them en masse, crawling and biting.  Cal took advantage of Fenrus’s delay to summon a _shield_, and another pair of attackers were deflected from their attacks by the magical barrier.  Benzan was swarmed upon by a half-dozen of the vermin, attacking from the floor or the adjacent wall.  One of the creatures, almost large enough to trail all the way back to the door, lifted itself up and shot forward like a knife, its jaws snapping on his mailed chest.  The mithral links held, although the mass of the creature and the force of its assault drove the tiefling back a step.  Grimacing he slashed at the creature with his sword, drawing a bright line across its torso but failing to stop its attack.

On the other flank, Pelanther was largely shielded by Fenrus, who continued to unleash a fury of bites upon the centipede horde.  The druid turned to the aid of his companion, casting a second _barkskin_ spell that toughed the wolf’s already thick hide.  The help was timely, as a good dozen centipedes were crawling all over the wolf’s front half, trying to sink their fangs into any convenient spot.  The wolf’s natural agility, combined with Pel’s protection, helped it avoid most of the attacks, but even so it took a pair of nasty bites on its neck and torso.  

Seeing the pain suffered by his friend, Pel grimly unlimbered his scimitar and rushed into battle. 

Cal fired a blast from his wand of _acid arrows_ at his two attackers, disintegrating one’s head with a well-placed impact.  He had more powerful spells at his disposal, but he was reluctant to use them so quickly, knowing that even beyond this challenge, more deadly encounters might lay ahead of them.  They were operating under a strict timeline here, and did not have the luxury of retreating to the surface to rest and regain spells at their leisure.  All this went through his head even as he adjusted the _shield_ to deflect another attack, and he slew the second centipede with another _acid arrow_.  The upper half of the first had already almost entirely dissolved, leaving only a greasy slick on the stone floor and a twitching lower body.  

Benzan let out a violent warcry as he slashed at the centipedes all around him with abandon.  He had slain the larger specimen with a second stroke that finished the job of the first, but at least a half-dozen more of the smaller ones were pressing the attack from all sides.  He felt a sharp prick on his leg and looked down to see a centipede wrapped around the limb, twisting upward toward a part of his anatomy that he most definitely did not want to see bitten by a poisonous worm.  

“Get off me, get off!” he yelled, jerking back and stabbing his sword down into the creature.  The stroke was true, killing the centipede instantly, but then another darted down off the wall, trying to play the same game with his off-arm.  This time he saw it coming, and the centipede was sliced smoothly in two by a single stroke of his magical blade.  

“How about another one of those _flaming spheres,_ eh Pel?” the tiefling cried, as he dodged another trio of centipedes trying to do some damage to his legs.  

The whole corridor seemed to be one squirming mass of bodies, but in fact the companions were having an impact, and the presence of the first _flaming sphere_ in the doorway had prevented more than a handful of the vermin from joining the melee after the initial rush.  And a good number of the undulating forms in the corridor were centipedes slain by the companions but not quite yet aware of that fact, twisting out the last moments of their lives in a few final spasms.  

Pel had advanced to Fenrus’s side, and the two continued to lay into the writhing mass, Pel’s scimitar slashing bodies into pieces while the massive wolf continued to tear them apart with crushing bites from his huge jaws.  Fenrus’s movements were growing noticeably stiffer, as the centipedes’ venom coursed through his bloodstream, but the strength of the wolf had not been diminished by his hurts.  

Cal drew his sword, the dwarf-forged blade that glowed with a pale blue light, and came to Benzan’s aid.  He sang a song of glorious battle against huge odds, his clear voice sounding loudly in the confined space of the corridor.  The song lifted their spirits as the companions continued their attacks against the remaining centipedes, slicing into any multi-legged form that sought to approach them.  

And then, less than a minute after the initial rush, the battle was over.  There was still a lot of movement on the floor before them, but the surviving centipedes seemed more intent on consuming the dismembered pieces of their fellows than attacking the standing prey that was backing away from them.  The companions retreated back to the last intersection, watching carefully for any signs of insectoid pursuit.  

“Damn, that hurts,” Benzan said, moving with a slight limp as he tried to walk off the lingering effects of the poison from the centipede that had bitten him in the leg.  He felt stiff, his limbs reluctant to obey his commands, and while the wound was not life-threatening, a decline in his combat ability might be, in the next encounter.  Cal used his wand of healing to close the puncture wound in Benzan’s leg, but it could not eliminate the toxins left behind in his system.  

“Hey, Pel, any chance you can do something about poison?” he asked the druid.

The gnome looked up from where he was tending to Fenrus, the great wolf standing there inscrutably in the center of the corridor, like a somber statue.  “Aye,” he said.  “But Fenrus here’s hurt more than you, and he needs it more right now.”

Benzan opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.  And indeed, the wolf had taken more of a beating than any of them, with slicks of blood running down its coat in the numerous places where the centipedes had bitten him.  

Pel worked his magic, casting a spell to heal the wolf’s wounds, and then another to reduce the effects of the poison already in his system.  Through the castings the wolf just stood there, and when the spells were finished, the wolf, clearly more at ease, bent its head and lightly butted the gnome.  

“Well, now what?  I hate to say it, Cal, but if your cousin went that way, then our quest might end up being a pretty short one.  Those things were vicious, and I don’t expect they’d leave much behind once they were done with someone.”

For a moment, Cal looked uncertain.  Then, he reached for his pouch.  

“I’ll call upon Valor,” he said, taking the onyx figurine out and holding it in his hand.  

“Valor, Valor,” Cal said, speaking to his great-aunt’s magical figurine of power.  

At his call, he felt the stone dog grow slightly warm, and then a cloud of iridescent vapor began to form on the stone floor a few feet away.  The mists coalesced into the outline of a powerful war dog, somewhat larger than either gnome, and then the image took substance, and Valor was standing there, watching him. 

“Hello, Valor.  I am Balander, Alera’s great-nephew.  She lent you to me...”

“...to find Nelan,” the dog interrupted, speaking in a deep but clearly understandable voice.  “Alera already spoke to me, a little.  So we are in Undermountain then, I assume?”

Cal looked over at his companions with surprise, but Benzan just shrugged.

“So it’s a Talking dog,” he said, with an expression of exaggerated nonchalance.


----------



## Broccli_Head

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *
> The gnome looked up from where he was tending to Fenrus, the great wolf standing there inscrutably in the center of the corridor, like a somber statue.  “Aye,” he said.  “But Fenrus here’s hurt more than you, and he needs it more right now.”
> 
> 
> “...to find Nelan,” the dog interrupted, speaking in a deep but clearly understandable voice.  “Alera already spoke to me, a little.  So we are in Undermountain then, I assume?”
> 
> Cal looked over at his companions with surprise, but Benzan just shrugged.
> 
> “So it’s a Talking dog,” he said, with an expression of exaggerated nonchalance. *




I am really starting to like Pel. It's great to see a druid really care for his animal companion!

I like Valor also. Looks like he could be a great character. Onyx dogs are so underrated....


----------



## Horacio

Yeah, onix dogs are cool 
And the update was superb 

AN TODAY I'M GOING TO RECEIVE THE REMAINING OF THE BOOK!!!


----------



## Lazybones

Greetings, readers.  This will be my final visit to the boards for a while, as I am getting married tomorrow and then jetting off to Hawaii for two weeks of fun in the sun on my honeymoon.  I wanted to leave you with a Friday cliffhanger (of course), and am about to send Horacio 11 updates so that you can continue to read _Travels through the Wild West_ in my absence.  Thanks for your support of this thread (and the three that came before it), and have a great October.  

Lazybones


* * * * * 



Book VI, Part 17


With their new companion leading the way, the adventurers headed away from the intersection leading to what Benzan had christened the “bug room.”  Valor’s talents extended beyond the ability to speak, and his incredibly sensitive nose, even more acute than Fenrus’s, had immediately discerned that Nelan and his party had come this way, and at some point had come or gone in both directions.  Other creatures had since used the passage, the dog explained, muddling the trail, but there was still enough of a spoor for him to follow.  

The passage continued south for only about twenty feet more before another side corridor split off to the left.  Valor checked both passages quickly and then led them to the side, where the passage progressed a short distance before ending in another stone door. 

“Careful,” Benzan said.  “This looks like it could lead back to where those centipedes were.”

Pelanther came forward and listened at the heavy stone portal.  “I don’t hear anything,” he said, “but the door just might be too thick.”

“Only one way to find out,” Benzan said.  He pushed the door open, slowly, checking the darkness beyond before opening it more fully. 

Beyond the door lay an open space that appeared to give access to a number of other areas.  The light from Pel’s ring showed that straight ahead, a larger chamber opened up off of this room, while to the right they could see two passages leading off into darkness. 

The familiar musty smell was evident in the air here, and they could just make out a faint chittering noise coming from the chamber ahead.  

“Uh oh,” Benzan said softly.

Valor pressed forward, his nose to the ground.  “He came this way,” the magical dog said, moving into one of the passages to the right.  

“All right, just keep your eyes open,” Cal cautioned them, moving to join the dog.  At least the southern passages were quiet, and the noises to the north remained distant for now.  

“Look,” Benzan said, drawing their attention to something.  Pel shone his light upon a space of the walls and floor that was blackened with a very thin layer of soot, charred as though someone had applied a very hot flame to the surface.  “Was Nelan a magic-user?”

“Not as far as I know,” Cal said.  “His talents lay more toward the roguish career path.  Perhaps one of his companions.  Or maybe they had some alchemist’s fire.”

“Well, at least we know that the lad survived the bugs,” Pel commented.

“Unless he came this way first, and was killed by them on the way back to the entrance,” Benzan noted.

“Yer a real burst of sunshine, you know that?”

“Sorry.”

They followed the dog down the corridor, which turned sharply to the right before continuing in the same direction it had been heading before.  At the point where the corridor turned, another stone door was set in the south wall, directly in front of them as they came around the turn.  

They gathered near the door, Valor sniffing at it while Pel pressed up against the stone to listen.  Benzan, meanwhile, took a few steps down the passage, looking down into the darkness beyond the radius of their light sources.

“Did he come this way?” 

“Can’t tell.”

“Hear anything?”

“If you’d quit yer yapping, perhaps I could...”

“Um... guys?  I see something here...”

The others turned as Benzan drew their attention down the corridor.  They left the door behind for now, following him as he crept warily forward.  As the light spilled out into the passageway they could see that it ended in a blank wall about twenty feet beyond the door. 

Or not entirely blank, they saw, noticing what had drawn Benzan’s attention; there were runes of some sort carved into the stone, the indentations in the stone highlighted slightly in the light of Pel’s ring.

Wary for any traps, Benzan led them up to the wall, close enough to make out the runes.  The writing was an archaic form of Thorass.  Most of the words seemed to be meaningless, but the last line was clear enough for him to discern the meaning.

_If you’re reading this, of course, it’s already too late..._

“Back!” Benzan yelled, spreading his arms as if to drive his companions back up the corridor by brute strength.  

It was, of course, too late. 

The air shimmered and coalesced around them, thickening until it felt as though they were trying to force their way through water.  

Then all of them, including the wolf and the magical dog, disappeared.


----------



## Maldur

Damn, back in cliffhanger country 

And Horacio is at the controls now, so I wont be able to read any further until after my vacation.

horacio please tell us everything is allright?


----------



## Broccli_Head

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *
> 
> If you’re reading this, of course, it’s already too late...
> 
> “Back!” Benzan yelled, spreading his arms as if to drive his companions back up the corridor by brute strength.
> 
> It was, of course, too late.
> 
> The air shimmered and coalesced around them, thickening until it felt as though they were trying to force their way through water.
> 
> Then all of them, including the wolf and the magical dog, disappeared. *




I remember that too! Mwhahahahahaha...

You should've separated the party! Or maybe they will all be alone in Undermoutain, without clothes....


----------



## Krellic

Good luck and best wishes on your big day Lazybones, may it be memorable and may your honeymoon be even more so.
 

I'm sure we're in good hands with Horacio whilst you're gone, if he can resist the temptation to just sit down and read it all....


----------



## Horacio

I'm trying to be fair and not reading anything before posting. 

And I haven't checked my e-mail yet, so I cannot tell any spoiler...


----------



## Maldur

So can you tell me if you are gonna post before sunday afternoon?

After that Im gone for three weeks


----------



## Horacio

A new update from Lazybones's pen (well, keyboard), brought to you all by your favorite Story Hour addict 

Book VI, Part 18


The smell was potent, a stinging mixture of brine and mold that hit them with a force like a punch.  There was darkness, and splashing sounds, and a muffled curse.  Their light sources had been muted again, but as their eyes adjusted to the sudden dark they became aware of a dim violet glow that filled the place.  They were all standing in black, murky water, a little more than a foot deep.

Well, all except Benzan; through the power of his ring of _water walking_, he was standing atop the water that soaked the gnomes up to their hips.  The room was shaped like a long hall, some sixty feet in length and twenty across, with vaulted buttresses supporting the ceiling above them.  Lichens and mold clung to the walls nearly up to those stone supports, and they glistened eerily with reflected purple light.  

“What the heck is _that_?”

Benzan’s words drew their attention around behind them, to a massive stone statue that rose up on a cracked stone pedestal in a deep alcove looking out over the room’s flooded gallery.  The statue seemed to be the source of the violet glow, surrounded by a faint nimbus that outlined it against the darkness.  The statue bore the signs of age and wear, but was still distinguishable as some sort of reptilian form, humanoid and ferocious even with the details of its features worn away by time.  

“Ugly,” Pel commented, splashing through the murky water toward the statue.

They were interrupted by a noise behind them, toward the far corner of the chamber.  A thick ‘plop’ sounded from that direction, and as they turned, Pel’s light revealed a disturbance in the water, waves rippling angrily out from that side of the room.  

“Um, guys...” Benzan said, reaching down to grasp the hilt of his sword.  

“There’s an exit over there!” Cal said, pointing to the other end of the hall, where a side passage did indeed seem to offer a way out of the chamber.  

“Something’s moving in the water!” Benzan warned, drawing his sword and moving backwards while the others hurried toward the exit.  The water clung to the gnomes, however, slowing their progress.  Then Pelanther stumbled on something unseen under the surface of the water, and fell in a loud splash.  

Cal was there immediately, helping his cousin up, while Valor stood over him protectively to one side, and Fenrus to the other.  The water only came up to the wolf’s ankles, and the dim light made him seem like a black shadow, otherworldly.  

Benzan held his ground as the amorphous form moving toward them drew nearer, its course clear now as it drove the water out before it in a wave.  A second wave followed the first, and he only belatedly realized what it was as it slammed into him—not breaking around his ankles like the first, but hitting him with a solid impact that drove him back and nearly knocked him off his feet.  He felt pain as something sizzled against his flesh, through his boots.

The dark form lunged forward again, nearly all of it submerged within the brackish water.  As it broached the surface, Benzan realized with horror that the thing’s form was merely a vague shape, an amoebic blob that packed a powerful punch with an acidic boost.  

“It’s some sort of ooze/jelly/slime thing!” he shouted to the others.  “Um... let’s get out of here!”

The thing formed into another broad wave and came at him again, but this time he was ready for it.  He met the blob’s approach with a mighty swing of his sword.  The weapon clove into it, tearing a great line in its form that ripped through its entire body, like someone tearing a piece of paper into two equal halves.  

At that point, one would have expected the thing to die, if it were any ordinary foe.  To Benzan’s surprise, however, the two halves of the creature each came at him, forming fat pseudopods that pounded into him.  He staggered back from the twin impacts, feeling the sizzling pain as the thing’s acidic secretions began dissolving his flesh underneath his armor.  

For a moment, he was at a loss.  “Weapons don’t hurt it!” he cried out to the others. 

“Fall back!” Cal commanded.  He pointed his wand at one of the blobs threatening Benzan, but the acid arrow fell short, splashing into the water harmlessly.  The black water gave the blobs excellent cover, he realized.  “To the corridor!”

The gnomes and their two canines retreated as quickly as they could toward the corridor.  Benzan was far more mobile, given the power of his ring, and he leapt over the nearest blob, avoiding another pulsing attack.  He could have overtaken the gnomes easily, but instead moved toward the statue, trying to draw the slower-moving blobs after him.  He was only partially successful, as he saw two currents moving through the thick water, one toward his friends, the other toward him and the statue.  

“Watch out, incoming!” he yelled after his friends, to give them warning.  But the delay he’d given them was enough; they had already reached the mouth of the corridor, where a slanting ramp led back up to dry stone.  

Benzan, meanwhile, strode effortlessly across the surface of the water, trying to ignore the persistent pain in his legs, all too aware of the rippling wave following after him though the water.  Hoping that the statue wasn’t some sort of bizarre trap, he sheathed his sword and leapt smoothly upon it, pulling himself up onto its broad stone back.  

“Come and get me, mister blob!” he yelled toward the water. 

Meanwhile, the gnomes, having gained the security of higher ground, turned to face the second creature as it emerged from the water and flowed in an amorphous mass toward them.  Fenrus started to move toward it, but Pel, recognizing that the wolf’s attacks would only have the same result as Benzan’s sword, held his companion back.  The druid reached into his pouch, luckily a magical device sealed against water damage, and drew out a scroll.  

Cal, meanwhile, fired another _acid arrow_ into the body of the creature.  The missile blasted into it, the magical acid eating away a big hole in its body.

Benzan, meanwhile, clambered up atop his awkward perch, while the jelly, responding perhaps to his earlier challenge, emerged from the water and flowed up the legs of the statue almost eagerly toward him.  Benzan waited, but as he grabbed onto the head of the statue for balance, it suddenly twisted in his grasp, nearly causing him to lose his balance.

“What the—”

He turned the head and it came off in his hand, revealing a small cavity inside the statue blackened with soot.  In the dim purple glow of the statue he caught sight of a small, faintly glimmering object—a metal ring, set in a slight depression in the secret compartment.  Almost instinctively, he grabbed it and pocketed it.  

As he did so, he heard a slight click.  

“Uh oh...”

The distraction had given the ooze almost enough time to reach him, the amoebic form now wrapped around the torso of the statue.  An acidic pseudopod lashed out at him, but he leapt up into the air away from the statue.  He would have nose-dived into the brackish water, but as he started to fall his hand clutched the hilt of his sword, and he called upon its innate power.  Instead of falling, he lifted upward, levitating until he reached the moisture-slick ceiling.  

Safe from the blob, for the moment.  But as he looked down at the room he saw three skeletons, clad in rusted breastplates and bearing swords, rise up out of the water.  As one, they looked up at him. 

“Um... hey, guys,” Benzan said, twenty feet above them—safely out of reach.

Or at least that was what he thought, until the three skeletons reached up toward him, and a barrage of magical bolts exploded from their fingertips, flying up into the air and blasting into him.


----------



## Reg Dword

Ok Horacio, when's the next update?


----------



## Horacio

Reg Dword said:
			
		

> *Ok Horacio, when's the next update? *




Tomorrow 10:00 a.m. GMT+1


----------



## Horacio

As promised, next update directly from Lazybones mightly keyboard...

Book VI, Part 19


The two gnomes unleashed their magic as the ochre jelly continued to ooze toward them, Cal using Alera’s wand to shoot another acid arrow at it while Pelanther read a spell from a scroll.  Fortunately his ring had blazed once again into life, giving him enough light to read by; while this wasn’t apparently an antimagic area like the Hall of Pillars, the teleport had seemingly interfered with the magic enchantments of their light sources. 

In any case, as he completed his reading of the scroll his hand, already ringed by the illusory flames coming from his ring, erupted with a ball of real, hot flames cupped in the pool of his open palm.  Without hesitation the druid hurled the flames at the ooze.  The little ball splashed hot fire over the surface of the ooze, burning its amoebic form, adding to the damage already unleashed by Cal’s acid arrows.  The ooze, a mindless creature fixed only on absorbing organic matter, did not hesitate or retreat, and kept moving toward them.  Another ball of flame appeared in Pel’s hand, and he hurled this second missile as he had the first.  The ooze quivered and came yet closer, almost within striking distance of the two gnomes, but then it shuddered and collapsed into a greasy slick of stinking goo.  

“Nice work,” Cal said.  His cousin looked over at him, and was about to say something, but was interrupted by Benzan’s cry of pain from back in the wet chamber.  

“I suppose we’d better give him a hand,” Pel said, and the two gnomes rushed back down the sloping corridor toward the room.  

Benzan, meanwhile, barely clung to consciousness, still pressed up against the vaulted ceiling of the room through the power of his sword.  Pain flared all across his body where the magical missiles launched by the skeleton warriors had struck him, and he knew there was no way that he could survive another barrage.  At the moment, however, there didn’t seem to be many good options left to him; if he levitated back down to the floor, he had no doubt that the skeletons would chop him into pieces with their swords.

Then he remembered something Cal had told him about the _shield_ spell, one of the few enchantments that he had been able to master.  Careful not to botch the complex gestures required by the spell, he called upon the arcane power, and the magical barrier sprung into existence below him.  Protected—he hoped—from further missile attacks, he dug into his pouch for one of the magical healing potions that Alera had given them.  

A globe of fire flew from the mouth of the side corridor, striking one of the skeletons in the chest.  The fire didn’t do much damage to the skeleton, slick as it was with water and muck, but it did certainly get its attention.  All three of the creatures turned toward the corridor, where the two gnomes stood waiting.  

Cal had unrolled one of Alera’s scrolls, and he read the words of power with a stentorian voice that filled the hall with its echoes.  As the runes scribed upon the vellum flared and vanished, the three skeletal warriors, already moving toward the companions, suddenly froze, held immobile by the power of the spell.  

“Benzan, come on!” Cal shouted up to his friend, who was already crawling along the ceiling surface toward their position.  

Fenrus, meanwhile, took advantage of Cal’s spell as he splashed through the water and slammed into the first skeleton with an incredible impact.  The wolf’s attack broke the power holding it in place, but the creature barely had a chance to lift its sword before Fenrus ripped it apart.  The wolf turned to the second skeleton, standing immobile just a few feet away.  

“The spell won’t hold them for long!” Cal said.

“It won’t have to!” Pelanther laughed, as Fenrus demolished the second skeleton warrior with equal vigor.  As the wolf turned to the last of the undead, however, it let out a yelp of pain and jumped backward in a loud splash.  

They’d forgotten the second ooze, which had returned to the water to attack.  

“Come, Fenrus!” Pel cried, as Benzan rejoined them, levitating back down to the ground near the corridor entrance.  He still looked battered, but the healing potion had helped him greatly.  

“Let’s get out of here,” the tiefling said, as the wolf joined them.

The two gnomes readily agreed, and the companions beat a hasty retreat down the passageway, bearing new wounds with them.


----------



## Corwyn

Seeing as Horacio is now updating and thus unable to bump this story, I feel called upon to temporally fill out that role.

Undermountain rules


----------



## Horacio

Let post another update 

Book VI, Part 20

Dana materialized within the House of the Moon in the farming community of Greenfields, located just a few days’ travel from the sprawling metropolis of Waterdeep.  Her sudden appearance in the center of the temple’s nave startled a nearby priest.  He was an elf, old enough to show his years—and that meant he was truly old—clad in a robe of soft blue cloth that flowed around his lean, still muscular body.  As the glow of Dana’s _teleport_ spell faded, he recognized her, and his face broke into a wide smile. 

“Dana!  It brings joy to my heart to see you return.”

“Seral,” Dana said, with a short bow of respect.  “I am sorry to have startled you.”

“It was worth it, to see you once again,” the elf said, walking to her and sharing a warm embrace.  When the two broke apart, he fixed her with his amber eyes, eyes that shone with deep knowledge and understanding.

“The last months have not treated you well, sister, I can see it in your face.”  He did not comment on the fresh bloodstains and tears in her clothes, but it was clear that he saw those, and every other subtle detail, as well.  

Dana laughed, a nervous laugh of released tension.  “You are the only man I know, Seral, who would say such a thing to a woman’s face.  Well, perhaps one other,” she added, and her face grew pained momentarily.  

“You must come, and tell me all about it.”

“I see you were in the midst of your devotional... I don’t wish to interrupt.”

“Never mind.  We can talk, and enjoy hot tea, and then conduct the devotional together.”

“I would like that.”

The two of them left the nave into the main body of the temple.  The House of the Moon was a large structure, one of the largest in the community, but it was simple in design.  The main area of worship was a single large room, its stone walls stretching some twenty feet in height, but supporting no roof—the House of the Moon was open to the sky.  First-time visitors usually commented on that, suggesting that perhaps the choice of an open-air temple wasn’t the best for the storm-wracked Sword Coast, but those who knew the place knew that no rain ever fell within the House of the Moon, regardless of how drenched the land around it became.  

Seral led her to a small side room adjoining the temple, a simple wooden chamber laid out in a manner that seemed spartan quarters for one of the more powerful clerics of the northern Sword Coast.  To Dana, though, the simplicity of the quarters, and the warmth of the many little touches that she recognized, were reflections of the character of the man who poured her a cup of hot tea into a small ceramic mug, adding a small dollop of honey before handing it to her.

“You remembered.”

“A woman who likes sweets?  Yes, truly an odd predilection, my dear.”  It sounded like something _he_ would say, but Sarel’s smile was warm and open, his tone only slightly wry, not mocking.  

“Have you had a chance to get back down to Irieabor, lately?” she asked him.

“No, I haven’t been to the monastery in years, now,” the elf said.  “Too long, I know, but of late I’ve been feeling my years.”

“You still look exactly the same as when you were my teacher at the monastery.  Of course, what are ten years to an elf?”

“Depends on which ten years you are talking about,” he replied, with a hint of a smile.  

They sipped their tea in silence for a long moment.  

“I cannot stay long,” she finally told him.  “I’d like to use your scrying pool, if I may, once I’ve had a chance to pray to the Mother.”

“You know it is yours to use, Dana.  Though I’d hoped that perhaps it was more than that which brought you here.”

“Yes, of course,” she said.  “I could use your friendship, and counsel.  A... a lot has changed, and while I know what I’m going to do now, I could still use a patient ear.”

The old elf smiled.  “Tell me, then,” he said, leaning back in his chair.  

And she did. 

* * * * * 

The busy _scritch, scritch_ of a stylus as it made its marks upon a thin clay tablet filled the confined space of the small office.  

Lok paused and glanced over his work.  The upper half of the tablet was filled with compact dwarven runes in neat rows.  The genasi was no scribe, but the runes were clear.  Lok actually preferred to write in the Thorass script, in Chondanthan or another of the human languages that used it, but this record was for his people, not for himself, and most of the urdunnir had never been exposed to the languages and cultures of the world above.  

A small pile of completed tablets lay to one side of the desk already.  His current project was an inventory of all of the resources available to the urdunnir community; an important tool, both for current planning and for future development.  In a way, these records were for the leaders that would come after him, a message from the present to the future.  

A dwarf entered, standing quietly without interrupting him.  Without betraying any impatience or annoyance, Lok put down the stylus, and greeted the newcomer. 

“I have the figures that you wanted collected,” the dwarf said.  He was old, his beard white and growing sparse, but there was a fire to him, a strength deep within.  Few of the dwarves of his age that had survived the duergar captivity lacked it, for their brutality had culled those who were weak from their numbers.  Many of the strong, too, Lok mused, thinking to the role of names that he’d had compiled earlier, a record of those lost for future generations to remember.  Some day, when the basics of continuing survival had been attended to, they would construct a memorial to those fallen, a reminder of the darker days.  

“Thank you,” Lok said, indicating that the older dwarf should leave them on the edge of the desk.  The dwarf did so, but as he started to turn to leave he hesitated.  

“So, when are you thinking of leaving?”

Lok looked up again.  “Excuse me?”

“Several of us old-timers have been talking about it.  You’re a difficult man to get to know, Lok, but even so we’ve been able to see it.  You’re not happy here, haven’t made this community your home.  Please don’t mistake me; every dwarf in this clan is eternally in your debt for what you and your friends did for us.  To be honest, we had fallen so far that few of us even could grasp what hope was, and you literally carried us back up into life again.  You have been touched by the Keeper of Secrets, you’re... _different_ from us all in a way that none of us fully understands.”

“You are my people,” Lok said.  “My responsibilities are here.”

“Indeed, and you’ve fulfilled them.  And if you chose to stay, you will always have a home among us.  In any case, I’d better get back—I am sorry to have interrupted your work.”

The dwarf left, leaving Lok alone with a thoughtful look on his face.

Then the stylus returned to work, continuing its inexorable march across the tablet


----------



## wolff96

You know, Lazybones won't be able to read this for a few weeks... He has more, uh, _important_ issues to attend to... but I just have to praise this story again.

It's amazing the depth that each character has, along with the quirks that seperate them from each other. Truly spectacular.


----------



## Corwyn

*Bumpertie bump*


----------



## Horacio

And another update!

Book VI, Part 21


“That was a useful spell you used, back there,” Pelather said.  “I did not know that you dabbled in necromancy.”

“It was Alera’s spell, part of a cache that she gave me on our departure,” Cal explained.  “As I understand it, she doesn’t specialize in anything, but ‘dabbles’ in a little of everything.”

“Yes, there’s little that that old woman doesn’t know,” Pel acknowledged.  “What else do you have in that cache of hers?”

“A _polymorph, shades, stone to flesh_... and a few other assorted lesser spells.”

“Potent magics indeed.  Good to know you have them at your call.”   

The hostility between the two gnomes seemed to have simmered over some, now that they’d been twice blooded and fully confronted with the difficulty of their mission.  

Valor led them onward, with Fenrus a step behind, and Benzan now bringing up the rear, checking back frequently to see if the ooze or the skeleton was following.  The corridor they’d taken from the flooded room led them through a complex of side passages and chambers, but Valor had been able to pick up the scent from Nelan and his companions and led them unerringly along the trail each time they were confronted with a choice.  They spotted a few interesting things in the passages and areas that they passed, but instead of stopping to investigate they pressed on, focused on their objective.  

At one point, as they were making their way down a long, empty passage, a loud clatter sounded behind them.  They spun just in time to see a heavy stone wall slam down from the ceiling just a few feet behind Benzan, sealing the passage behind them.  

“This damned place is giving me the creeps,” Benzan said.  “This Halaster guy who built this place, he’s long dead, right?”

“No one knows for sure,” Cal said.  “He lived a long, long time, even for a wizard.  I’d heard stories from people who said they saw him in Waterdeep, the above-ground part, as recently as ten years ago, but no one’s been able to confirm or deny such reports.  He’s like that entertainer... what was that guy’s name... oh yeah, that famous bard, Sivle.  People were insisting that they saw him all over Faerûn, for decades after he died.”

“Maybe somebody who liked his work had him _raised_,” Benzan noted.  

“Perhaps.  Sometimes, people are better left where fate chooses them to be, though.”  

“Well, at least we don’t have to worry about that skeleton, or that ooze thing,” Pel noted with practicality, and without further debate they continued on their course.  

With Valor’s guidance, they made swift progress, although it became increasingly clear just how huge this complex was.  Their trip through the teleporter meant that they had no idea where they were, how deep in the dungeon they were, or how to get back to the entrance.  But the three adventurers were too seasoned to give into thoughts of despair or uncertainty, instead focusing on the route ahead of them, and the direction given by the magical hound following his invisible trail.  

Except when they came to yet another intersection, and instead of moving immediately into one of the two passages confronting them, the dog just stopped.

“The trail ends here,” the dog told them.  “I do not know which way to go.”

Benzan took a look around, but there was nothing to see but bare stone.  “I don’t see any signs of a struggle, but if it’s been a few days...”

“Well, we’ll just have to pick one,” Cal suggested.  “We’ll keep picking the same direction, though, whenever we come to a choice, so that we can find our way back—unless we find another clue that leads us elsewhere.”

“Find our way back?  Back to where?” Benzan noted.  “We’re already lost.”  But he followed the gnomes as Cal picked the left corridor, and their small company moved out once again. 

None of them noticed the new ring that Benzan was wearing, replacing his ring of _water walking_ on his left hand, and the tiefling forgot to bring it up.  

Their bootsteps sounded a regular cadence as they made their way down the passageway, Pel’s light casting long shadows ahead of the two canines as they probed ahead.  

The passageway opened ahead into a long “L” shaped room, with them entering at the top of the “L”.  Several other exits, all dark corridors, were immediately apparent, but it was also clear that the room was not another vacant, empty chamber.  

 A structure of sorts had been erected at the apex of the “L”, in front of another passageway leading away from the chamber.  The construction was clearly a defensive fortification of some sort, a six-foot wall apparently fashioned from stone and wooden debris, with narrow embrasures along its summit and a single tight opening in the center.  A pair of torches on tall poles were mounted behind the wall, casting a broad ring of light out over the chamber. 

A man waited in front of that opening, facing toward them, waiting for them.  He was armed with a bared longsword, but the weapon was lowered and he made no threatening gestures as he waited for them to draw nearer. 

Cautiously, they approached.  

“Movement, behind the wall,” Benzan whispered to his companions. 

“I see it,” Cal replied.  Fenrus growled, but Pelanther calmed him by stroking his muscled foreleg.  

“Hail,” the man said in greeting, once they had closed to within about twenty feet.  Now that they were closer, they could see that he was clad the uniform of the City Watch, although the garment was faded and more than a little threadbare around the edges. 

“Hail and well met,” Cal said.  “It’s nice to encounter someone who doesn’t instantly attack down here.  Although I certainly didn’t expect to find a member of the Watch down here in Undermountain.”

“Undermountain is a strange place, which breeds strange alliances,” the man commented.  The companions noticed more movement behind the uneven summit of the wall, and for a moment, a tall, hyena-headed figure was visible before it dropped back down out of view.  None of them needed to comment on what it had been—all of them had traveled enough to be quite familiar with gnolls. 

“Indeed,” Cal said, sparing a quick glance at his companions to verify that they had seen it too.  They were all on edge, ready for any trouble.  Fenrus and Valor were each ready in their way; the wolf bristling with barely contained energy, the magical dog calm and implacable.  

“I am delegated to make an offer of shelter and protection, if you seek it,” the man said.  “We have a community of like-minded souls, banding together against the chaos and danger of this place.”

“Oh?  And who leads this little community of yours?” Pelanther broke in.  

For a moment, the man’s expression darkened, but then his stale smile returned.  “Why, we have no single leader, but pool our efforts in cooperation for the common benefit.  You will find such protection of good use, for many dark things lurk in these halls.”

“Yeah, that we know already,” Benzan commented. 

“We are looking for someone,” Cal said.  “Another gnome, younger than us, in the company of a mixed group of other adventurers.  Has he come this way?”

“Perhaps.  He may even be a part of the community; I do not always get to meet the new arrivals.  If you would come with us, we can check and see if your friend is here, or someone may know where he has gone.”

“Let us say that we agree to come.  How many of you are there, and how far is it to where your people reside?”

“It is not far.  Come, let us escort you.  We ask only that you leave your weapons behind, at this watchstation, and that great wolf of yours must remain behind as well.  I can swear that no harm will come to either while in our care.”

Cal seemed to search for a response for a moment, but Benzan snorted, and Pel’s muttered curse was equally negative.  “No way I’m leaving Fenrus with him,” the gnome said.

“Leave our weapons behind?” Benzan said at the same time.  “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Surely you can understand our need for security, especially against a group of strangers such as yourselves.  We can’t just let a group of armed men—and ferocious animals—into our community.  You can come to look for your companion, but not armed.”

“We are not hostile,” Cal said, and as he spoke, a melody seemed to stir through his words, his voice lilting with a familiar tenor.  “You can trust us, and take us to your leader, with all of our gear, and our animal companions.”

The words seemed to hang in the air after he spoke them, echoing with the force of a magical _suggestion_, but the Watchman acted as though he hadn’t even heard them.  “I’m sorry, I cannot.  Perhaps one of you would like to come inside, while the others wait with his weapons?  I swear that no harm will come to you.”

Cal frowned, but he quickly rallied.  “Perhaps if I could consult with my colleagues, first?”

“Of course.  Take all the time that you need.”

Cal nodded graciously, then retreated with the others in tow, back toward the corridor through which they’d entered.  When they were far enough so that the words would not travel to the guardpost, Cal turned, standing behind Fenrus’s bulk so that even his moving lips would not be visible to the watchers.  

“Well?”

“Most pressing strange,” Pelanther said.  “I’d not recommend trusting anyone who cavorts with gnolls, however.  And I’m not leaving Fenrus behind, no matter what.”

“He’s lying, of course,” Benzan said.  “Trust me, I’ve done enough of it to know.”

“But to what end?” Cal said.  “I mean, maybe he’s right about at least some of it, and there is some sort of... community down here, of guards and adventurers and humanoids trapped in Undermountain, unable to find a way out.”

“Such a thing would never hold together without strong leadership,” Benzan persisted.  “He’s lying about that, at least—did you see the look on his face there for a second, when Pel asked him?”

“Yes.  And he resisted my spell—no minor accomplishment, especially for an average soldier of the Watch.”

“I doubt he’s average,” Pel added.  “I don’t like it.  There’s something going on here that’s not as it seems.”

“But I doubt it’s a coincidence that Nelan’s trail ended right around here,” Cal said.  “Maybe I should go with them, alone, and see what I can learn.”

“I don’t think that splitting up would be a good idea,” Benzan said.  “Just the fact that he seems to want that is enough to recommend against it from my perspective.”

“All right.  We’ll see what more we can learn, but won’t commit to anything.”

They returned to where the man waited patiently, having stood in the same spot during their hurried conference.  He seemed almost nonchalant—or at least was trying to present that attitude.

“Well, my friends?  Have you decided to accept our generous invitation?”

“I am sorry, we cannot,” Cal replied.  “But I wonder if we could speak with someone else from your community, someone who might have seen our friend?  We’re very concerned for him, and he has family above who are also worried about him.”

“Perhaps,” the man said, looking a little undecided.  “Maybe you could wait here, outside the guardstation, while I send word to the community of your search.”

“Actually, we thought we might continue our search, and stop back here later.  That would give you time to investigate, and find out...”

“Actually, I’m sorry, we cannot accept that either,” the man interrupted.  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist that you accompany us; we can’t have you leaving and warning our enemies about our position.”

“Behind,” Benzan said, the single word a warning.  The gnomes turned and saw what the tiefling had just noticed; several shadowy forms moving up into the room via the corridor behind them, blocking off their retreat.  They wore long black cloaks that made it difficult to identify them, but they were a range of heights, from as small as Cal to slightly larger than Benzan.  As they drew nearer the companions could see that there were six of them in all.

“We would rather avoid violence,” the Watchman said, but his voice was iron, all conciliation gone from his tone.  

“So would we, but it never seems to work out that way,” Benzan said harshly.

“Last chance, back off or deal with the consequences,” Cal said.  

In reply, the man made a short, cutting motion with his blade, and his compatriots leapt to the attack.


----------



## Broccli_Head

The story hour is too good to be slipping so far down on page 1. 

I know that I've said it again and again, but I love Undermountain!


----------



## Reg Dword

Isn't it about time for another update, Horacio?


----------



## Horacio

Reg Dword said:
			
		

> *Isn't it about time for another update, Horacio? *




Ups, yes, it is!

In five minutes


----------



## Horacio

Book VI, Part 22


As so often happened in the chaos of battle, everything seemed to happen at once, with warriors drawing their weapons, casters uttering the words of their magical spells, and everyone trying to get the jump on their adversaries.

The row of cloaked figures that had moved up behind the companions pressed closer.  Three of the smaller ones, each about Cal or Pel’s size, threw back their cloaks to reveal scaly, rust-colored skin and reptilian features.  Kobolds!  Three of them hurled fat objects at the companions.  Benzan easily dodged the slow-moving missile, but Pel, already in the middle of a spell, was hit with a flat plop.  The nature of the attack became immediately evident as a thick, gooey mixture burst out of the bag all over Pel’s body.  But the gnome druid, focused entirely on his spell, ignored it. 

“Tanglefoot bags, watch out!” Benzan cried, as he turned to face the rapidly advancing Watchman.  

The third tanglefoot bag struck the ground at Valor’s feet, bursting all over his legs and rooting the magical hound securely to the ground.  The dog struggled to get free, but all his efforts accomplished was to mire him further in the glue-like mixture.  

The other three cloaked forms also moved swiftly to the attack.  Another short one was revealed to be a fourth kobold, but instead of throwing another bag it pointed at Pelanther, uttered a mystic phrase, and a sickly glowing green bolt materialized and shot toward the druid.  The missile hit the gnome in the chest, burning with magical acid.  

Somehow, though, Pel managed to keep his concentration even through that painful assault, continuing the difficult incantations of a potent summoning.  

Another of the cloaked forms unlimbered a short bow and started firing arrows.  A long shaft darted toward Cal, narrowly missing him as the missile glanced off of the deflection aura maintained by his _bracers of armor_.  Cal, meanwhile, was not idle, casting his always-reliable _haste_ spell.  Suddenly his movements seemed to blur as his speed increased dramatically, and he took advantage of the magical enhancement to cast another spell, one of his potent new enchantments.  He felt a crinkling sensation all over his body as the protection of _stoneskin_ settled in around him, making him almost invulnerable to physical attacks.  

That was reinforced a moment later, as a second arrow shattered harmlessly against his body.  

The final cloaked figure, the one that was larger than Benzan, rushed forward, his cloak swirling out behind him as he moved gracefully to the attack.  He was a half-orc, clad in a rough vest of thick hide, armed with an axe and shortsword.  

The half-orc charged silently toward Pelanther, who was just finishing his spell, but before he could reach the gnome Fenrus leapt into his path, growling an angry challenge.  The half orc lashed out with his blades, the axe connecting with a solid gash to the wolf’s torso, but Fenrus in turn latched onto him with a vicious bite to the shoulder, twisting and dragging the warrior roughly to the ground in a jumble of limbs and fur.  

Meanwhile, on the opposite flank, the Watchman met Benzan, the two exchanging a series of swings with a loud clanging of metal on metal as their swords connected.  Any doubt that the man was in fact a member of the Watch were extinguished as the warrior pressed his attacks, his smoothly executed moves clearly reflecting the styles taught in the training yards of Castle Waterdeep.  He was good, but so too was Benzan, the tiefling himself a veteran of countless battles against a wide assortment of deadly foes.  Benzan managed to get one stroke through the Watchman’s defenses, thrusting his blade into the man’s shoulder.  He wore armor under his faded surcoat, an undershirt of mail links, but Benzan’s bronze sword was sharper than the best smith’s craft could hope to make it, and it’s magically-keen edge tore metal to dig into the flesh beneath.  The warrior staggered under the blow, but he did not hesitate in launching another attack, favoring his wounded side as he pressed Benzan with a skillful series of feints and thrusts.  

And Benzan could all too clearly see the trio of armored gnolls that emerged from behind the fortification, hefting huge axes as they cleared the narrow opening and rushed toward the battle.  

“Company coming!” he yelled in warning to his friends, as two of the gnolls broke off and rushed toward Pel and Fenrus, while the third moved to flank him.  

No, he wasn’t going to fall for that one.  Well, not again, anyway.

A globe of pure darkness suddenly appeared around the Watchman and Benzan, completely blocking all light.  The gnoll pulled up in surprise, wary.  The sound of metal striking metal issued once more from within the darkness, then only quiet came from within.  

The gnoll didn’t see the faint blur that crept around the edge of the darkness; Benzan’s _ring of shadows_ kept him well hidden.  The tall creature let out a cry of pain and surprise as Benzan’s sword slammed hard into its side, tearing up through a gap in its armor into the organs that the mail was supposed to protect.  The gnoll staggered a few steps back, then went down in a heap.  

Benzan turned just in time to meet the rush of the Watchman, as he came out of the darkness into another series of attacks. 

 Pelanther finally finished his spell, and with a small explosion of smoke and light a pair of wolves appeared in front of him.  He’d heard Benzan’s warning, and turned to see the two gnolls bearing down on them.  He pointed and issued a low growl, and the two wolves leapt to the attack.  He glanced over his shoulder to see if Fenrus needed any help.  The giant wolf had his opponent pinned, the half-orc unable to get up with the larger creature tearing at him with his massive jaws.  The warrior was still fighting back, thrusting upward with his sword and scoring a glancing cut across the wolf’s thick neck.  Fenrus, however, had stamina to spare, and with a single vicious lunge latched his jaws on the burly half-orc’s neck.  

Satisfied that his companion had his fight well in hand, Pel turned to the two gnolls.  His summoned wolves were exchanging attacks with the two creatures, but one was already slowed by a brutal gash from one of their greataxes.  Pelanther had a spell that could greatly enlarge animals, one of the most potent magics in his inventory of spells, but he was reluctant to unleash it now against a mere handful of gnolls.  Instead, he drew his scimitar, and with a gnomish battle cry charged into melee.  The tanglefoot goo covering his body slowed him down, but it couldn’t stop him entirely.  One of the gnolls tried to take a swipe at him, but he easily dodged the clumsy stroke.  His own blade clove upward into the gnoll’s side, staggering it, and a moment later one of the wolves hamstrung the gnoll, driving down in a thrashing heap to the ground. 

Cal, meanwhile, was facing off against the four kobolds, one of whom was already proven a spellcaster.  The other three had quickly spread out and moved to flank him, attacking with a cool confidence that he wouldn’t normally have associated with the diminutive reptilian creatures.  Even as they leapt to attack, drawing small swords from their belts, Cal drew out one of his wands and unleashed a blast of blinding colors at them.  He caught only two in the blast, and when the colors faded the kobolds were down; stunned and disoriented, but not unconscious as he had expected. 

_All right then, tough kobolds,_ he said to himself.

The third creature didn’t hesitate, rushing up and sticking his sword into the gnome.  He might as well have been attacking a stone wall, as the blow was turned by his _stoneskin_.  

The spell didn’t however, turn the _acid arrow_ that slammed into him a moment later, blasting into his side with a rush of hot pain.  

“So, that’s how you want to play?” he shouted.  He lifted the wand in his other hand and returned fire with his own _acid arrow_, catching the kobold sorcerer squarely in the chest, ignoring the hit that he took from the kobold adjacent to him in the process.  The sorcerer let out a thin screech but didn’t retreat, even as the acid continued to burn into his body.  

Cal, meanwhile, tucked one of his wands back into his belt, and drew his sword.  

Benzan continued to fence with the Watchman, exchanging blows with the warrior.  Or rather, taking the occasional hit that failed to penetrate the excellent protection of his mithral chainmail, while in turn landing strikes with his magical blade that tore through the significantly lesser armor worn by the guardsman.  It could only end one way, but the warrior neither sought retreat nor begged quarter, pressing his attacks more aggressively even as he took more damage.  Finally, he left himself wide open with a final desperate lunge, and Benzan finished it with a single stroke of his blade.  

“Persistent bugger,” Benzan said, as the man crumpled before him.  

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of movement behind the embrasures of the defensive wall.  But no attacks were forthcoming from that direction, so he turned to lend aid to Cal against his kobold adversaries.  

But the battle was already approaching conclusion, and the outcome was already evidently clear.  One of Pel’s summoned wolves had gone down, but the druid and the other wolf were making short work of the last gnoll.  Fenrus’s opponent had ceased resistance.  The enemy archer had apparently seen the writing on the wall, for he had turned and fled back down the corridor.  The kobold sorcerer, however, remained, although his last ally was rapidly being beaten down by _hasted_ attacks from Cal.  Benzan arrived in time to finish him off with a single thrust from behind, and then the tiefling turned to the two blinded foes that Cal had stunned earlier.  

“Yield!” Cal shouted to the kobold sorcerer.  “You are defeated!”

But the kobold only shouted the words of another spell.  In response, a thick cloud of vapors started to form around him, the beginnings of an _obscuring mist_ that would presumably cover his retreat.  

That plan didn’t quite work as intended, as Fenrus darted into the gathering mists, and a single loud ‘crunch’ could be heard from within a moment later.  Benzan, meanwhile, finished the last two kobolds, who were no match for him in their blinded state, and with that the battle was over. 

The companions gathered in the center of the room, somewhat bruised and battered but otherwise hale and ready.  Benzan was the only one who had not taken any damage in the brief melee, but between them Cal and Pel were able to rapidly restore all of them to full health.  It took them a little more effort to free up Pel and Valor from the tanglefoot substance, but they finally did that as well.  Meanwhile Benzan took a quick look behind the defensive wall, and reported that the area beyond was now empty.

“There was one more back here, I think, but he’s obviously high-tailed it out of here.” Benzan said.  “We can expect more of them pretty soon, I suspect, if they’re as organized as that guy said they are.”

“Kobolds, gnolls, a human, a half-orc,” Pel was saying.  “And I think that archer that fled was an elf, if I’m not mistaken.  An odd alliance indeed.”

“Still, I find it difficult to believe that Nelan and his friends came this way and didn’t run into them,” Cal said.  “Ready for us or not, we’ve got to investigate.”

“So it’s rushing blindly in again, eh?” Benzan asked.

“Hardly.  A little... preparation, first, is in order.”

And they gathered around him, while he outlined his plan.


----------



## Lazybones

Hey hey, just got back from Hawaii late last night.  Thanks to everyone who kept this thread alive in my absence, and special thanks to Horacio for posting updates.  

Here's a short weekend update; back to regular updates tomorrow!

Lazy "married man" bones


Book VI, Part 23


“Report.”

“A small party of intruders has attacked the guard station at sector 4G, Master.”

“Their composition?”

“Two gnomes, Master—a druid and a wizard.  The druid has a dire wolf as an animal companion, a beast of great ferocity.  A human warrior.  All are very skilled, with powerful spells and magical equipment.”

A short pause. 

“Jakal.”

A small, odious, rat-like creature, standing just a little over a foot in height, stepped forward.  “Yes, master.”

“I want you and the other jermlaines to track these intruders.  Do not engage, and do not reveal yourselves, but monitor their movements, and pass the information on to the other stations.”

“Yes, master.”  The diminutive creature sped off.  

“I want the rest of you to organize a convergence, using Jakal’s reports to plot a reasonable point of attack.  Margas, you will coordinate.”

“As you wish, master.”  The speaker, a balding, middle-aged man clad in the tattered remains of a robe, bowed.

“I want these intruders brought to me, alive.”

“Yes, master,” the chorus of voices replied.  

“Go then—”

A figure stepped forward from the back ranks of those gathered.  A young gnome, his torn tunic dangling awkwardly from his lean frame.  “Master.”

“What is it?”

“I think that I know these intruders, Master.  The gnomes, anyway.”

Another pause, very brief.

“That may be useful.”


----------



## Krellic

Welcome back Lazybones, surprised you've had time to think of an update! 

But grateful all the same...no I'm not even going there..


----------



## Horacio

Cool! Now I can bump again!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VI, Part 24


Delem screamed in pain as the dull head of the _kabbak-johr_ brushed his side, the plain metal burning like fire as it touched his bare flesh.  He spun around, feeling like he would pass out from the pain, knowing that he could not.  He was barely able to bring his own weapon around in time to deflect the next stroke, and the next after that, but then a solid blow caught him in the chest, and he was falling backwards, everything around him lost in a haze of pain. 

When had recovered enough to become aware of his surroundings, he saw that he was on his back on the jagged stone, looking up at the horned visage of the demon who had struck him down.  

“You are weak, human,” it said to him, its voice thick with contempt.  Delem tensed slightly, expecting anything, but the demon only turned and walked away.  

Slowly the sorcerer lifted himself to his feet.  He watched as the demon crossed to the far side of the unevenly shaped room, and replaced the _kabbak-johr_ on a rack among the numerous other unusual weapons that hung along the entire length of the wall.  Delem saw that it had taken up his own discarded weapon, a guisarme with a heavy iron haft and a serrated blade of black metal, and placed it up on the wall as well.  Delem half-expected the demon to say something else to him, but it didn’t even look at him again as it turned and left via the steep staircase that led back up to the cavernous halls above.  

Delem was left alone, breathing heavily.  He felt pain in various parts of his body, but had grown so familiar with that feeling that mere physical hurts barely troubled him much any more.  Not that such tolerance helped him any—the demons were perfectly able of devising fresh torments that would strip away whatever shields he had constructed, delving him into new depths of suffering and despair.  

Left completely alone, he debated heading back up to the complex, but ultimately decided to remain here.  He walked over to the wall of weapons, examining them.  He’d already learned how to use many of them, after a fashion, although he was no warrior and he doubted that he ever would be able to wield blades in the way that Lok, or even Benzan had.  Thinking of those two names, even incidentally, brought new pain that he couldn’t easily ignore, so he squashed the thought and turned back to the weapons.  

They were all ugly, brutal things, awkward and difficult to use.  Many of them inflicted pain upon the wielder as well as the target, even when used properly.  He ran his hand along the surface of one, letting the physical pain drive away his inner pain, if only just for a second.  He didn’t even bother with the line of blood across his hand.  It would heal, or it wouldn’t; it didn’t really matter, here. 

As always happened when the demons left him alone, his mind drifted back to the audience—when had it been?  Time was so intangible here, in a place without days or nights or even simple physical reminders like the need to eat or sleep.  Sleep—ah, what he wouldn’t have given for just the simple oblivion of sleep!  Here, whenever he was bludgeoned into unconsciousness or otherwise incapacitated by a demon’s whim, the only dreams that came were those sent by them.  Even his own thoughts weren’t his own, a reality that he knew only too well.  

Was he insane?  There was no way of knowing, but he supposed just being able to ask the question was a good sign.  He laughed at the absurdity of it, the sound as always surprising him, the noise sounding as though it was coming from a different creature’s throat.  

Ah yes, the audience.  It flooded back into him now, when the glabrezu had brought him before his tormenter, when he had looked into the face of that being which now... _owned_ him, owned him in the same sense that he had owned his own thoughts back when...

He’d recognized him immediately, though he couldn’t say where or when he’d gotten that knowledge.  There was something familiar, though, something from his past life, a niggling reminder of...

The thought was overwritten by the words in his mind, playing over their conversation once again as it already had a thousand times before.

“Welcome, Delem.  I have been watching you for some time, now, even before you came here, in fact.”

“Why?” A simple word, with so many meanings.

“I have had an... _interest_ in one of your companions, but must admit, that of all your little band, you, Delem, always fascinated me the most.  There is a certain presence to you that lies just beneath the surface, something that your friends never fully saw.”

“Why have you done all of this to me?” Not that he expected an answer from such a being, but he had to ask the question, could not keep it inside him any longer.  He was already shaking, trembling with the combined force of a thousand emotions running through him.

“The torments were necessary, Delem, for you to rediscover who you are—what you are.  And see, you have recovered your powers, and in fact will grow stronger, under the proper... guidance.”

“What do you want from me?”

Laughter.  “Why, nothing at all.  After all, anything that I could want from you, I already have.  Make no mistake, Delem, you are mine now, as much so as my sword or my palace or my slaves, here.”  In an unnecessary display he had reached out toward a hezrou standing nearby.  The stupid creature had started to come quickly over to them at the gesture, only to begin a horrid mewling as it suddenly halted, as if it has struck a wall.  *He* formed his hand into a fist, holding it up for several long seconds, and the hezrou had flailed and cried and begged as its body began to collapse under it.  Finally *he* had released it, relaxing his hand, and the demon melted into a putrid heap of ruined flesh on the floor.  

“Why don’t you just do the same to me, then?” Delem had asked, the words coming from somewhere deep inside of him.  

“Ah, there is that fire inside, still burning.  You still have much to learn, my Delem, but I will leave you with one final thought.  I realize that you have little reason to trust any of us, but take it for what you will.”

“There *is* a way out of here, Delem... a way that you can get back to Faerûn.”

Delem fell back into the present, turned away from the wall of weapons.  He’d pressed too deeply, and he could feel his blood pooling on the floor beneath his hand.  

No matter.   

He heard scratching noises, and turned to see a half-dozen dretches gathering near the base of the stairs.  They respected him, now, respected his power for all that they were heavily resistant to his fire.  

Another lie, that had been.  Still, he sometimes thought back to that day when he at least had believed that he could strike down the demons, savored the way that it had felt to be the one inflicting, rather than receiving, the pain. 

He lifted the _kabbak-johr_ from its rack, holding the heavy weapon in both hands.  It hurt just to hold the weapon, and it was slick as the blood from his hand smeared on the weapon’s shaft.

“So, another test?” he shouted, to no one in particular.  The dretches wouldn’t care no matter what he said; the creatures were blindingly stupid.  But they were tenacious, and as they lurched forward a certain eagerness shone in their dark eyes.  

Delem met their rush, unaware that the same feeling was reflected in his own eyes.


----------



## Broccli_Head

So are you taking guesses as to who Delem's new patron is?


----------



## Horacio

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> *So are you taking guesses as to who Delem's new patron is?
> 
> *




My lips are sealed


----------



## Lazybones

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> *So are you taking guesses as to who Delem's new patron is?
> 
> *




Hey, that's a good idea.  Time for some reader participation!  Instead of giving it away here in the thread, why don't we have a little contest...

If you know (or think you know) who 1) Delem's new demonic patron is, and 2) who the mysterious "Master" of Undermountain is, send me an email at kmcdonal@cde.ca.gov with your answers.  Those who are correct on both counts will receive, in their email inbox, an advanced copy of the conclusion of book 6, before everyone else gets to read it on this page!  Now everyone can be like Horacio, reading ahead of the group!

Here's one hint for question 1: it is someone who is also featured right now in another popular story hour here at ENWorld.  

And now we return to your regularly scheduled program...

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 25


Dana knelt before the crescent-shaped font in the small, private chapel that adjoined the temple.  The water in the font, which was fashioned of silver-inlaid iron, was blessed, holy water sanctified by Seral himself.  The room was quiet, with only the soft sound of the night breeze to disturb the stillness of her meditation.  Seral had remained in the main temple, giving her privacy for her devotions.  

She had completed her prayers, and Selûne had granted her the power that she required.  Now she called upon that divine power, focusing her attention on the water in the font.  

It took time, and great concentration, but Dana was used to summoning discipline and focus to tackle a task.  The ritual associated with this particular spell took a full hour to complete, and she went through each step calmly, drawing the energy that she would need to complete her goal.

Finally, when she looked down at the waters, she saw not a pale reflection of her own face in the dim evening light, but rather a deep well of shadows that seemed to go on forever.  Answers waited in those depths, she hoped. 

“Show me Benzan, mother,” she said.  “Show him to me.”

The patterns in the water shifted and coalesced, but instead of solidifying into the familiar image of his face, they broke apart again and continued to roil uncontrollably in the matrix of her spell.  She tried again, with a similar result, and then drew back, troubled.  

A sick feeling rose up in the pit of her stomach.  If something had happened to him...

No, she told herself, dismissing that thought.  She’d felt... something, but it was as if there was a barrier between them, blocking the functioning of her spell.  She’d never actually used the _scrying_ magic before, but she’d learned a fair amount about its operation, enough for her to believe her interpretation. 

If she wasn’t deceiving herself, a tiny voice in the back of her head whispered.

She returned to the main temple.  Seral read her face immediately, and came to her. 

“You did not see him?”

“The spell worked, but there was a... barrier of some sort, blocking the spell.  I could not get his image to form in the water.”

“Hmm...” the old cleric said.  “It could be a number of things—a spell of screening, either on his person or on the place where he is located.  And there are some places where scrying will not function, areas of dead magic...”

She stamped her foot against the stone, a frustrated look upon her face.  

“Don’t worry,” he told her.  “There is one more thing that we can try.”

He left here there and went to his quarters.  When he returned a minute later, he was carrying a scroll.  

“I wrote this a year ago, but never had need of it, until now.”

He showed her the scroll, and she looked up at him in surprise.  “I... I mean, I don’t know what to say, such a potent gift...”

“You do not need to say anything, Dana.  I can see the light of the Mother shining in you; by helping you, I am helping her cause as well.”

They returned to the chapel, and the elf sat across from her on one of the low benches that ran along the lengths of the walls.  

“I will need something that belonged to him, to cast the spell.  Or you could try it yourself, although it is a very difficult spell.”

Dana nodded—Seral was being tactful; in reality she knew that the spell on the scroll was way beyond her abilities.  So she reached under the collar of her tunic, and drew out a small, almost delicate silver amulet on a slender chain.

“He insisted that I take it, when we parted.  It bears a minor protective enchantment... he had it for about a year, I think, before he gave it to me.”

“It will suffice.”  He took the amulet and held it in his hands for several moments, then unrolled the scroll.  His elven vision was sharp enough so that even the poor light was enough to read by, and he started to speak the words of power that he had recorded upon its surface.  

The spell took time, although not as long as Dana’s scrying.  Dana felt herself drifting at the reassuring sound of her former mentor’s words; she hadn’t slept regularly over the last few days and exhaustion was beginning to catch up to her.  

With a start, she returned to full awareness as she realized that the spell was finished.  Seral had straightened, his eyes staring deep into someplace other than here. 

“Where... where is he?” she asked, unwilling to break his concentration but needing to know.

Seral’s eyes cleared, and he looked fully upon her.  When he spoke, he said only one word, but it landed upon her like a heavy weight.  

“Undermountain.”


----------



## Enkhidu

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Here's one hint for question 1: it is someone who is also featured right now in another popular story hour here at ENWorld.
> *




Hah! I knew it! It's Meepo!

Er, It's not Meepo?

Dangit.


----------



## Lazybones

Only two guesses thus far?  Oh well.  (p.s. both were half right)  

Okay, here's a clue, a little cryptic, for Question #2.  It won't give you the answer, but it will narrow your search:

B4P6, B4P25, B5P9, B6P18.

And today's update.

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 26


Wary of another ambush, the companions moved deeper into Undermountain.  While cautious, they moved with purpose and determination, covering ground quickly, not stopping to investigate side chambers or shadowed corners.  Valor detected no further signs of Nelan’s trail, but it was easy enough to follow the frequent signs of passage through this region, signs clear enough so that even the rest of them could mark that this area was frequently traveled.  

They had chosen a direct approach, eschewing subtlety for speed and daring.  The passage behind the fortifications of the watchstation led deeper into a complex of rooms and passages, similar to those they had been traveling since entering Undermountain but clearly kept up by the strange community whose members they had just battled.  

They had fortified their defenses as best they could, expecting that another confrontation with the Undermountain community would follow sooner rather than later.  Cal still had his _stoneskin_ up, and he’d cast _cat’s grace_ on Benzan to enhance his agility.  Pelanther’s _barkskin_ spells had already expired, but he cast protective wards on himself and Fenrus to give them some temporary resistance to fire attacks.  He also placed a powerful enchantment upon the wolf that would give a potent magical boost to his natural attacks, turning his fangs into magical weapons for the duration of the spell.  

Thus enhanced, the five of them pressed on. 

Their course took them down long corridors and through assorted chambers of varying sizes, all empty of any living thing.  They did encounter signs of recent occupancy, scattered bedrolls, some old animal bones and other remains of meals, and some tattered remains of discarded clothing.  In one chamber they passed through they found a battered old stewpot hanging over the ruins of a campfire, directly under a long crack in the sloping ceiling above.  Scattered around the pot were a half-dozen bed piles, stinking collections of dirty straw, ratty furs, and scraps of old cloth that could no longer function as clothing.  

“Still warm,” Benzan reported, checking it out.  

“Whoever dwelled here, they weren’t very sanitary creatures,” Pel said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. 

“Looks like everyone here left in a real hurry,” Cal noted.

“Yeah, I’m sure they’re all preparing something real special for us,” Benzan said, as they left the makeshift camp behind them and pressed on.  

An hour passed with them exploring, and frequently backtracking, through the complex.  They passed through at least a score of rooms with little left to indicate what function they might have originally served.  The architecture was impressive, with massive stone risers along the walls supporting vaulted ceilings high above, in some cases forming domes thirty or more paces across.  The stone was cracked in places, crumbling in others, but the place still held an impressive sense of immensity that made them feel small and insignificant in comparison.  Most of the rooms were completely vacant, spaces larger than many homes in the crowded city above cavernous and empty, with only dust and the occasional distant echo to accompany their coming and going.  

“I’m starting to see what you meant, earlier,” Benzan said at one point, his voice carefully pitched so that it wouldn’t carry beyond them.  They had all taken to talking in hushed whispers, as the acoustics of this place tended to pick up louder sounds and carry them deceptively far.  “This place seems to go on forever.”

“My _stoneskin_ spell has expired,” Cal said wearily, pausing to lean against a nearby stone wall.  

“Are you all right?  Do you need to rest?” Benzan asked.  Pelanther, who’d been ranging ahead more often beside Fenrus, noticed that they’d stopped and turned around, an impatient look on his face. 

“No, I’m all right,” Cal insisted.  “Remember, though, we started the day in Silverymoon, this morning...  a lot of ground to cover in one day.”

“We should stop, eat something,” the tiefling suggested.  “We’ve been down here for hours, now.”

“No, we should continue.  I’m all right, really.”

So they pressed on, continuing their exploration of the massive underground complex.  As they entered the next area, another long, vaulted hallway with numerous side passages exiting off its length, Valor suddenly grew animated, probing along the stone floor with his magically superior nose.  

“Smell something?” Cal asked the _onyx dog_.

“Nelan’s scent,” the dog reported.  “He has come this way, fairly recently.”

“How recently?” Benzan asked.

“Tough to say.  Hours, I would guess.”

“All right, let’s go then!” Pel said, too loudly as his words seemed to echo off the high ceiling above.  With the magical dog in the lead they pressed onward, fatigue gone now in the excitement of impending action.  They passed down the length of the hallway, and Valor led them past several side passages to a short corridor leading to a single heavy stone door.  

After a brief examination of the portal, Benzan looked back at the others.  “Ready?”

The gnomes nodded, and Benzan opened the door.  Beyond lay another passage just like the dozens they had already traveled, meandering for about thirty paces before ending in yet another door.  Again Benzan made his check, and again they passed through.  

Into yet another empty chamber.  This one was large enough so that their light barely outlined the far walls even for the low-light vision of the gnomes, perhaps forty feet distant.  Thick stone pillars ran around the edges of the place, supporting a network of heavy stone bolsters that reinforced the ceiling above.  A faint but cloying scent hung in the air, an admixture of something sweet with a slight undercurrent of decay. 

“What’s that smell?” Pel asked. 

“I don’t know,” Cal admitted.  “Do you have the trace, Valor?”

The dog was already searching out the scent, and it led them into the room toward several exits they could just make out along the far wall.  The floor here was inset with faded tiles, some of which were broken and crunched under their feet as they moved.  The tiles might have once made up a mosaic, but whatever pattern had once been here had been worn away through the passage of time.  

Abruptly, Valor halted, lifting its head and looking around.  Fenrus growled.  

“What is it?”

“Invisible enemies ahead!” the dog reported.  He did not have time to elaborate, as several things happened in that next moment.

First, a loud snap sounded directly above them.  The companions barely had time to look up before a huge weighted net fell from the ceiling above, smothering them in its thick folds.  They were all caught, although Benzan had dove to the side at the last instant, and was within a few paces of the edge as the net settled onto them.  The strands of the net were thickly braided cords, and the whole was coated with a layer of sticky goop, the source of the smell they’d detected earlier.  

Second, a secret door in the south wall, to their right, opened up, and a number of black-cloaked figures emerged into the room, carrying heavy leather slings and stout wooden cudgels at the ready.  

And finally, Valor’s warning was born out as directly ahead, from the dark corridor in the far wall, several forms emerged out of thin air.  Their numbers included a drow elf, an armored dwarf wielding a huge battleaxe, and a half-dozen humans, half in the remnants of Watch uniforms, and half clad in rogues’ garb that would have been fashionable in the seediest depths of the Docks Ward.  

As the companions struggled within the grasp of the net, one final figure appeared, suddenly becoming visible as he cast a magical spell upon the companions.  Those with magical protections suddenly felt those defenses ebb, as the effects of a _dispel magic_ settled in upon them.  This final arrival was a middle-aged man, dressed in old robes that had seen better days, and as his forces gathered at the ready, he shouted out a command.  

“Slay the beasts, but take the others alive!”

At that order, his forces leapt to the attack.


----------



## Horacio

Wonderful as usual, Lazybones 

I would say I want to, know how it continues... but I already know


----------



## Lazybones

Don't worry, Horacio, we'll get to uncharted territory soon enough, Monday in fact. 

Assuming that the boards don't go kaput today, as they have each day for me this last week, I am going to double post today, once now and once this afternoon.  I've got a juicy cliffhanger that I want to lay on you for the weekend... 

Got a boring two-hour interdepartmental meeting this morning, on implementating new legislation, so I should be able to get a jump on starting to outline the main plots for book seven of TttWW.  Yay Friday!

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 27

The companions found themselves in a dire predicament indeed, as they finally confronted the remainder of the community whose members they had first faced earlier.  And the defenders had apparently used their time effectively, luring the companions into a well-designed ambush.  

The net was a difficult enough challenge, weighed down with heavy stones and coated in a sticky substance that clung persistently to their bodies and gear.  Added to that were the attacks of the ambushers, who were fixed upon their capture.  Apparently they didn’t mind if their prisoners ended up a little bruised and battered, as the whip-crack of slings sounded and heavy stones started slamming into them as they fought against the imprisoning fibers of the net.  

Benzan was the closest to the edge of the net, having dived out of the way even as the trap had been triggered.  He managed to struggle out from under its edge, turning to unhook a strand that had caught on the hilt of his sword.  Three of the dark-cloaked figures that had emerged from the secret door moved to intercept him as he finally stood, and he barely had time to draw his sword as they lashed at him with their clubs, trying to bash him into submission.  At close range their hooded cloaks could not hide their identity; they were hobgoblins, fierce warriors whom Benzan knew all too well from his travels. 

Pelanther struggled feebly against the weight of the net, the sticky strands catching in his hair and dragging him down so that he could barely stand.  He managed to twist his head enough to see Fenrus, nearby, his friend struggling against the weight of the net.  Their enemies that had come out of the invisibility field were focusing their attacks upon the great wolf, firing sling stones and arrows at him through the net.  Fenrus let out a howl as the dark elf shot a bolt from a small crossbow deep into the wolf’s throat.  

Sick with fear for his friend—for the druid had heard the enemy leader’s command all too clearly—Pel cleared his mind of all distractions, ignoring the imprisoning grip of the net as he tried to summon a spell.  A heavy stone zinged off of one of the thick strands just inches from his face, but the gnome ignored it, lost within his concentration.  His hands, gummed up by the net, were sluggish as he went through the gestures necessary for the completion of the spell, but his focus was so great that the natural power flooded into him at his calling anyway.

The result was immediate, as Fenrus began to grow.  He grew until he formed a mountain within the layers of the net, until he was double his original size, towering over all of the other combatants engaged in the desperate melee.  The net still held him, but now dragged after him as the enormous wolf shook himself forward through brute strength, fixed on only one thing.

Tearing apart these puny creatures that had so threatened them.  

Cal, meanwhile, was having an even more difficult time.  When the net had fallen on them it had snagged on his pack and dragged him down, pressing him roughly against the stone floor.  He tried to at least push himself up enough for him to reach his components pouch, but he was not far from Fenrus, and the wolf’s struggles were causing the net to twist and jerk, further dragging him around.  Finally his fingers closed on the haft of one of his wands, and after a quick glance to confirm that it was the one he wanted—it was—he managed with a great effort to point it at some of the strands that were pinning him.  

The _acid arrow_ splashed with a sizzle onto the thick cords.  Cal stifled a cry as some of the acid sprayed on his exposed skin, focusing on the ropes as the acid continued to burn them away.  

He wasn’t completely free, but it was a start.  

Benzan found that the hobgoblins were tenacious opponents, moving to flank him as they pressed him from three sides.  He managed to slash one with a weak cut that only dug a thin gash across its torso, armored with thick studded leather.  In return he took a glancing shot to the head from a club that caused his vision to explode with stars for a moment.  He managed to raise his arm to deflect the next blow, gritting his teeth as the force of the impact traveled up his arm and into his body.  It hurt, but it could have been worse—had he not been wearing a bracer, the blow would likely have broken his arm.   

_Come on, you’re better than this!_ a voice whispered from somewhere deep within.

“Working on it,” he answered himself, careful to avoid being pushed back into the net as the three hobgoblins continued to press him.  

Fenrus lunged forward, dragging the net with him as he forced his way through it by brute force.  Half a dozen arrows and bolts stuck from his furry hide, but the noble wolf seemed possessed of an infinite reserve of energy as it pressed on toward his enemies.  Those foes had formed a half-ring at the edge of the net, and continued to pour attacks down onto the wolf.  

Then the mage stepped forward, and called upon his magic once again.

A jagged bolt of liquid energy erupted from his fingertips, slashing across the room and slamming into Fenrus’s chest.  The lightning bolt actually aided the wolf’s cause slightly, by blasting away some of the net, but the damage that he took in turn was serious, searing Fenrus’s fur as it tore into him.  The wolf let out another great cry, and in a rage lunged forward once more, fighting the resistance of the net as he drove himself almost to the edge of the ring of foes.  

Valor, meanwhile, was caught near the southern edge of the net.  Lacking Fenrus’s strength, the magical hound was unable to fight free of the restrictive bonds holding him.  A pair of hobgoblins had marked him as a target and were blasting him with rocks from their slings.  Unable to evade the attacks, the dog took a beating, and finally he dissolved back into a cloud of mist, returning to his planar home to rest and recover.  

Pelanther, meanwhile, continued to fight for freedom.  Unable to tear free with the mere strength of a gnome druid, he closed his eyes and called upon the forces of nature once again.  This time, however, instead of casting a spell, he let the power course directly into him, tapping his druidic heritage to transform himself.  His outlines began to shift and change, to grow...

Until Pelanther the gnome was gone, and Pelanther the grizzly bear was there in his place.  

The massive bear tore at the strands of the net with powerful claws, rending the thick fibers.  The strands resisted his efforts, but his strength was now incredible, and with a growl he pulled apart a large section of net, letting him start to push through the opening toward freedom.  

Benzan, meanwhile, held his ground against his three enemies, letting his superior skill and speed come into play as the battle drew out.  The hobgoblins were good, clearly experienced warriors in their own right, but he’d fought better, and he was using a magical sword against their clubs.  He cut through one’s defenses to land a telling blow that staggered him, and as a second had sought to land another critical blow to his head he had spun into a smooth counter, bringing his sword around in a vicious arc that caught the hobgoblin solidly on his weapon arm, knocking the club free and nearly his hand along with it.  A sane opponent would have retreated at that point, but the hobgoblin only drew a dagger with his good hand and came in again.

The third hobgoblin drew back a few steps, tossing his club aside and reaching under his cloak to withdraw a heavy length of chain, weighted at each end with a spiked ball of heavy iron.  With this new weapon he came at Benzan again, forcing the tiefling to dodge the whistling sweeps of the chain in addition to keeping his other two foes at bay.  

He knew that he could use the power of his sword to levitate free of the melee, but he also knew that his friends were still trapped in the net behind him, and he needed to buy them time to escape.  

The line of attackers fell back as Fenrus finally tore free to the edge of the net, its dead weight dragging behind him as he bulled on forward.  One of the humans didn’t retreat quickly enough as the huge wolf caught him up in his jaws, and with a single snap tore the hapless man nearly in two.  The wolf shook his head and the corpse fell free in a splash of blood and gore a few yards away.  

“Kill it!” cried the mage, leading from behind his line of warriors, and the mixed group hastened to obey.  _Magic missiles_ blazed from his fingertips, a trio of bolts that blasted into the wolf’s chest, opening up small wounds that added to the wolf’s already serious tally.  The humans rushed at the wolf, slashing with their swords that seemed pitiful in contrast to the wolf’s massive size, but scoring hits nonetheless in Fenrus’s legs and lower body.  The dwarf hefted his axe and ran ahead with a clank of metal, bringing his heavy weapon around and up in a perfectly-timed arc that tore deeply into the wolf’s huge chest.  Fenrus roared in pain, and the stroke had clearly told, as hot blood splashed down onto the dwarf’s mailed form.  

But the wolf somehow fought on. 

Pelanther the bear had finally torn himself free from the folds of the net, although broken strands still clung to his matted fur, affixed by the gooey paste smeared on the thick fibers.  He heard each cry of his canine companion, though, driving him to a near rage as he lumbered in almost crazy steps toward the edge of the net.  He was Nature herself, the pure force of animal fury, and nothing would stop him. 

But as he approached the edge of the net, he found himself facing the drow elf, an angular figure clad in flowing black chainmail, his milky white eyes empty of feeling as they looked upon the raging death coming at him.  He held his small crossbow in one hand, loaded and ready with a poison-tipped bolt, but he did not raise it to fire.  Instead, he lifted his other hand, holding what looked like a small black pearl, and with a flick of his wrist hurled it at the charging bear. 

The bead hit Pelanther on the forehead and exploded with a concussive force that filled the chamber with the sound of its impact.  Pel fell back, blasted by the full force of that concussion, but quickly stirred, and turned immediately back to the attack.  

Only he could not attack, could not even move from his place.  A sphere of force surrounded him, a bubble that he could not penetrate with either brute strength or magical power.  

Pel raged in silent agony, able only to watch as the mage and his allies tore into his embattled friend.


----------



## Maldur

Im back as well. 

And is was great reading such a big part all at once. 

LB congrats on the wedding and on (several) great updates.


----------



## Lazybones

Welcome back, Maldur!

Here's the 2nd part of today's update, with cliffhanger:

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 28

Cal knew that the situation was growing desperate.  He had fired off a second _acid arrow_ from his wand, ignoring the pain that sizzled in his bare hands as he grabbed the acid-burned fibers of the net to tear the strands and hasten the process of gaining freedom.  Finally he’d managed to damage enough of the net to stand, although the sticky strands still tugged at him.  

He looked around, taking in the raging battle to all sides.  Fenrus had reached the edge of the net, and was hard pressed, while Pelanther had taken on the form of a bear and was pushing toward his friend.  Valor was gone, while to his right Benzan was engaged in a violent battle with three adversaries.

Thus far, he’d contributed exactly nothing to the battle, but that would change, starting right now.  Focusing his thoughts, he called upon one of his most powerful spells, another _haste_ that would allow him to start unleashing his magic in rapid succession...

Only as he started casting the spell, he felt a sharp prick in his shoulder as something small stabbed into him.  He shrugged off the pain, trying not to lose the spell, but he felt a thick, soothing warmth spread into his body from that point, and his mind began to swim, the magic phrases blending together in a confused medley in his thoughts. 

“No...” he said, trying to fight off the effects of the poison and failing as he toppled forward onto the net. 

He never even saw the jermlaine that crept along the web of stone bolsters above him, cackling softly to itself as it loaded another poisoned dart into its tiny crossbow.  

Benzan, meanwhile, had sunk into that zone of enhanced focus that was common among skilled warriors, every sense sharpening as he dueled against superior numbers.  His armor had already absorbed a half-dozen blows that would have crippled him he not been protected by the mithral links, but he knew that it was only a matter of time before his adversaries overcame him.  He could hear the battle raging at the opposite side of the net behind him, but did not dare shift his attention from his adversaries even for an instant. 

“Cal!” he cried, as the hobgoblins came at him again.  “Cal, you there?”

There was no answer. 

The hobgoblin he’d crippled thrust at him with his dagger, still fighting strong despite having suffered a wound that would have dropped an ordinary foe by now.  Benzan took the hit on his armor, trusting the mithral to hold as he drove his sword mercilessly into the hobgoblin’s side.  The magically-sharp blade tore through the creature’s armor, puncturing his lung and driving him back to land awkwardly on the ground.  The creature tried to rise, but slumped back a moment later, finished as his blood oozed from the deep puncture.  

The second hobgoblin sought to take advantage of Benzan’s distraction as he lunged at him from behind, driving his club two-handed toward the base of his skull.  But Benzan spun and slashed in a smooth motion, his sword tearing into the side of the hobgoblin’s head with a mighty crash.  The creature didn’t even scream as his head tore apart, and he spun into a bloody heap onto the edge of the nearby net.  

The third hobgoblin had drawn back a step as his companions had rushed in, unwilling to risk an attack in such close quarters, so Benzan risked a quick look back over his shoulder.  He immediately saw Cal lying in a heap atop the net, unmoving.  

“Cal!”

Even as he turned back, though, the remaining hobgoblin lashed out with his chain, using its reach to catch him unawares.  The weighted ball whipped around his sword, locking back on itself, and as it drew taut the hobgoblin yanked back, tearing the sword from Benzan’s grip and sending it flying halfway across the room.  

Fenrus looked like a marauding demon, his lower body dripping long trails of red blood from his many wounds, his jaws bloody from the man he had slain.  But the wolf was hurt, hurt bad, and his sides heaved with the effort of staying upright as he tore once more into his adversaries.  A human lunged at him with his sword, only to crumple as the wolf snapped his head and shoulders up in the deadly grip of his jaws.  One crunch ended his struggles, and Fenrus snapped his head to the side, slamming the hapless victim into one of his fellows, knocking the second man flying.  The wolf spit out the dead man and lunged at the armored dwarf.  His speed and strength had been sapped too much by his wounds, however, and the wolf’s jaws closed only on empty air as the dwarf dodged back.  Even as Fenrus wearily lifted his head, the dwarf raised his axe to strike again...

...within the force bubble, Pelanther, who had shifted back again into his true form, screamed a silent scream of denial...

...and brought the heavy steel crescent solidly into the wolf’s neck, releasing a spray of red blood that hung into the air a moment before falling to the ground.  

The great wolf swayed for a moment, and then crashed to the ground in a bloody heap.    

Benzan stared in surprise at his empty hand, but had to duck a moment later as the hobgoblin sent the spiked chain around again in an arc aimed at his head.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the remaining pair of hobgoblins had replaced their slings with clubs and were coming around the net toward him.  He also felt rather than heard the shudder as Fenrus fell to the ground, and knew instinctively that things on that side of the battle had gone very, very wrong.  

He drew his dagger and feinted an attack, and as the hobgoblin adjusted he turned and darted back out over the net, rushing and trying to avoid stumbling on the sticky web all at the same time.  He only had a dozen strides to cover, but it felt like an eternity as his senses took it all in at once—the sticky strands trying to snag his feet, Cal’s body lying unmoving before him, Pelanther trapped helplessly in a bubble of force, Fenrus’s huge form lying unmoving, their enemies circling around the edges of the net to surround him while the mage shouted commands.  He felt something small hit his back and stick in his armor, but he did not divert from his objective.  He finished the gauntlet of the net and knelt down beside Cal, relieved as it seemed that his friend was alive, only asleep or unconscious.

He looked across the room, to where his sword had landed.  The hobgoblins blocked his path to it, but they had not started across the net as of yet.  He hesitated, uncertain.

A sling bullet crashed off his armored shoulder from behind, adding urgency to his movements. 

With a curse he called upon his own limited magical training, uttering the words of a simple spell.  For a moment he held his breath as he nearly botched the critical gesture at the end of the casting, but then thick, billowing clouds of _obscuring mist_ sprang up around him at his call.  A few more missiles darted through the cloud anyway, seeking him out, but they missed him as he reached down and carefully picked up his friend.  

“Don’t let them escape!” came the voice of the enemy mage, sounding distant and muted in the cloud of mists.  

The surviving ambushers pressed in around the edges of the cloud, waiting for him to seek his escape.  The hobgoblin leader paused to recover Benzan’s sword, holding the weapon only briefly before shoving it into his belt.  He sensed something and spun around, wary as he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye, but when he had turned he saw only shadows there, not an enemy. 

The hobgoblin barked out a command, and moved to join his companions, even as the human warriors came around the edge of the net to aid them in surrounding the thick cloud of mists.  

Reluctantly, Benzan darted away, covered in the shroud of his _ring of shadows_, picking one of the side corridors at random, trying to run as silently as possible as he carried the unmoving form of Cal tightly against his chest.  

Behind him, as his summoned mists began to thin to reveal only empty netting within, the mage gathered his forces around the bubble where Pelanther was trapped.  The three hobgoblins, along with the three surviving humans, the drow elf, and the dwarf, joined the mage as they waited, patiently, their weapons at the ready.  A few of the injured ones paused to drink minor healing potions, curing their wounds. 

Inside the bubble, Pelanther waited as well, his eyes burning with rage as he reached behind his back and slowly drew his scimitar.


----------



## Broccli_Head

Aaaaarrrrghhh! 

The heroes got blasted!

I wish I could remember who the badguy is, but it's been so long since I read Undermountain stuff. They have to be working for the Eye! I recognize the horned-dwarf, I think.


----------



## wolff96

Yep, he's back from his honeymoon alright...  and nailing us with more horrible cliffhangers!  

Nice updates, Lazybones. I'm looking forward to what happens next, though I'm sorry to see Fenrus perish.


----------



## Lazybones

Broc: don't worry, everything from this point on is pretty much my own creation, using the unkeyed areas on the right side of the level 1 map.  I tweaked a few areas as well to suit the story; given that Undermountain is so changeable as it is I'm sure Halaster might have redone some areas over the course of 20 years.  

wolff: yeah, it's always bittersweet when I slaughter an NPC,   but Fenrus would not have kicked as much @$$ as he did without your suggestions; thanks again.  

Everyone else: I only got two replies to my little contest, and no one won despite the extra hint I gave last week.  Oh well.  We'll find out what happens in Undermountain soon enough (I can promise a MAJOR twist coming up in that plotline, heh heh), but first we take a little side trip: 

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 29


The heavy portals swung open, slabs of black iron that had to have weighed thousands of pounds each.  They were decorated with crude, seemingly unfinished designs of twisting, writhing figures in bas-relief, faces and limbs and bodies melted into the metal of the doors.  Delem noted them, no longer horrified by what they represented, and strode into the long hallway beyond.  

His metal-soled boots clacked loudly on the polished black marble of the hall, announcing his coming to the shadowed forms along the sides of the long corridor that marked his passage with dark looks.  Uneven flares of jagged flame shed a fitful illumination, highlighting the scars that crisscrossed his bare torso.  He was now lean, muscular, his body more defined than it had ever been in the past, and he exuded a sense of barely contained power as he strode with determination toward his audience.  

His powers had grown.  He didn’t know how long he’d been here; he knew enough to know that time flowed differently than he was accustomed in this place, and familiar units like days and tendays and months—years, even?—had lost all meaning here.  Some times it felt as though just hours had passed since the last time he had been here in this hall, and at others, just a few heartbeats later, it seemed that an interminable eternity had transpired between that point and time and the now.  That was his only reality, anymore; the Now, the Present Moment.  Everything else was fleeting, unreal, here in a place where even his own memories could not be trusted, where even his most private thoughts could betray him.

*He* was there, in his great throne, watching as the sorcerer approached.  The place wasn’t quite crowded, but there were numerous demons and other creatures from across the Planes in attendance, some of whom watched his entry with interest, and others that barely noted him before returning to their own private conversations.  

He walked into the vastness of the audience chamber, into the huge circle, a full ten paces across, that formed a spiraling design that formed the ensign of the Prince whose palace this was.  Delem barely noticed the design, either, although it was formed of solid gold inlaid into the floor, a quantity sufficient to buy a kingdom, where he was from.

“You summoned me.”

The Prince made a subtle motion, and the different voices throughout the chamber grew silent, and all attention focused upon the man.  The attention didn’t bother Delem, not with *him* seated there facing him.  

“Yes, Delem.  I have been watching the progress of your training, and I am pleased.  You have interested me... almost so that I would keep you here, at my side.”

Delem did not respond.  It was a familiar game that the demons played, to dangle a reward before a victim, and then to jerk it back.  He didn’t have to feign his nonchalance; he truly no longer cared what whims the demons subjected him to.  

*He* saw it, of course, and was pleased.  “But such is not my desire.  Look there, Delem—do you see that portal?”  *He* indicated a small door sunk into one of the walls to the side, almost invisible in a deeply shadowed alcove where the light from the flame plumes did not reach.  

Delem looked, saw, and nodded.

“Beyond that door lies a gateway to another place upon this layer, and that place in turn wards a planar gate.  The gate is of no use to us, as it only functions to transport one to their plane of origin.  If you can defeat the guardians of that gate, you are free to use it to return to Faerûn.”

“That’s it?” Delem asked.  “No catch, no conditions?”

The Demon Prince laughed.  “I have given you the conditions, Delem.  You must pass the guardians to find your escape.  Everything else is up to you.”

Even though this was just another variant of the same game, Delem could not fully stifle a tremor of excitement as he walked across the hall toward the indicated door, aware now of the stares fixed on his back as he departed.  He knew that the demons would be watching every step of his progress, and knew that they were likely watching for entertainment, to watch him fail.  In all probability the guardian was some terrible being that he could not possibly defeat, or the “gate” just another trap that would transport him into some terrible new danger.  

Yet as he reached the door and pushed it easily open, there was that faint glimmer inside him...

Beyond the door was a translucent shimmer, a transport device.  Delem was familiar with them, as they were a not uncommon means of movement within and between the many and varied layers of the Abyss.  He took a breath, called upon his power, and stepped inside...

...and found himself in a large natural cavern, a vast bubble enclosed on all sides by crumbling black rock.  The air was stale and hot, hot enough to make breathing almost painful, and sizzling pools of liquid lava broke through the surface of the floor at uneven intervals, filling the chamber with a ruddy light.  

He had emerged at the top of a broad ledge, with a natural stone stair leading down to his left down to the cavern floor.  He paused to cast a minor spell upon himself to shield himself from the oppressive heat, which was already causing his head to swim, and thus protected headed down the stairs.  

The place was even hotter along the floor, with wisps of steam rising from cracks in the rough black rock, but cocooned in the shelter of his spell Delem paid the quirks of the environment little heed.  He knew that if he spent and amount of time here, the environmental effects would begin to overcome the protection of his spell, but he didn’t intend to wait around for that to happen.  

Looking around for the “guardian” that he had to face, he quickly crossed the chamber, careful not to stumble on the deep cracks and keeping his distance from the crumbling edges around the lava pools.  He saw a dark opening in the far wall that seemed to lead into another chamber, and after a quick examination, darted through the narrow space.  

The next chamber was dark, and only fractionally cooler than the place he’d just left.  He called upon his innate powers once more, summoning a series of _dancing lights_ that he sent out to explore the limits of the place. 

The room was only about twenty paces across, but penetrated deep into the rock ahead of him, sloping gradually upward across a series of jagged terraces.  As the lights approached the edge of their range he thought he saw another opening at the far edge of the highest tier, so he headed in that direction. 

It took a goodly amount of time to make his way up the slope, and by the time he clambered up to the highest terrace his hands were cut and bleeding from the sharp edges of the rock.  He’d had to renew the _dancing lights_ several times to illuminate his way, but even so he crawled the final stretch in darkness, letting his memory and his ravaged hands pick out the best course. 

As he reached his destination, though, and stood, he saw a faint glow coming from what indeed was another exit, a narrow crack in the back wall of the cavern.  Cautiously, he approached the opening. 

There was a fairly steep chute that led down to what looked like another chamber perhaps twenty feet below his current location.  The glow seemed to be coming from someplace down there.  He started down, but made it only a few feet before he heard voices from below, and froze. 

“What are wasting time for here, anyway?  We should be looking for him...”

“The oracle said that we had to stay here, to defend the gateway.  Otherwise the demons might be able to break through into our world...”

Delem smiled wryly to himself.  Either *he* had been lying, or the speakers below were misinformed.  Either way, he wasn’t going to let them stand between him and his goal.  There was something familiar about the voices, however, something that nagged at him as he slowly crept down the chute.

The slope was steeper than he thought, however, and the heel of his boot slipped as he sought purchase, causing him to slide down a lot faster than he had intended. 

He landed at the bottom of the chute with a jarring thud.  He came up quickly, though, his power flowing into him at his call.  

This final room was smaller than the first two, but still a good thirty paces or so across.  The glow he’d seen earlier was coming from a massive stone archway that stood independent of the surrounding walls, the half-circle of stone filled with a shimmering aura that obviously marked the gate that *he* had spoken of.  

But before the gate, turning as one to face him at his sudden entrance, were the guardians of the portal. 

Four familiar faces.


----------



## Maldur

Now that is cruel and unusual punishment !


LB your one sick puppy (said in a friendly sort of way).


----------



## Reg Dword

You don't disappoint Lazybones. When you promise an update you deliver. Another great update as usual.


----------



## Horacio

Wow...

Really, that''s all I can say...

Wow...


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the praise, guys.  And now for the payoff:

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 30


“Benzan!  Cal!  Lok! ...  Dana!” 

He tried to call out to them, but all that came from his lips was a string of gibberish, unintelligible.  Their faces transformed as they got a good look at him, and they were looks of pure hatred.  

“Foul demon!” Dana hissed.  Benzan drew an arrow and fitted it to his string, Lok hefted his axe, and Cal dug into a pouch for the components of a spell.

“No!” Delem tried to cry, but they could not understand him as they leapt to the attack, using the familiar moves that Delem knew all too well.  An arrow slammed into his shoulder, knocking him back against the wall, but the pain in his body was nothing to the pain in his heart.

“Another masterful play, you bastard!” Delem shouted up the chute, his curse coming out as an incoherent roar.  As Lok rushed at him he swept out his hands in reflexive self-defense.  To his surprise he was able to bat the genasi roughly aside, and Lok went sliding along the floor of the chamber, his armor clattering against the stone.  

He came forward, his legs not quite sturdy under him from the aftereffects of his fall.  Cal hurled an illusion at him, some sort of display intended to distract him—Delem didn’t really pay attention to the details, once he’d seen the figment for what it was.  Benzan shot another arrow at him, but this time he saw it coming and was able to deflect it by summoning a magical _shield_.  

And then Dana was charging at him, leaping forward and thrusting her spear with the weight of her body behind the attack.  Delem was barely able to dodge out of the way of the thrust, and as the spearhead glanced hard off the wall behind him he grabbed the haft of the weapon.  His hands felt thick and awkward, but strong—in fact, he felt as though strength was flowing through him, giving him a physical power that he had never before possessed.  He swept the spear before him, catching Dana in the side and hurling her halfway across the room.  She was able to land in a hard roll, stunned but not really hurt.  

With an angry, defiant cry he charged forward, toward the glowing lure of the planar gate.  But Benzan, his sword now out and ready, stepped into his path, the bronze blade already carving the air as the tiefling tried to block his advance.  Delem barely hesitated as he lashed into his former friend.  He took a gash along his side that sent a sharp pang of pain through his body, but he had already been well-schooled in ignoring pain, and the wound was not serious enough to stall his rush.  He balled his hand into a fist and slammed it into Benzan’s face, laying the tiefling out on the hard ground.  

For just a moment, Delem stared down at the prone, semi-conscious form of his friend.  It looked like his nose had been broken by the punch, and perhaps his jaw as well.  

That had felt... good.

But the portal still called him, escape just a dozen long strides away.  He lumbered toward it, gaining speed...

And then stumbled, his feet locking under him as he crashed forward and landed hard on the rough stone.  He looked down and saw that a length of gleaming silver chain had wrapped around his legs, each end of which was weighted by a heavy metal ball.  

He also saw that Dana had risen to a crouch, having apparently hurled the weapon that had successfully entangled him.  Lok had regained his footing as well, and Cal was helping Benzan, who was still pretty groggy from the effects of Delem’s strike. 

Delem reached down and tugged at the chain, which resisted even his considerable strength as his clumsy fingers tried to work free the bindings.  He did not remember Dana, or any of his friends, ever having such a weapon. 

“You’re cheating!” he yelled up at the ceiling as he tried to free himself.  The cry only came out as a incomprehensible roar, but Delem knew that *he* would understand him.

They were charging him again, so he called upon his innate power once more, summoning a _wall of fire_ that sprang up directly in front of him, forming a barrier that ran across the width of the chamber between them.  The flames roared eagerly, up to a height of nearly ten feet, driving his enemies back.  He used the respite to finally tear the damnable chain from his legs, and rose unsteadily to face the glowing gateway once more.  

Behind him, the wall of flames wavered and then faded.  Cal’s work, no doubt, Delem thought.  But they would not catch him, as he lumbered across the remaining distance toward the portal...

A shining line of light appeared between him and his goal, widening to form a glowing doorway through which Dana stepped, her spear held at the ready.  Delem lifted his hand to strike her down, knowing that he had the power to destroy her within his grasp.  

But he hesitated, unable to finish that killing blow, even if it meant achieving the one thing he had striven for since being trapped in this place, even if the woman before him was a mere simulacrum, created to torment him.  

“It’s me, Dana... Delem,” he said, willing her to understand him through whatever glamour had been laid upon him.  He locked his eyes on hers, those dark pools that had captured him from the first time he had ever seen her.  

He realized that there were tears already in those eyes, and understanding.  She knew; they all knew.  “I know... and I’m sorry.”

Pain exploded through him as she thrust the spear into his lower body, its magically-sharp head tearing through his gut and savaging the organs within.  Even he could not fully resist this pain, and he staggered back as she drove the weapon yet deeper into him, tearing him, hurting him.  

He was barely aware of the impacts of Benzan’s sword and Lok’s axe, slamming with brutal and merciless force into his back.  He was falling, the last thing that he could see her face, the tears glistening in the glow from the gateway...

* * * * * 

Awareness returned slowly, and he hovered on the boundary between consciousness and oblivion.  He was not yet fully restored, and he felt acutely the crippling injuries that his body bore, wounds that would have slain him instantly had he been back on his home plane.  

Home... 

But even in this vague state he could feel the presence that overshadowed his own, that dominated this place.  *He* was here, and as he focused his attention upon Delem the young man began to shake, and his awareness began to dwindle until there was only one thing in the world, that being which owned his soul.  

“So close, and yet a world away.  A disappointing conclusion, not that I expected anything different.  Clearly you are not yet ready, Delem.  Your training is not yet complete...”

And then Delem was drifting, falling away into a darkness so pure that it enveloped him like a pool of deep water.  

* * * * * 

Delem stirred, and opened his eyes.  For a moment, images of horror and evil and violence flashed through his mind, but as his conscious mind took stock of his surroundings those feelings quickly faded, like a nightmare that gave way before the light of the day. 

He looked around.  It was morning, by the bright slash of sunlight that came in through the window and illuminated the foot of the bed.  Tiny motes of dust hung suspended in that radiance, dancing in the air as if they sought to greet the morning with their own festive expression of joy.  

That was a silly thought, Delem thought to himself as he lifted himself up on his elbows and looked around the room.  He felt uneasy, perhaps the lingering feelings of the nightmare.  

The room wasn’t large, but it was homey and clearly lived in, full of soft touches and little details that clearly indicated a woman’s presence.  It was familiar and strange at the same time, and as he looked around at the various items of furniture and the little knickknacks scattered around the young man felt a buzzing in the back of his skull, as if his subconscious were trying to tell him something.  

_No..._ he cried out in his thoughts, in the part of his mind where memory was intact, where he realized with dawning horror what was happening.  

He heard a woman’s voice, elsewhere in the house.  As if borne by the sound he also became aware of a hearty smell of cooking food, a tasty medley of odors that somehow did not awaken his appetite.  He didn’t feel hungry, although there was a strange emptiness deep inside him that he couldn’t quite identify. 

_No, not again... I can’t do all of it again..._

He heard the sound of footfalls, and knew the woman was approaching.  And then she was there, standing in the doorway of the bedroom.  

“Well, sleepyhead, are you going to stay in bed all day, or are you going to get up and have some breakfast?”

Delem screamed, a terribly cry of despair that echoed through the room.  The woman simply stood there, watching him with a look of unconcern on her face, then she smiled and came slowly and sinuously toward him, while he lay there, unable to move.  

He screamed for a long, long time.


----------



## Reg Dword

Wow! Great as usual. Hey Lazybones I think I saw you say somewhere that you were in a PnP group now. Any chance we might see something from those sessions on the boards?


----------



## Lazybones

Reg Dword said:
			
		

> *Wow! Great as usual. Hey Lazybones I think I saw you say somewhere that you were in a PnP group now. Any chance we might see something from those sessions on the boards? *




Maybe at some point.  I'm not running that game (I'm just a lowly player  ), and I've missed the last two sessions with the wedding planning and honeymoon.  The campaign hasn't really caught me up in it yet, and I'm mostly playing just out of nostalgia at this point.  The campaign is focused on the humanoid servants of a powerful human wizard; I'm playing a goblin rogue named "Filcher."


----------



## wolff96

Aw, isn't that sweet... Delem still loves Dana.

Way to mess with his head, Lazybones... That was just evil! Great story hour update, as always.


----------



## Lazybones

I don't know if I should admit this, but the "torment Delem" posts are pretty fun to write  .  I especially enjoyed giving him the chance to take down Benzan (well, the tiefling has long had it coming, I guess).  We'll see Delem once more at the end of the book, which isn't that far off now.  


* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 31


“Uhhh...”

Cal stirred, drifting slowly back into consciousness.  His head felt thick, full of cobwebs, like that time his brother Dolender had beaten him silly in an altercation involving a certain young woman of their mutual acquaintance.  The memory was enough to drag him fully back into wakefulness, and he struggled to lift himself into a sitting position.  

“Cal, are you okay?” 

The voice was right there, and hands were helping him slowly up.  It was dark, pitch black, but he recognized the voice and the familiar presence beside him.

“Benzan?  What happened?  Where are we?”

There was a long pause, and a heavy silence.  When the voice finally responded, it was heavy with a weight that Cal had not often heard in his friend.  As he spoke, though, Cal felt the same weight descend upon him like that net had back in the ambush chamber. 

“I managed to get us out of there, using my ring.  My sword is gone—one of the hobgoblins has it.  You were out cold—I found the dart in your neck, and a twin to it stuck in my armor, luckily it didn’t penetrate.  They killed Fenrus; I don’t know what happened to Valor.”

“And Pel?”

“He was alive last I saw him, trapped in a force-bubble of some sort.  There was nothing I could do, there were too many of them left to fight, especially without my weapon.”

Cal nodded, knowing that Benzan would be able to see the gesture even in the darkness.  “Where are we?”

“I’m not sure.  I ducked into a blind corridor we hadn’t explored yet.  I tried to make my way back to the tunnels we’d covered, but to be honest I’m not sure where we are.  I found a side-passage that led to this room; I’ve wedged the door shut but I doubt it’ll hold against a determined intruder.”

Cal felt at his belt for his sword, but it wasn’t there. 

“Here,” Benzan said, sliding something across the floor.  It was a bundle of their gear, all that hadn’t been lost in the ambush.  Cal felt around for his sword, drawing the weapon enough so that its pale light shone out into the room. 

“Careful.  Those doors aren’t sealed, and the light might shine out into the corridor.”

Cal nodded, and left just enough of the blade bare so that he could make out the outlines of their prison.  The chamber was small, cramped in comparison to the great halls they had traveled earlier, the walls and floor of plain, unadorned stone.  

“We’re in quite a fix, aren’t we?” Benzan said.  Now that he could see his friend’s face, Cal realized that Benzan looked truly beaten, wearing an expression that he’d never seen on the tiefling’s face.  Benzan had always been cynical, wry to the point where you wanted to strangle him, but it chilled him to see that look of despair on the young man’s features.  

“We’re alive.  We have most of our gear, and our wits.  We’ll get out of this.”

Benzan looked down at the floor.  “I abandoned your cousin,” he said.  

Cal stood—a difficult task, given the sluggishness he still felt—and clasped his friend on the shoulder.  “You did what you could.  They were too well prepared, and skilled; if you’d remained, we’d all be killed or captured.  At least now we’re still free.  I heard that wizard shout that they wanted us alive; they may have Pel, but we can still get him back.”

“How, exactly?  My sword is gone.  You’ve cast most of your spells already, and I doubt that those guys are going to give us the leisure to recover them.  Even in the short time you’ve been out I think I’ve heard people moving around, search parties looking for us.  This place isn’t that big... they’ll find us, sooner rather than later.”

Cal simply bent and started gathering up his gear.  He did a quick inventory of the stuff there; he’d lost his crossbow and his bedroll, but everything else seemed to be there, including the all-important pouches containing his magical components and the items of power that Alera had given him.   

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I drank a healing potion earlier.  My last one, by the way.”

“I’ve still got three, if it comes to that.  I don’t seem to be that hurt, though—just that poisoned dart, I guess.”  He checked his gear, then rose and crossed the small room toward the door.  Before turning back toward Benzan.  

“Coming?”

Reluctantly, the tiefling rose.  “I wish Lok was here,” he said.

Suddenly there was a puff of smoke, startling the both of them.  It cleared after just a moment to reveal, lying there on the hard stone in a simple wool tunic...

“Lok!”

The genasi stirred, and raised himself on one elbow as he looked up at them, shaking his head to clear the sleep from his eyes.  

“Cal, Benzan?  What are you doing here?”


----------



## Reg Dword

So Benzan's new ring is a ring of wishes eh?


----------



## Lazybones

Reg Dword said:
			
		

> *So Benzan's new ring is a ring of wishes eh? *




Good call, Reg.

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 32

It didn’t take them that long to figure out what had happened. 

Once the initial shock had worn off, and they started to explain to Lok where they were and what was happening, Cal was the first to realize that Benzan had somehow gained the power to make his _wish_, uttered casually, into reality.  And Cal, who’d heard many tales indeed about this most potent of magics, was the first to ask about the new ring that Benzan was wearing on his finger.  

“I found it back in the room with that statue, while we were battling those oozes,” he explained.  “I forgot I was even wearing it, to tell you the truth.”

Cal’s _detect magic_ confirmed that the ring had possessed a powerful aura; now just an afterimage that was already fading.  Just to be sure, they tried another wish—to have Pelanther and Fenrus restored to them, alive and well—but nothing happened.  

“You’re telling me I wasted a _wish_?  No offense Lok, but... aargh!”

Cal flinched as the tiefling’s exclamation resounded loudly in the tight confines of the chamber.  “Let’s not forget, gentlemen, that we have a more pressing problem here.”

They’d briefly explained the situation to Lok, just enough to make it clear how dire their situation was here.  Lok had been transported to them exactly as he had been, asleep in his protected chamber deep within the security of the urdunnir town.  He had no armor, no magic axe, no bag of holding—nothing in fact, save for the simple wool nightshirt that he’d been wearing in his bed.  And there was no way to secure him better equipment, in this place.  

They gave him what they could; Cal yielding his magical shortsword and a healing potion along with a spare belt and pouch, while Benzan handed over his small shield.  The result was certainly less impressive than the genasi’s typical outfitting, but he still had his strength and his skill, which were considerable even without his items of power bolstering him.  

Slowly, and with great caution, Benzan unwedged the door and they headed back out into the corridor outside.  Since they didn’t really have any idea of where they were, they elected to start by heading back to the ambush site, to see if they could pick up the trail of their adversaries there. 

Benzan took the lead, cloaked within the darkness of his _ring of shadows_.  Lok and Cal followed a goodly distance behind, Lok holding Cal’s sword so that it could shed enough light for Cal to see by, without unduly giving away their position.  It was an acknowledgement of the change in their situation, that they were creeping in this time, instead of striding boldly forward into danger.  

The halls of Undermountain were quiet as they made their way slowly forward in this fashion, retracing the steps of Benzan’s desperate flight.  

They were nearing the site of the ambush when they heard a soft hiss from up ahead, Benzan’s warning signal.  Lok and Cal retreated to the mouth of a side passage they’d just recently passed, Lok sliding the sword back into its sheath, and guiding Cal’s steps so that he didn’t stumble in the darkness.

“Company coming,” Benzan’s whisper came from somewhere close.  Cloaked in the power of his ring, he was indistinguishable from the rest of the darkness.  

They say it a moment later, a brightening from down the passage that resolved into the light of a lantern as several figures came around a bend a good fifty feet away from their current hiding place.  The lantern illuminated a group of five humans, armed and armored in the strange jumble of styles they had seen earlier.  They looked wary and alert, but it seemed clear that they hadn’t spotted them.  

Cal leaned forward until his mouth was just a few inches from Lok’s ear.  “Take one alive, if you can manage it,” he whispered.  Holding onto the genasi’s shoulder from behind, he felt rather than saw Lok’s nod in response.  

They waited as the humans drew nearer.  Cal found the components and wands that he wanted by touch, and stepped back to give Lok room to operate.  

The three friends had fought together so long that they needed no code words or preplanning to coordinate their attacks.  Fitting smoothly back into old patterns, the two warriors awaited Cal’s cue to start their attack.  The gnome waited until the torchbearer had almost drawn abreast of their position huddled in the side passage, then spoke the command word of one of his wands.  

One of the humans wavered, and collapsed into magical _sleep_.

Even as the rest of the small party reacted, Lok tore into their midst, slashing with his borrowed blade.  The shortsword tore through the haphazard armor protection of the first, ripping a deep and surely mortal gash in the man’s torso.  The critically wounded warrior should have gone down, but he clutched at his own sword and lunged at Lok in a clumsy counterstroke that Lok easily deflected with his shield.  Rather than bothering to finish the wavering warrior Lok was already sweeping into the next men as they drew their weapons, plunging his sword through the guard of the first and sinking the entire length of the blade into the man’s chest. 

That one wasn’t quite able to manage a return attack.

The men responded quickly to the sudden attack, even though two of their number were already down and a third was about to join them.  The torchbearer shouted an order, and the last of the men turned and started running down the passageway back the way they had come. 

He managed barely a dozen paces before Benzan’s arrow slammed into the small of his back, driving into him with the icy touch of Alera’s magic augmenting the damaging power of the steel arrowhead.  The man staggered but didn’t go down, and he managed another seven or eight steps before a second arrow joined the first, and the man crumpled.  

Cal drew out his wand of _acid arrows_, but it wasn’t needed.  With a final cut Lok finished the last of his adversaries, having taken only a shallow gash to his exposed arm in the brief melee.  The whole battle had lasted less than twenty seconds, but they were all too aware that even that brief clash could bring down reinforcements upon them.  They’d seen enough to know that their foes were surprisingly well-organized, operating almost like a veteran military force.  

Lok doused the torch that the warriors had been carrying and dragged the bodies into a nearby dark corner.  It didn’t do much to hide the signs of battle—the floor and even the walls were splashed with garish red streaks of fresh blood—but at least a casual glance down the passage wouldn’t instantly reveal anything.  Meanwhile, Benzan trussed up their sleeping prisoner, binding his wrists and ankles and gagging him.  Once they were finished, the two warriors took up flanking positions to watch for trouble while Cal interrogated him. 

Their captive had regained consciousness and was staring up at Cal balefully when the gnome took up his magical lute and began to play a soft melody.  The lute had the power to cast a variety of spells, depending on the notes played upon it, and Cal used it now to cast a _charm_ spell that would hopefully turn this enemy into at least a temporary ally.  

But as he looked into the man’s eyes, he saw that the spell had failed.  He didn’t have to undo the gag to verify; the hatred in those eyes was clear enough. 

“Plan B then,” Cal grumbled to himself.  He closed his eyes and focused his mind for a few moments, then began speaking the words of another spell.  

The prisoner watched him suspiciously as he finished the casting and opened his eyes again, fixing the captive warrior with a hard-edged stare that dragged on for some twenty heartbeats.  The gnome’s brow was furrowed, his concentration almost painfully intense, but the prisoner met that gaze squarely and didn’t flinch.  Finally, Cal relaxed slightly and almost smiled.  

“You know, we weren’t looking for trouble when we came here,” Cal said companionably to the man.  “All I wanted to know what whether my cousin Nelan was down here.  You’d remember him if you saw him; he personifies the stereotype of gnomes as silly practical jokers.  He’s young, might even mistake him for a child, from a human’s perspective, but he’s quick, and agile.”

The prisoner only looked at him, his expression cold.  

Cal glanced around at the stonework of the corridor.  “This is some hideout you have here.  All these chambers, corridors... it’s like a maze.  I don’t know how you all keep from getting lost.  I mean, I know you must have some sort of central base, a headquarters, but I imagine it’s probably pretty well hidden.  I’m sure you took our friend, the druid, there as well.”

The captive’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but Cal kept talking.  

“I must admit, you seem well organized for what looks at first glance like a group of ill-equipped, mismatched rogues.  It must take quite a leader to keep such a diverse band together, and working together so smoothly.”

The prisoner’s eyes widened as he stared into Cal’s, then he closed them tightly and shook his head from side to side.  Cal casual, easygoing manner melted again into a look of intense concentration, and beads of sweat formed along the edges of his brow.  

“Yes... your master...  think about your...”

The bound warrior shot up so quickly that Cal fell back in surprise.  He couldn’t get up, of course, couldn’t rise any higher than a seated position, but before Cal could react he snapped his body backward, driving the back of his skull with as much force as he could muster into the hard stone floor.  The impact sounded with a sickening crack, and the man lost consciousness.

Benzan appeared out of the shadows an instant later.  “What happened?”

Cal looked down at their captive with a look of mixed confusion and horror.  “I don’t know... he just... unbelievable.”

“Did you find out anything?”

Cal looked thoughtful, holding his chin in his hand for a few long seconds before responding.  “Yes,” he finally said.  “Like the others we encountered, he was resistant to mind-control magic, so I used on of my new spells, one that gives me the power to _detect thoughts_.”

Lok had joined them as well, although he kept his attention on the dark passageway as he listened.   

“Oh, so that’s what you were doing, asking him all those questions.  Getting him to think about those things, so you could read his mind?”

Cal nodded at the tiefling’s logic.  “It was... strange.  His thoughts were... I cannot think of words to describe it.  He was incredibly focused in some ways, yet utterly discordant on others.  One thing’s certain, however—he didn’t want to reveal anything about whoever, or whatever, is leading this little operation.”

“Yeah, slamming your own head into the floor with enough force to crack your skull is a bit extreme,” Benzan said.  “But it was the same way with those guys we fought; they fought well, with a lot of skill, but it was as if they were fanatics or something, not going down until you literally drove them into the ground.”

“Did you learn enough to find your cousins?” Lok asked.  

Cal, who had still been focused on the unconscious man, looked up at them, determination shining in his eyes.  “Yes.”


----------



## wolff96

Well, I still don't have any idea who Delem's mentor is...

...but I'm pretty sure I know what's leading this little underground group. Not that I'm going to say anything, in case I'm wrong.

Nice wish spell, by the way. I wondered if there was going to be a way for Lok to make an appearance in this book.


----------



## Lazybones

Glad the boards are back up; I couldn't get on for a few days and I was starting to get withdrawal symptoms.  

Plus I couldn't initially find my thread, it had fallen so far on the page.  

Anyway, here's the next update:

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 33


Leaving the unconscious guardsman behind them—Benzan had questioned whether it wouldn’t be better to “finish him off,” but Cal shook his head—they pressed on down the corridor.  Lok had taken one of the chain shirts from the slain warriors, and slipped into it.  The armor was in poor repair, but it was better than the wool shirt he’d been wearing.  He’d also armed himself with one of their longswords, returning Cal’s smaller blade to him.  Benzan also took a spare sword, examining its edge dubiously before sliding it into his vacant scabbard.  Thus prepared, they resumed their same order, with Benzan out a distance ahead of them, cloaked by the power of his ring, while Lok and Cal followed behind.  

The smell told them that they were nearing the chamber of the earlier ambush, even before they rounded a final corner and found themselves back in the pillared chamber.  The place looked empty at first glance, but as they entered they could see the pools of blood left on the floor, each surrounded by the squirming forms of thousands of tiny vermin as they fed upon the remains left from the battle.  The bodies of the fallen, however, had been carried away.  The stench of death was powerful, hanging in the air like a thick fog.  

“This way,” Cal said, indicating a nearby door.  They headed into the room toward the portal, staying close to the edges of the room.  None of them wanted to walk near the bloody vermin-infested patches of floor, and they were wary of another trap.  

Benzan paused for a moment, although Cal and Lok barely noticed, as the tiefling’s form was all but part of the darkness around them.  Cal’s face looked pale in the soft blue light coming from his sword, and they all looked like shadows, ghosts moving through an oppressive and eternal darkness.  

Then they heard a muttered phrase, words that seemed to vanish from the memory as soon as they were heard.  Benzan’s shadowed form suddenly spun, and with a twang a white trace darted through the air, flying up into the stone rafters supporting the ceiling above them.  

Cal and Lok started in surprise, turning and hefting their weapons.  They heard a choked cry from above as Benzan’s arrow hit something, then a small lump fell from the darkness above to land in a heap on the chamber floor.  

They quickly moved to examine the thing, Cal poking at its unmoving form with his sword.  It wasn’t more than a foot in height, looking like a combination between a rat and a man, clad in a scrap of rags and carrying a tiny crossbow along with a quiver of thin darts.  Benzan’s arrow had transfixed him, and a rime of ice from the magical missile coated his torso where the missile had hit and penetrated his body.

“Looks like we found our sniper,” Benzan said. 

“That was quite a shot,” Cal said.  “How did you know...”

“I saw movement, out of the corner of my eye,” Benzan said.  “And I wish I could take full credit for the shot, but it was a magical spell that guided the arrow.”

“Ah, _true strike,_” Cal observed.  “I might have to learn that one myself, someday.”

Wary of any further spies watching their progress, they pressed on through the door that Cal had indicated, and into yet another long passage.  They moved swiftly and with purpose, with Cal guiding them with little hesitation whenever they encountered a choice in passages or doors.  They passed through a few additional intersections and smaller chambers, until they came to another vaulted hall.  Cal immediately turned and directed them to a nearby corner, where another side passage was partially concealed within a deep alcove fronted by a pair of thick stone pillars.  

“Hold up,” Benzan’s voice came out of the nearby darkness, as Cal started into the passage.  

“This is the way,” Cal said.  

“I’m sure it is, but I wouldn’t suggest heading down that passage just yet.”  He turned off the power of his ring, and the shadows seemed to flow off of him like water.  The mithral links of his armor glistened in the light wherever the chainmail was visible under his cloak and the long tunic underneath.  

He knelt in the entry of the passage, examining what looked to the others like a bare patch of unremarkable stone.  “Pressure plate here,” he said.  “Very nice work—a trigger for some sort of trap, I’d wager.”

“Can you disarm it?” Cal asked.  

“It would take time.  Better to just bypass it—here, watch where I step, and follow me.”

Benzan led them into the corridor, Cal and Lok following his steps carefully.  The corridor widened slightly once they were beyond the initial threshold, until it was wide enough for the three of them to travel abreast, if they were so inclined.  Benzan summoned the power of his ring once again and moved ahead of them, scouting carefully for any additional traps.  He didn’t find anything, however, and soon the passage turned sharply to the left, and a bright glow became visible up ahead.  

“Wait here,” Benzan whispered.  “I’ll check it out.”

“Hold a second,” Cal returned.  “Where are you?”

Benzan dropped his cloak of shadows briefly, revealing his position.

“I know your ring makes you virtually invisible, but why not have the real thing?”  The gnome cast a quick spell, and Benzan faded from sight.

“Thanks.”

“It’ll last for up to an hour, but any sort of attack will cancel the invisibility.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.  Be right back.”

Silently the tiefling headed down the passageway, while Cal and Lok waited near the bend in the passage.  Cal had sheathed all but an inch or two of his sword, leaving them in almost pure blackness.  Lok could see, of course, but to Cal, even with his exceptional vision, everything around him was just a vague shadow, different shades of black jumbled together. 

“Once we get done with all this, you’ll have to tell me what’s happened to you since we parted,” Cal whispered to Lok.

“Indeed,” the genasi replied.  

They waited there in silence as the seconds drifted into minutes.  At one point Cal thought he heard noises back down the passage behind them, but no foes entered the passage where they crouched waiting.  Just when they were contemplating heading after Benzan, the tiefling’s voice startled them out of nowhere.

“Hey, did you miss me?”

“We were starting to.  What did you discover?” Cal asked.  

“It doesn’t look good.  There’s a chamber up ahead, and it the back part of it has been turned into another of those defensive fortifications.  There’s what looks like a heavily reinforced masonry wall blocking off a large archway in the back, with a pair of massive stone doors recessed under the arch.  But that’s just where it gets started.  The floor’s been excavated in front of the walls, forming a sloping trench that’s been filled with a veritable forest of sharp metal spikes.  _Then_ there’s the wall, a good ten feet high, the top of which has also been set with spikes, along with a series of defensive emplacements where an archer could sit with nearly total cover and take potshots at anyone in the room.  There’s torches mounted above the arch behind the wall, enough so that there aren’t many shadows to hide in as you approach the wall.  If you hadn’t cast that spell on me, I doubt I’d have been able to get close at all.”

“No break in the wall?” Lok asked.

“No, there’s an iron gate, and what looks like a retractable plank bridge to cross the trench.  The gate is recessed deep in the wall under an overhang, and it’s flanked by a pair of arrow slits.”

“Did you see anything about the defenders?” Cal asked.

They couldn’t see his wry grin, but they knew him well enough to know that it was there as he spoke.  “Well, of course—I wouldn’t be the master scout that I am if I didn’t climb over there and take a look, would I?”

“And?”

The tiefling’s voice became more serious.  “It’s well defended, at least a dozen, same sort of almost random mix of creatures as before.  I saw a few of our friends from before—that dwarf, and the dark elf.  I only caught a glimpse of the others, but they looked like a hobgoblins and humans, mostly, maybe a kobold or two in the mix.”

“Why didn’t you just kill them all and open the gate for us, then?” Cal chided him.  

“Hah.  I know you know this already, Cal, but these guys mean business.  They’re alert, and they’re expecting trouble.  They couldn’t see me, but I think a few of them sensed that something was there when I took a quick look through one of their arrow slits.  I wasn’t going to wait around to find out; I made my way back through the trench—very carefully, those spikes are sharp, and covered with poison to boot, I think—and hurried back here.”

“This isn’t going to be easy, not with just the three of us,” he added.  “These guys have gotten the jump on us twice now, and we’re not exactly at full strength now.”

Cal straightened.  “Nonetheless, we have a few surprises left,” he said.  He reached down and open his belt pouch, taking out the cache of scrolls that Alera had given him.  He drew his sword fully from its scabbard, surrounding them in a ring of pale blue light. 

“What we’ve come for is behind those stone doors,” he told his friends.  “We came here to get Nelan, and now we have to find Pelanther as well.  Whoever these bastards are, you’re right, Benzan, they’ve gotten the better of us, but now it’s time to return the favor, with interest.”

And as they drew close around him, he outlined his plan.


----------



## Horacio

It's all my fault, I neglected my bumping functions... 

Won't do it again, let's keep the Travels in the first page


----------



## Broccli_Head

Yes! 

Cal, the master planner is at work again!


----------



## Lazybones

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> *Cal, the master planner is at work again! *




I spent a whole meeting at work  working out the details of the battles in the next few chapters.  I had described the spells on Alera's scrolls (he has 3 major ones left) in an earlier section, back when I didn't have a clear idea of what would happen (other than the final bad guy, of course).  All will be put to use shortly.  Even though the party got battered earlier, we're going to see what Cal can do when he has time to prepare, and use his magical arsenal to full advantage.  

Assuming no board crash, the carnage begins tomorrow morning.


----------



## wolff96

It's tomorrow morning...  

I'm looking forward to seeing Cal's deviousness at work. Not to meniton that I want to find out what happened to Pelanther...


----------



## Lazybones

So it is, wolff!  Here you go!

* * * * * 


Book VI, Part 34


The defenders along the wall shouted out an alarm as a knot of heavily armed and armored attackers poured into the chamber, a mixture of men and gnomes that shouted out battle cries as they brandished their weapons and moved forward.  The group, numbering over twenty, charged directly toward the fortifications.  Arrows from the defenders, secure in their well-crafted embrasures along the wall’s summit, or behind narrow arrow slits further down, rained missiles upon the attackers.  In most cases the shots glanced off of steel shields or armor plating, but a few dug deep, and the attackers fell, the deadly missiles jutting from their bodies.

The attackers reached the trench and leapt in without hesitation.  Several were impaled on the wicked spikes that had been planted in the slanting stone incline at the base of the pit, but the rest of them forged their way upward, driving with a fanatical courage in the face of incredible odds.  

There were a few anomalies, but these were hard to mark in the chaos of the battle.  One of the fallen in the middle of the chamber abruptly vanished, while a few of the gnomes and humans clambering up the ramp of spikes passed _through_ some of the steel pinions, even as others were cut by them as they climbed.  

Such inconsistencies could be forgiven, perhaps, as it was overall a very complex illusion. 

By the time that some of the defenders had recognized that something wasn’t right, the illusory attack had served its purpose.  None of the defenders had spotted the large form moving along the ceiling, cloaked as it was by the power of Benzan’s _ring of shadows_.  It crossed the ceiling twenty feet above the battle and descended above the arch, where one of the defenders—the drow elf—looked up and saw it, the shroud of darkness it wore cut by the light of the half-dozen torches burning brightly there.  

“Behind, on the wall!” the dark elf cried, lifting his crossbow to shoot the intruder. 

The shot was true, but the missile bounced off the armored carapace of the attacker.  

Lok leapt down from where he’d been _spider climbing_ down the wall toward the apex of the arch, landing on the stone floor ten feet below with an force that shook the ground around him.  With a chittering growl he swept forward, knocking aside one man who tried to attack him as he made his way to the iron gate in the wall from behind.  His huge claws tore into the stone moorings of the gate, and with a single powerful lurch he tore the heavy barrier free, hefting it above his head for a moment before he hurled it into the faces of a pair of onrushing attackers.

Lok, polymorphed into an _umber hulk_ through the power of one of Alera’s scrolls, rampaged through the defenders.  

Even caught off guard, the defenders rallied quickly, turning from the illusory frontal assault to direct their attacks at the true threat behind them.  Thus distracted, none of them noticed as the plank bridge was lifted out over the trench to the far side, rising into the air seemingly of its own volition.  

They did notice, however, as a massive lion, easily twenty feet in length, suddenly appeared on the far side of the room, taking substance as it materialized out of the surrounding darkness.  The huge beast, its eyes blazing with a glorious intelligence, charged across the chamber in a blur, and with a pair of mighty jumps cleared first the trench and then the wall, landing on the far side among several surprised defenders.  

Cal discarded the second scroll as the magical writing of a _shades_ spell faded from its surface, and he hurried across the room toward the now-waiting bridge.  A magical _shield_ protected him, just in case any of the archers were still targeting attackers on this side of the wall.  

He needn’t have worried—the defenders were all quite occupied at the moment.

Lok cut down a hobgoblin as it tried to run him through with a spear, his massive claws slamming with the force of a battering ram into the hapless creature’s chest.  He turned as the clatter of plate armor in poor repair announced the arrival of the dwarf fighter, his waraxe already carving a path through the air toward Lok’s insectoid head.  The genasi-turned-umber hulk dodged back, but could not fully avoid a powerful blow that tore through his armored skin and opened a gash in his shoulder.  

On the opposite flank, the defenders attacked the dire lion that Cal had summoned.  One human in a Watch uniform crumpled as a single massive paw flattened him against the hard stone floor.  A second defender, a wiry kobold, thrust a shortsword into the huge creature’s leg, only to draw an immediate and deadly response as the lion snapped his huge jaws on the diminutive reptile’s head.  The kobold’s body was tossed limply aside, and its head joined it a few moments later as the lion spit it out in disgust.  

The drow, a short distance away, fired another poisoned bolt at the lion.  The missile struck the lion in the shoulder, but the dark elf stared at the creature with narrowed eyes as another pair of humans tried to keep it at bay with their swords.  

“It’s another illusion, a shadow-creature,” the drow shouted to his allies.  “If you disbelieve, its blows will not be as deadly.”

Lok, meanwhile, grunted as another blow from the dwarf’s axe drove him backward into the deep alcove under the arch.  Thus far his armored shell had protected him from serious damage, but the dwarf fought relentlessly, shrugging off in turn Lok’s own powerful attacks.  Another pair of defenders, a hobgoblin and a dusky-skinned human armed with swords, had joined in attacking him, but their strikes were weak in contrast to the powerful blows of the dwarf.  

But the dwarf staggered a moment later, even as he raised his axe for another attack on the umber hulk.  Benzan appeared behind the dwarf, his borrowed sword showing red along the last foot of its length as the dwarf tore free and spun around to face this new adversary.  Despite being hurt and flanked by two potent adversaries the dwarf did not hesitate, tearing into the tiefling with a series of powerful strokes of his axe.  Benzan tried to spin out of the way of the sudden assault, but took a heavy blow to his torso that crunched his ribs even through the protective sheath of his mithral armor.  

“Ouch!  You hit hard for a little guy, but I think my friend’s got something to say to you...”

The dwarf didn’t respond to Benzan’s taunt, but he could not ignore the force of Lok’s assault upon his back.  Lok drove his claws down into the dwarf’s armored shoulders, staggering him, and tore at him with his massive and powerful mandibles.  Even as the sound of metal being crumpled filled the space the dwarf was attacking, slamming his axe with a half-hearted blow into the side of Lok’s head, tearing yet another shallow gash.  

“Damn you, die already!” Benzan cursed, as he stabbed at the dwarf again from behind.  

The drow and his two human allies had managed to hold off the dire lion, whose attacks were much less effective now that they had recognized the creature for what it was.  Even so, the shadowstuff that made up its substance could still do harm, as one of the warriors found when the lion’s claws tore through his flimsy, mismatched armor and dug inch-deep gashes across his torso.  He staggered backwards, managing one return thrust that tore into the lion’s shoulder before he collapsed in a bloody heap on the floor.  

The drow retreated from the melee, firing one last bolt at the summoned creature as he retreated.  “Hold them off!” he ordered.  “I will alert the Master!”

But even as he turned to run to the heavy stone doors he was caught in thick _webs_ that sprang up in the confined space before the portals.  One of the hobgoblins attacking Lok from behind was caught as well, unable to fight free from the sticky strands.  

In the narrow space where the ruined gate had stood, Cal smiled grimly to himself and drew out one of his wands.  

Somehow, inexplicably, the dwarf managed to fight on, despite having suffered damage that should have slain two or three warriors.  One arm hung limply at his side, broken by one of Lok’s powerful blows, but he continued to hack at the umber hulk with the axe in his other.  Benzan’s sneak attacks had penetrated deep into his body through gaps in his armor, opening a pair of serious wounds from which blood flowed freely down his body.  But the dwarf ignored those as well.  He chopped at Lok once more, but the attack was much less powerful than those that had come before, and the gleaming axehead glanced off of his armored body.  

Finally, Lok just picked the dwarf up in his massive claws, and with a single snap of his mandibles tore the fighter’s head off.  

“Yeah, shrug that one off,” Benzan said to the head as it rolled to a stop nearby on the bloodstained floor.  

The web blocked their retreat, but the last few defenders made no move to escape in any case, fighting to the last.  With their leader slain, it didn’t take long, as the lion and the umber hulk made quick work of those few still standing, including the hobgoblin still half-trapped in the edges of Cal’s web.  Even as the chaos of battle receded, Cal’s summoned shadow-lion dissolved into wisps of darkness that quickly vanished into nothingness.

In the meantime, the dark elf had pushed to within a few paces of the door, but the webs had enfolded his arms and legs, impeding his continued progress.

“Yield,” Cal said from the edge of his webs.  “You are beaten.”

The dark elf made a final push toward the doors, but didn’t get very far against the clinging strands.  “Never,” he said.  “Though we have failed, the Master will deal with you.  No doubt the noise of this battle has already reached him, and he will be prepared to deal with your incursion.”

“No doubt,” Cal said.  “Benzan.”

The tiefling hefted his bow, and fired an _ice arrow_ into the struggling drow.  The dark elf didn’t cry out, or beg for mercy, but just fixed a dark gaze on them as they slew him with arrows and bolts of acid from Cal’s wand.  

And then it was just them, and the doors.  

“There’s still the mage, and probably a few others,” Cal reminded them, while he used his wand of healing to treat the grievous wounds that Lok had suffered in the battle.  “Not to mention this ‘Master’ of which they’ve spoken...”

“And that hobgoblin who took my sword,” Benzan said, looking up from where he was checking the bodies of the slain.  “I’ve got a particular beef with him.”  Satisfied that none of the dead had his lost weapon, he joined the others as they faced the stone doors at the end of the deep alcove beyond the arch.  The portals were easily twice Benzan’s height, large enough to accommodate a giant.  

“Well, do we wait for the webs to disappear first?” Benzan asked. 

“They’ll last for more than an hour, but they’ll burn.  Torches.”

At Cal’s direction Lok reached up and grabbed a pair of the brightly burning brands that were mounted on large poles to either side of the arch.  The umber hulk tore the poles free and thrust the eager flames into the webbing, where they quickly caught and started burning. 
Meanwhile, Cal used his wand on Benzan, easing the injury to his ribs that he’d suffered at the hands of the warrior dwarf.  

Within a few minutes, a path had been blazed through the center of the webbing directly to the stone portals.  

“Ready?” Cal asked his companions, as they gathered before the doors.  Benzan and Lok both nodded, but Cal held them there a moment longer.  

“I am going to cast a series of spells that will enhance all of our defenses.  Once I am finished, we need to act quickly and decisively before the power of the enchantments fade.  I don’t know what we’re going to face on the other side of these doors, but from what I sensed from the mind of that guard we captured, there is something or someone powerful and terrible in this place, something that has taken all these disparate creatures that we have battled, and turned them into a cohesive, even fanatical, fighting force.”

Benzan checked his bowstring, and the arrows left in his quiver.  He seemed on edge, filled like all of them with nervous anticipation.  “All right, let’s do this,” he said.

Cal began his spellcasting.  First he made Benzan invisible again, this time with a more potent dweomer that would allow him to attack without becoming visible.  Then he cast an illusion upon himself, creating a number of _mirror images_ that concealed his true location.  And finally, he cast another spell on Lok, and the umber hulk seemed to shift a few paces to the right, his true location masked by the power of magical _displacement_.  

“Ready,” Cal said.  He reached down and took up his lute, playing the first bars of a stirring battle tune that they had all heard numerous times before.  

Lok reached forward toward the heavy doors.


----------



## Horacio

Wow...

The more I read this story,m the more it hooks me... Lazybones, you're a master writer...


----------



## wolff96

Wow. 

As if Lok wasn't already tough enough...  The Illithid (that's my guess, anyway) had better watch out!


----------



## Maldur

Mindflayer would be my guess as well

Its gonna be a nasty fight then!

LB as good as ever ( better even)


----------



## Lazybones

I had three guesses for who the "boss" monster was: Halaster, a beholder, and a mind flayer.  All good guesses, but keep in mind, the last two both use _charm monster_ which wouldn't be strong enough to make someone bash his own head in to keep from revealing information about his leader.

I guess my clue back on page 7 was too obscure.  Remember:



> *Okay, here's a clue, a little cryptic, for Question #2. It won't give you the answer, but it will narrow your search:
> 
> B4P6, B4P25, B5P9, B6P18.*




If my memory serves me correctly, those citations (they refer back to book and part numbers from earlier chapters of the story) are to updates that featured, respectively, perytons, a deep dragon, a beholder-kin, and finally, baneguards.  All four are from the _Monsters of Faerun_ softcover, as is, of course, the Master of our little band of bad guys...

And here, of course, is the cliff-hanger.

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 35  


The heavy doors resisted for a moment, then swung open at the insistent tug of Lok’s augmented strength. 

Beyond the huge portals lay a broad hallway, brightly lit by a dozen torches set in sockets mounted high along the walls.  The main portion of the hall stretched out before them, running directly away from the doors.  The hall was a good twenty paces across, with twin rows of ornate stone columns supporting a vaulted ceiling high above.  The columns had once been detailed with intricate designs, but now many of them were cracked and broken, a few fallen completely into piles of jumbled rubble.  The central hall was flanked by galleries ten paces deep to either side; these side areas were about eight feet above the level of the central floor and accessed at several points along the hall by wide, sweeping staircases strewn casually with rubble.  These side galleries had once been observation areas, perhaps, and were scattered with the remains of what might have once been stone chairs and benches in scattered piles.  The hallway continued ahead of them for at least eighty feet or more, its farthest reaches lost in shadows where the light of the torches faded.  

The companions took in those details all at once, but their attention was drawn to the center of the place, where several adversaries were waiting for them.  The three of them noted peripherally the trio that stood in the center of the hall between the rows of pillars, twenty paces away, facing the doors.  They were familiar faces: the elf archer, an arrow nocked to his bow; the hobgoblin warrior with the spiked chain; and finally the robed wizard that they had tussled with once before.  There were also hints of movement in the galleries to the side, indicating that other adversaries might be lurking there, in the cover of the shadows and scattered debris that cluttered the raised areas flanking the central hall.  

But the stares of the three companions focused on the center of the place, behind the three humanoid defenders.  There a pile of coins and other treasure formed a sizeable heap in the middle of the hall.  And rising out of that pile was the Master of the community that had taken control over this particular section of Undermountain.

“What in all the hells...” Benzan breathed.

Its body was a fat ball of heavy, wrinkled flesh, a sphere easily fourteen feet across.  Thick tentacles protruded from its mass, some twisted around the pillars that flanked it, others holding a variety of nasty-looking weapons, still others ending in vicious, snapping jaws full of sharp teeth.  Other smaller tentacles appeared to end in eyes, several of which were trained on the three of them as they entered the place.  As they stood there, amazed and horrified at the sight of it, the... _thing_ emitted a keening screech that sounded like fingernails drawn across a slate, a sound that resonated in their very bones, a sound dripping with hatred and anger and malevolence.  

“By the gods, a deepspawn,” Cal whispered.  

For a brief moment the two sides faced each other in silence, both groups overshadowed by the sheer presence of the huge creature behind them.  Then the wizard raised a slender rod, and pointed it at them.  

“You could have joined us, and become part of something greater than the pettiness of mortal lives.  Instead, you have chosen your destruction.”

“Yeah, we’re always doing that,” Benzan hissed.  

“You are an abomination, that must be destroyed,” Cal said boldly, directing his words toward the bulbous monster behind the three defenders, his voice echoing in the cavernous expanse of the chamber.    

The tentacled creature seemed to pulse, and a wave of mental energy seemed to fill the room.  The companions heard the words in their minds, as clearly as did the minions of the deepspawn.

*“Destroy them!”*

And with that, the battle began.


----------



## Broccli_Head

That was my next guess! 

So much for Nelan and Pelanther, though...if they've been assimilated...


----------



## Reg Dword

Just bumping this to the top so Lazybones won't have to look for it when he posts the next update today. 

Here you go Mr. Lazybones,sir.


----------



## Lazybones

Thank you kindly for the bump... 

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 36


Lok lumbered forward, covering the ground between the two groups of combatants quickly, his claws clicking on the ground like the knuckles of a giant ape.

With a single fluid motion the elf archer drew and fired, his cloak billowing out behind him with the suddenness of his action.  The arrow lanced toward Lok, but as it struck him the arrow cut only air.  The umber hulk seemed to shimmer in the air as he moved, protected by the magic of Cal’s spell of _displacement_.

Margas, however, called upon the power of a spell, and a trio of glowing darts erupted from his fingertips and blasted into Lok.  The magic missiles were not fooled by the protective magic, and impacted with enough force to stagger the charging genasi/hulk.

Cal recognized what had happened, realized that the rod carried by the wizard had empowered the magic, given the missiles additional force beyond the normal potency of the spell.  

“The wizard!” he shouted in warning.  

But Benzan was already acting.  From the shelter of his _invisibility_ he had already moved to the side, to give him a clear shot around Lok’s charging form.  An arrow appeared and sliced toward their foes, trailing a line of white frost from its magical head.  The missile sank into the wizard’s shoulder, staggering him, although he did not cry out in pain.  

The hobgoblin rushed ahead to meet Lok’s charge, the wicked end of his spiked chain already whirling through the air.  Lok raised his massive claws to strike, but as he did he felt a wave of energy pass through him.  He looked up and saw the deepspawn’s eyes fixed upon him, felt the numbing effects of the monster’s mental hold as it tried to set its grasp upon him, to paralyze him and leave him helpless.  With a monstrous cry of defiance he shook off the effect, although it cost him another hit as the hobgoblin warrior slammed the heavily weighted end of its weapon into his armored torso.  

Fixed on the true enemy, Lok surged ahead, knocking the hobgoblin roughly aside with a powerful blow.  The wizard and the elf archer barely got out of the way as the umber hulk barreled forward toward the treasure pile and the huge creature that lurked half-buried in its depths.  

The archer spun and drew another arrow, aiming at the hulk’s back, and Margas raised his rod to cast another spell.  But before the mage could call upon his destructive magic once again, a fat glob of acid splashed onto his back, hissing at it burned through his tattered cloak and into his flesh.  

Cal nodded to himself in grim satisfaction as his _acid arrow_ wrought its damage.  One of his _mirror images_ winked out as a missile darted down from the galleries above, and he caught a brief glimpse of a rat-like form as it ducked back into cover amidst the stone rubble.  More jermlaines, he thought to himself, but he could not spare more attention for them, knowing that their fate rested on their ability to quickly overcome the horror that was the leader of this motley group of enemies.

The wizard staggered forward, somehow able to overcome the pain as the acid continued to eat into his back.  He lifted the rod again, and began speaking the words of a spell.  As he uttered the final word, however, a long arrow exploded through his throat from behind, turning it into a bloody gurgle.  Margas clutched at his belt for a healing potion, but could not overcome the inexorable, clawing hands of death in time as he slumped forward to the cold ground.  

The elf archer plied his bow furiously, sending arrow after arrow at Lok’s back as the genasi rumbled forward toward the deepspawn.  One shot hit true, finding Lok’s true location through the _displacement_, but the arrowhead failed to penetrate the thick carapace of Lok’s borrowed form.  The second shot went wide, and narrowly missed the hulking form of the deepspawn further behind.  His features knotting in frustration, the elf spun and sought a new target in the diminutive form of Cal.  

The hobgoblin, meanwhile, recovered and rushed after Lok, the deadly chain whirling once again as he readied his weapon for another attack.  He staggered, however, as an arrow slammed hard into his thigh, the missile burying itself deep in his limb with a flash of white frost.  The experienced warrior knew that his invisible adversary was nearby, had heard the twang of the bowstring just a moment before the arrow hit, but he was forced by a more basic, primordial call to aid the being that dominated his existence.  Limping badly he staggered forward toward Lok.

The genasi-turned-umber hulk charged forward at the deepspawn.  Coins scattered noisily as he reached the edge of the mound of treasure, but he paid them no heed as he drove ahead to where the creature rested.  Several tentacles lashed out at him, slamming large weapons into him or snapping at him with the jaws at their ends.  He ignored the impact of a jagged-edged polearm that tore a deep gash in his side, and the tearing jaws that latched onto one of his arms.  

Already severely hurt, Lok paid little heed to his battered, bloody frame, and instead planted his feet heavily amidst the shifting mass of coins and other precious objects that the deepspawn’s dedicated followers had collected for it.  Even in his current form, he was still a dwarven defender, and only death itself would move him from his chosen spot.  

Cal grimaced as another of his images vanished.  An instant later a second missile narrowly missed him, glancing off of his still-potent _shield_.  He knew that he had only a few moments left before his foes penetrated his defenses, but instead of dealing with the jermlaines or the elf archer he lifted his wand and launched an _acid arrow_ at the deepspawn.  The shot was true, striking one of the tentacles wrapped around the pillars, but as the magical bolt hit it seemed to fizzle and dissolve into nothingness.  Cal cursed—he’d suspected as much.  He knew little about the horrors named deepspawn, but from what he’d already witnessed he was not surprised to find that the beast possessed an innate resistance to magic.  

Oh well, they’d have to do this the old-fashioned way, then.  

The hobgoblin lurched up to the edge of the mound of treasure, the weighted ends of his spiked chain whistling through the air around his head.  Before he could strike, however, another arrow exploded into his back, burying itself to the feathers in the base of his spine.  The deadly weapon fell from nerveless fingers as the hobgoblin stumbled and then collapsed, scattering coins around as he thrashed painfully while blood poured from his wounds.  

Still invisible, Benzan took a step closer to finish his crippled foe, but he suddenly halted as he felt something tug faintly at him.  He turned, and headed toward something he saw half-buried around the far edge of the mound of treasure.  

Lok and the deepspawn traded titanic blows, the umber hulk tearing into the bulbous form of the creatures with his claws and huge mandibles, while the deepspawn countered with the weapons and snapping jaws of its numerous tentacles.  Only the lingering effects of the _displacement_ kept the creature from tearing Lok to pieces, but even with half of the attacks striking empty air it was clear that the genasi would not be able to hold his ground much longer. 

Cal, meanwhile, had taken a scroll from his pouch, the last of the potent magics given him by his great-aunt.  Trusting in his defenses to hold just a moment longer, he unrolled the parchment and read the words of power scribed upon its surface.  His brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to direct the magic with precision, channeling its power into a use not intended by the original creators of the spell.  His focus narrowed until all of the distractions of battle around him faded into the background, and he was one with the words that he read from the scroll, one with the power that flared within him at his calling.  He did not see the last of his _mirror images_ vanish, or the elf archer who continued to launch missiles at him, each barely turned by his _shield_ or the invisible aura provided by his _bracers of defense_.  Nor did he see the shadowy form that crept out from behind one of the nearby pillars, and approached him from the side, a gleaming blade in his hand.  

He completed his spell, and the spiraled runes written upon the parchment flared and vanished.  The result wasn’t immediately obvious, but if someone had been looking closely they would have seen the inner surface of one of the pillars adjacent to the deepspawn change color, from the cold, hard gray of solid stone to a pale, neutral hue almost like the color of clammy flesh...

Cal held his breath, silently praying that his placement of the spell had been sufficiently precise.  

The pillar shifted slightly, and a few small pieces of debris fell from the ceiling high above, but held.  

Cal raised his hand, bearing one of his magical rings, but before he could call upon its power the dark shadow from behind rushed at him, thrusting his blade around Cal’s _shield_ and deep into his side.  Cal staggered, and turned to face this new adversary.  His mouth dropped open in surprise as he recognized his attacker. 

“Nelan!”


* * * * * 

Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion on Monday, and, as always, a twist to end Book VI (final post of B6 next Tuesday).


----------



## Maldur

Cliff hanger deluxe!!!!!

Again!!!!

TELL us more!!

LB that was another great update!


----------



## Rugger

Lazybones...

Fantastic stuff as always, BUT...

The dang cliffhangers...every single one makes me scream for more.

In other words, good job. 

You oughta find someone to make you an "Iconic Cliffhanger" graphic for your sig...

-Rugger
"I Lurk!"


----------



## Lazybones

Hey readers:

I'm running a one-shot tournament-style Neverwinter Nights game this Monday (which is a holiday in the U.S.).  If you're not doing anything that day, and would like to enjoy a DM-run actionfest, please drop by Neverwinter Connections and submit an application: 

http://www.neverwinterconnections.com/games/index.cfm/fuseaction/displaygame/id/2188.htm

Be sure to mention that you're a reader of this storyhour.


----------



## wolff96

Ba-Bump back to the top.

I want Lazybones to be able to find it easily this afternoon... I need my update!


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## Lazybones

Thanks wolff!  By the way, I've moved my NWN tournament game to Wednesday evening, if any of you want to participate.  Same link above will take you there.

* * * * * 

Book VI, Part 37

“Nelan!” Cal cried, favoring his wounded side where his nephew’s blade—a small sword, little more than a dagger—had torn into him.  

“You shouldn’t have come here, uncle,” the young gnome said as he circled around, his weapon slick with Cal’s blood.  There was no anger or hatred in his eyes, just a look of focus as he sought another weakness in Cal’s defenses. 

In the center of the chamber, the desperate battle with the deepspawn raged on.  Lok staggered as he took another hit, but returned with a powerful blow from his claws that tore another deep gash in the thick flesh of the creature.  The deepspawn was seriously wounded, but as Lok lunged forward to strike with his mandibles he suddenly stiffened.  Once again the mental energies of the creature poured into him, backed by the full power that resided in the warped intelligence of the thing.  Again Lok dug deep into himself to try to resist the magic, but battered as he was, he found himself slipping, falling into the power of the creature as it washed over his tired mind.  

His limbs dropped and stiffened, and he froze there, paralyzed.    

But before the creature could press its advantage over its foe, a gleaming line of metal flashed in the torchlight, and a fresh wound erupted in the wrinkled flesh of its bloated body. A terrible sound erupted from the creature, and its tentacles lashed at the new attacker, but Benzan, still shrouded by invisibility, had already moved to a new location.  He had reclaimed his sword, half-buried in the pile of treasure.  Its intelligence and alignment had made it an unsuitable choice for the deepspawn and its minions, and it had thus been discarded as just another item for its treasure hoard.    

“Die already, you ugly—umph!”  

His words were cut off as a tentacle clutching a battleaxe slammed into him, and fat drops of blood appeared as they splattered on the piled coins.  As he moved the loose items piled in the mound shifted, giving away his position, a subtle clue that the canny monster exploited to the fullest. 

Still, the creature was obviously hurt, the massive ball of its form rent by the terrible cuts and gashes inflicted upon it by Lok’s powerful strikes and Benzan’s one sneak attack.  But as the tiefling watched in dawning horror, the creature began to glow with a soft blue light that surrounded it like a nimbus, and it seemed to swell as the gaping wounds across its body knit together.  

Within moments the creature was whole again, virtually undamaged.

Benzan barely managed to dodge another powerful strike, and a tentacle slammed into the ground, scattering coins and other loose items.  Although no one could see it, the tiefling’s face twisted into a look of grim resignation.  He’d seen the damage that Lok had unleashed upon the thing before it healed itself, and knew that he had no chance against it, even protected by invisibility as he was.  But he also knew that if he fled, it would tear Lok to pieces.  Even as he watched a loose tentacle wrapped around the immobile umber hulk, wrapped around him and started to squeeze.  For a moment Benzan met the eyes of the strange creature, eyes that held Lok’s intelligence within them.  The look he saw in those eyes was beseeching; not begging aid, but asking him to flee, to save himself from the wrath of the terrible creature. 

Benzan wanted to flee, wanted to live.  But instead of running, as he ducked under another powerful stroke from a tentacle-grasped weapon, he let out a wild cry and charged at the creature, coins scattering beneath him with every step. 

Cal held up his hand, palm outstretched, as if that could keep his nephew at bay.  “Nelan, what are you doing?  Whatever that thing’s doing to you, you have to fight it!”

“I cannot fight the Master,” the youth said.  “He is part of me, and I am part of him.  You will understand, soon enough.”  With that he lunged again, the gleaming blade darting in again.  

Cal did not attack, did not even try to defend himself.  Instead, he shifted and held his hand out to his side, outstretched toward the ceiling.  Even as his nephew struck at him again, and the chamber echoed with the sound of Benzan’s desperate cry, the gnome wizard called upon the power of his ring, forcing its power against the pillar he’d targeted earlier.  The stone column sagged.  Its ancient bulk would have easily held against the limited push of the ring, but now both its own weight and that added force pressed down upon soft flesh, not hard and unyielding stone.  With a heavy crack the pillar shifted, breaking apart from the ceiling, toppling slowly but inexorably as gravity took over and dragged it down.  The upper part of the pillar, a massive cylinder of solid stone, fell where Cal had pushed it, falling with a heavy plop solidly onto the huge bubble of the deepspawn’s body.  Its tentacles flailed out wildly as it sagged down into its pile of ill-gotten booty, screeching in agony.  

For a moment, all those present looked on in stunned silence as the creature thrashed about, scattering coins about that jingled as they landed on the hard stone of the floor and walls.  Then, slowly at first, the deepspawn began to lift itself up, lashing out with tentacles that grabbed onto other nearby pillars.  With a terrible sound the huge body rose up out of the pile, the tentacles straining as it heaved the massive weight of the pillar up off of it.  Lok, still gripped by the deepspawn’s paralysis, was flung roughly aside, and the fanged mouths of the creature issued a harsh screech from the tips of their tentacles.  

But even as the heavy stone fell free, and the deepspawn lifted itself up into the air, its body suddenly quivered.  A tear opened up in its thick body, a gash that widened as it tore longer across its fat form.  Blood sprayed out from the wound, splattering on the invisible form of Benzan.  The tiefling’s sword, arm, and part of his torso were outlined by the grim coating, making him seem like a disembodied spirit as he released the _levitation_ power of his sword and let his weight pull the blade deeper into the creature’s body.  

The deepspawn thrashed in agony, its tentacles flailing blindly around it.  One slammed hard into Benzan’s chest, knocking him roughly aside.  He landed on the edges of the pile of coins and slid, scattering pieces of gold and silver before him out into the hall.  Finally he came to a stop, and slowly lifted himself up off of the ground. 

On the far side of the battlefield, Nelan and elf archer both screamed and dropped their weapons, clutching at their heads with both hands.  Smaller cries echoed from the galleries above, presumably from the creature’s jermlaine allies that had been sniping from their concealed positions there.  The deepspawn’s struggles weakened as it sank back down into the treasure pile, and finally, with a last sigh of escaping air, it deflated into an inert heap of oozing flesh.  

Nelan crumpled like a discarded puppet, falling in a motionless pile to the floor.  The elf archer staggered a few steps, his features vague and confused, then finally turned and ran toward the exit of the chamber.  Cal did not move to stop him, fixed as he was upon the unmoving form of his cousin.  His flesh was clammy to the touch, and he did not respond to Cal’s prodding, but he seemed alive, if barely.  Cal applied his wand of healing to the young gnome, but while the blue glow of healing seeped into the unconscious figure, his condition remained unchanged.  

Relieved at least that his cousin lived, Cal rose and crossed to where Lok, still paralyzed, lay sprawled heavily across the floor.  He cast a spell and the outline of the umber hulk shimmered, fading and shrinking until the familiar genasi was lying there instead.  With the paralysis dispelled Lok rose unsteadily, his body covered with bloody gashes and dark bruises.  Cal offered his friend a potion, which the warrior consumed quickly.  Even as he finished the draught his wounds were already beginning to close, healed at least partially by the potent magic placed within the liquid by the priests of Oghma.  

“Cal, you’d better come over here,” Benzan’s said.  The tiefling was standing atop the treasure pile beside the limp form of the deepspawn, its massive body dwarfing the man even in death.

Lok and Cal moved to join him, careful with their steps on the blood-slicked pile of loose coins.  There were other items in the hoard as well, but their attention wasn’t on the wealth right now; there would be ample time for that later.  

They joined Benzan, and followed his gaze to a dark form that had been ejected from the deepspawn’s body during its death throes.  The form was little more than a vague lump of shapeless flesh, an imperfect outline of what might have been a humanoid creature.  It wasn’t large, perhaps Cal’s size, and while it was impossible to identify, its “face” just a blank bulge in the larger mass, somehow Cal knew instinctively what it was.  His breath caught in his chest, and he shook as tears fell down his face.  

“I’m sorry, Cal,” Lok said.

“So that is how it was,” Benzan said, his own features a mix of sadness and disgust.  “The thing... _grew_ them, created its minions... no wonder they were so fanatically loyal, they were just...”  He broke off, unable to finish his thought.

Cal looked back over his shoulder, to where Nelan lay on the stone, still apparently lifeless.  “Let’s clear this place out, and get out of here.  We’ll take what we can of this...” he gestured to the pile of treasure.  “I don’t know, maybe we can come back for the rest,” he said, speaking primarily to Benzan.  

But the tiefling shook his head.  “I don’t want to come back here,” he said.  

With grim faces the three of them went about their work, leaving behind them all that was left of Pelanther, along with the corpse of yet another defeated adversary.


----------



## wolff96

Wow.

That was an awesome fight...

---------------------------

Now, hopefully you'll pardon my confusion, since I'm not familiar with Deepspawn. From the end of the episode, I take it that the Deepspawn consumed those it captured and then created a duplicate that was fully under it's control?

So Pel and Nelan are both dead and the Nelan that tried to kill Cal was just a duplicate of the original?


----------



## Lazybones

Yup, that's about it.  Here's a link to a 2nd ed version:

http://home.onego.ru/~adnd/pages/frms/fr_ms_004.htm

Note that in the 3e _Monsters of Faerun_, spawn retain their spell-casting abilities. 

It's never clearly explained what happens to the spawn after the mother beast dies, so Nelan's fate is up to the whim of the author.  Remember I like dangly plot threads though...

Final post of Book VI tomorrow, with that twist I noted earlier (wolff will like it, he gave me the idea back aways).  Book VII will begin with a similar hop forward a short period in time, as events in the Western Heartlands begin to come to a head...


----------



## Maldur

I am very curious, great update ( as usual) LB!


----------



## Horacio

Yeah, a wonderful update as usual


----------



## wolff96

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Yup, that's about it.  Here's a link to a 2nd ed version:*




Thanks. I thought that's what you were getting at, but I wasn't sure. Too bad for the gnomes...

From the link:


> Victims may only escape constriction by severing the tentacle arm holding them or tearing free. To tear free, roll a d20 for both victim and deepspawn on each round of constriction, adding their respective Strengths (17 for the deepspawn). If the victim has the higher total, she or he wins free.




Hmm...  A d20 plus strength to get loose. I think we just found the origin of the grappling rules from 3e!  



> *Final post of Book VI tomorrow, with that twist I noted earlier (wolff will like it, he gave me the idea back aways).  Book VII will begin with a similar hop forward a short period in time, as events in the Western Heartlands begin to come to a head... *




Ooh!  Ooh!  I think I know what's going to happen...  Muhahaha. If I'm right, it involves Delem and you are an evil, evil man.


----------



## Lazybones

Book VI, Part 38


Slowly, the heavy doors opened.  

The sorcerer walked through even before the portals had stopped moving, the thick slabs of black stone moving seemingly of their own volition, for no creature could be seen pushing at them from within.  His steps were silent on the stone floor, for he wore no boots, in fact wore no garments at all.  The air was hot, and sticky with dampness, and the man wore a sheen of sweat across his bare body.  But if the sorcerer paid no heed to his surroundings, and when he stepped on a broken piece of stone flooring, opening a shallow gash in the sole of his foot, he neither flinched nor changed his pace.  Footprints splayed out in fresh blood were left in his wake, marking a grim trail as he strode into the chamber beyond the doors.

He walked down a set of broad, slightly curving stone steps that descended into a broad chamber fashioned in the shape of an octagon.  Energetic red flames danced in braziers of tarnished bronze set into the stone around the perimeter of the chamber, casting everything in a harsh, ruddy glow.  The ceiling rose in tiers to a point somewhere high above, lost in shadow.  

The center of the place was dominated by a dais formed of three steps, each higher than the last, forming a platform at least six feet above the floor of the chamber.  Atop the dais a ring of slender pillars fashioned of a black, dull metal curved inward to converge just shy of touching, like a set of claws rising up from the very rock.  Within that ring the stone of the dais was carved with a swirling, garish blend of hard colors that seemed to be a part of the floor, comprising together a design that served both to attract the eye and make one a bit queasy at the same time.   Beside the pillars and the floor design stood several stone biers, solid slabs of plain gray rock that looked plain beside the adjacent display.  

The room was not unoccupied.  Standing on the edge of the platform was a tall, lean demon, its skin colored a fiery red, its features otherwise appearing human save for its overly large mouth and the slight ridges visible along its hairless skull.  It was clad in a cloak that was the color of blood, which swirled slightly around its body despite that fact that no breeze stirred the chamber.  

There were others as well, shadowy forms that kept to the edges of the room.  The sorcerer paid them no heed.  *He* was not here, but the man could almost feel the familiar presence around him, watching.  

His lips twisted into a sneer as he walked up to the edge of the dais, standing before the tall demon perched on its edge like a vulture waiting for his prey to expire.  The demon matched his expression, but there was something in his eyes, an edge as it regarded the human standing boldly before it.  

“Are you prepared to accept the power that is being offered you this day, manling?” the demon rasped.

The man did not reply, but he climbed the steps up to the dais, and when he shifted his eyes to regard the demon, they were cold, empty. 

“You must make this choice of your own free will,” the demon said, its tone mocking.  “You can turn away and leave this place, if you wish, at any moment.”  

The human turned to face the demon, and a look of contempt appeared on his features.  “Bring on your test, demon, and be done with it.”

The demon turned away, and gestured.  A shadowy form emerged from the edges of the chamber, resolving into a hunched, massive form that approached and clambered up atop the dais.  It was a hezrou, the twisted intelligence that shone in its eyes belied by the horror of its appearance.  As the red-skinned demon pointed it moved into the circle in the center of the dais reluctantly but inexorably.  

The demon began to chant, and as he spoke, each foul syllable hanging in the air like a cloud of smoke, the room seemed to darken, the lights around the perimeter fading as if the words were choking off their supply of air.  A new source of light appeared around the metal pylons, however, a hazy, deep glow that was a mélange of dark colors, and the pattern in the floor began to shift, swimming in a dizzying spiral through the very stone.  The demon twisted back, staggering if drunk, trying reflexively to claw its way out of the circle.  The way was unbarred, but it could not escape, trapped in the matrix of energies released by the dark chant.  

And then, in a new horror, the demon began to scream, a terrible sound, and with each new burst of sound its skin began to peel back off its body in huge slabs, revealing muscle and organs beneath.  As the light touched the innards of its putrid form they began to smoke and dissolve, as if acid had been poured upon them.  The shrieks intensified for a moment, seeming to shake the very walls, and then, abruptly, they stopped. 

The red-skinned demon continued its chant, and shot a sideways glance at the human.  The sorcerer had stood still throughout the ritual, impassive, although the terrible barrage of sights and sounds would have driven many a mortal man hopelessly mad.  No emotion whatsoever shone in his dark eyes, however, nothing save a reflection of the flames around the edges of the chambers.  

The inner stuff of the demon had boiled away, leaving only a sick pile of greasy leavings in the center of the circle, and the demon’s hide, hovering in the air above the still-spinning pattern.  

The demon finished its chant.  “The power is yours to take, human.”

Without hesitation the sorcerer stepped forward into the circle.  The ring blazed a nimbus of fire around him as he passed between the metal pylons, but the flames died away an instant later as he stepped forward onto the swirling pattern.  The pattern’s colors twisted and distorted where his bare feet touched the stone, sending out black tendrils through the spiral.  The sorcerer turned and faced the demon, which began once again its dark chant.  

Suddenly, as if it was a living thing, the skin of the demon, hovering above the form of the man, lashed down and wrapped itself around his naked body.  The man lurched and his head snapped up, his jaw open in a soundless scream.  The demonic hide rippled and pulsed as it seared onto the body of the man, fading into his own skin in places, forming a warped second skin in others.  

Then it was done.  The glow dissipated, the spiral of colors faded back into the stone, the last echoes of the chant dropped away into memory.  The flames in their braziers leapt up once again, casting their light on the hunched figure within the circle atop the dais.  He had fallen, though not fully collapsed, kneeling in a crouch with his head low.  

“Rise,” the red-skinned demon said, and this time the voice was deep and full, not his own.  

The sorcerer stood.  His appearance was more or less what it was, at least if one didn’t look too clearly at the places on his body where the skin seemed to bulge out slightly, as if he were wearing an ill-fitting garment.  But his eyes... they shone with a glow of twin flames, and it was not just a reflection of the lights in the chamber.  The glow came from within.  

He strode out of the circle.

“Hail, Acolyte of the Skin,” the demon said, in that deep, familiar voice.  

Delem smiled.


END OF BOOK VI


----------



## Maldur

So Cruel, so ...... ( words fail me)


That was a immense ending.

LB you are (as Horacio once commented) a master Storyteller.


----------



## Reg Dword

That was a great ending to this book Lazybones! 

I don't know much about the acolyte of the skin PrC. Can someone post the stats for it?


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## Lazybones

The PrC is from _Tome and Blood_.  This came up on google, and contains the exact text:

http://www.angelfire.com/games3/3DandD/prestige_classes/acolyte_of_the_skin.html


----------



## wolff96

Wow.

What an ending!

Hehe...  I'd feel bad about giving the DM nasty ideas, but at least I'm not hurting any players anywhere this time. Let's see what Delem can do with his new Acolyte powers...  Muahahaha...

You really should think about publishing at some point. This is a great story.


----------



## Maldur

Lazybones, could you update the Rogues gallery, Im very curious how Delem turned out


----------



## Horacio

Maldur said:
			
		

> *Lazybones, could you update the Rogues gallery, Im very curious how Delem turned out  *




Yes, please, please, we want to know!


----------



## Lazybones

Maldur said:
			
		

> *Lazybones, could you update the Rogues gallery, Im very curious how Delem turned out  *





Done; check the link in my sig.

I had him gain a few levels, to signify his "training" at the hands of the demons; his spell selection has broadened somewhat as well (while still focusing primarily on fire-magic).

As for what happens to him, and how Selune's mysterious comment to Dana comes to pass, we'll see in book VII.  

Thanks all for reading the story, and for your comments.  As always I will take a little break having finished yet another book of _Travels_, but I've already started on Book VII and I'll be back before too long.  I've also given some thought to writing up one of the sessions of my current PnP group (in which I'm a player, not a DM), but if I do it will be in a briefer, episodic style (a la (contact)), not in the extended narrative I use here in _Travels_.  I'll also get a chance to catch up on some of the storyhours I've been following off and on.  

LB


----------



## Maldur

Waiting for the next episode was always worth it, so I dont mind ( that much)

Thx, Lazybones.


----------



## Dungannon

Whew, it took two weeks but I finally caught up to the present of TttWW, all 6 books.  Good thing my job isn't too time consuming.

Lazybones, this is simply one of the best story hours going.  You continually surprise and amaze, but more importantly, you constantly entertain.  Keep up the great work and I look forward to book VII, can't wait to see how Dana rejoins the party, and how they react to the new and improved(!?!) Delem.


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## Reg Dword

Using my psychic powers I predict we will hear from Lazybones today. If my psychic powers have failed me then consider this a simple bump.


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## Lazybones

Oooh, eerie powers... 

Welcome to Book VII, where all hell breaks loose in the Western Heartlands.  Some old familiar faces that haven't been seen in quite a while will reappear, and some new friends--and enemies--come into the story.

I haven't prepared a summary or character list, but will update the Rogues' Gallery thread at some point this week.  Lok, Cal, and Benzan are now ECL 12. 


* * * * * 

Travels through the Wild West
Book VII


Book VII, Part 1


The small village of Elden’s Pond looked like any of a thousand hamlets in the rural expanse of the Western Heartlands.  Thirty buildings in an assortment of wood and stone huddled close together by the side of the pond, which in turn was surrounded by the fields of the village’s farming families.  Since this was the Western Heartlands, the village was surrounded by a wall.  This fortification, however almost seemed present for esthetic reasons rather than for defense, as it came barely to chest height, and it showed clear signs of infrequent repair.  A visitor might have commented on this apparent disregard for the risks of this still untamed region, but for the fact that Elden’s Pond was situated a mere five hours’ walk from Berdusk.  That geographic relationship was important for the hundred and fifty residents of the village, however, for it meant that they were under the protection of Twilight Hall, the headquarters of the Harpers, and they could sleep safer knowing that there were few who would challenge _that_ organization in its own den.  

Thus it was that no one challenged the stranger who arrived late one afternoon in the spring of the year 1374 as reckoned by the Dalelands calendar.  The villagers of Elden’s Pond were used to seeing visitors, typically folks up from the south on their way to Berdusk, who arrived too late to want to press on to the city, or city folk themselves who came to trade for the agricultural products of the hamlet.  In all honesty, the villagers had gotten somewhat lazy with time, comfortable with their situation after years of relative prosperity.  True, the just-completed winter had been a little rougher than usual, and there were reports of increased bandit activity out on the western trade roads this spring, but only the most foolish bandit would try to operate anywhere near Berdusk.  

The stranger rode a dun mare, and the plain quality of his garments identified him as a middling merchant, perhaps, or a southlander up from Amn or Tethyr looking for opportunities in the open lands of the Western Heartlands.  The custom in these lands wasn’t to ask too many questions, though, so after a brief conversation with the deputy who was warding the village gate that day the stranger was allowed in and directed to the sole inn, a compact two-story structure named The Whispering Willow.  

The place was starting to get crowded, as the village residents came to the inn to enjoy a warm drink, good food, and friendly camaraderie with the end of the day’s labors.  They were a young crowd, mostly male, as those with families tended to spend their evenings in the company of their kin.  There was some curiosity toward the stranger from the assembled gathering, but he replied to their questions with only curt replies, ate his dinner quickly, and retired early.  Speculation about the traveler kept the evening’s activity going for a little longer than usual, but in the end the farmers returned to their homes, and the innkeeper and his family closed down for the night.  Other than the stranger, the only other guests of the inn that night was a young married couple, residents of the town who were having the roof of their house repaired after suffering damage in a late-winter storm.   

In his room, a small but comfortable chamber in one corner of the inn’s second story, Lashkar Gah sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for the village to settle down into a night’s sleep.  He was nervous, but also excited, impatient as the minutes ticked slowly by.  The saddlebags he’d brought up to his room sat unpacked atop the tiny round table in the corner of the room, along with a lamp, turned low so that its glow only barely reached him.

Lashkar Gah was not his real name, or at least was not the name he had been born with.  Inside the privacy of his own thoughts, he’d stopped using that old name, discarded it along with the other trappings of that once-life.  His new name meant “speaker of lies” in one of the ancient languages of Faerûn, and now it fit him like a glove.  

He waited, fidgeting slightly.  He started a litany, a dark prayer that he muttered in a harsh whisper, but could not focus long on the dire pronouncements that were part of that chant.  To steady himself he crossed to the saddlebags, and quietly dug something out of one of them.  It was a lacquered wooden box, about as long as his forearm, with its edges bound in brass.  He ignored the hasp and instead turned the box over, pressing slightly in two places with his fingers.  At his touch the bottom of the box fell open, revealing a shallow hidden compartment underneath.  Two items fell out; a flat disk about a palm across, and a tightly wound vellum scroll.  He caught the scroll, but the disk escaped his grasp and clattered on the top of the wooden table.  Even in the faint light of the lamp, the ensign etched onto the thin metal plate was instantly obvious, a black sunburst with a jawless skull floating within.

The Dark Sun.  

Lashkar Gah looked around his room, a look of worry briefly crossing his features before he took hold of himself.  The sound had not really been that loud, and in any case the innkeeper and his family were likely fast asleep by now.  And even if someone did stir within the inn this night—how could any of them hope to challenge him?  Even without his armor and his blade, he was more than a match for a dozen of these rural yokels, two dozen perhaps.  With an uneven laugh, he took up the icon and placed it in his pocket.

He fingered the amulet around his neck, dangling against his chest under his coat.  He sat down again, and waited.  The night was quiet, broken only occasionally by the sound of a barking dog somewhere in the village, or the whisper of the night breeze under the eaves of the inn.  

Finally, it was time.  

Lashkar Gah rose and crossed to the table.  He paused to brighten the lamp incrementally, just enough so that he could clearly read the writing on the scroll as he laid it upon the table.  Then he opened the box again—this time lifting the lid normally—and took out the three vials inside the padded interior.  

He drank the first two potions quickly.  He glanced at the third vial—if it turned out that his mission tonight failed, he was supposed to drink that one.  Quickly, he took up the vial and shoved it into another pocket.  

The twin elixirs took effect, and had an observer been present he might have noticed that something changed in the way the man carried himself, as if he’d suddenly grown more imposing, his presence swelling to dominate the room.  His demeanor also seemed more sure, his motions confident, as he sat down at the table and peered at the writing on the scroll. 

Without hesitation, he began to read.  The spell upon the scroll was beyond his abilities, but it was written on the scroll three times, in case he proved unable to complete the reading successfully on his first efforts.  Assuming he did not kill himself with a mishap, of course.  He did not know which member of his order had written the scroll, but he had successfully completed the spell in a test, and that had been enough for his superiors to entrust him with this mission.

His lips twisted into a sneer even as he continued to utter the complex syllables of the spell.  He knew the real reason, of course.  He was expendable, and if he failed, or was even captured, he would not be able to reveal too much about the larger plots of which he was just a simple cog.  

The reading went on, and on.  The writing on the scroll didn’t seem that long, but he repeated passages, changing the inflections, forming a web of sounds that he drew out into a deeper, more complex lattice of divine power.  The ritual was a lengthy one, and his head hurt with the strain of it, but he had done it once, and seen it done other times, and he knew that he could do it.  

Finally, he was done.  He looked down at the scroll.  He had finished the reading, and nothing had happened.  Cursing silently, he recognized the word that he had mispronounced on the final pass, voiding the magic.  

There was nothing to it but to start again on the second writing of the spell.  The light of the lamp had faded, its supply of oil nearly depleted.  He considered going downstairs for more oil, but decided not to risk it.  What if the innkeeper, or his wife, was up late?  Instead he paused to cast a minor spell, summoning a magical _light_ that he placed upon the failing lantern.  Once again the dark syllables flowed around him, seeming overly loud even though he kept his voice to a whisper.  

Even before he finished he could feel the power building, and he exulted at the flowing of power.  He completed the spell, his success banishing his exhaustion, and as the spidery words scribed on the scroll flared and vanished, he turned to his right, directing the magic to an empty space by the foot of the bed.  

His _light_ spell started to fade, and he hastily cast another one, banishing the shadows that had quickly gathered around him.  All but one, that is.  As the light brightened again it outlined a dark, wavering form, hovering in the air just a pace away, its eyes bright pinpricks of light that shone with a dark, twisted malevolence as they fixed upon his face.  For a moment the thing wavered in the light, then, eagerly, it reached for him. 

Lashkar Gah did not hesitate.  “Hold,” he said, hastily drawing out the symbol of the Dark Sun from his pocket.  “You are mine,” he said, as he stood.  The chair scraped back noisily as he rose, but he was no longer worried about such minor details.  If he failed to gain control of the shadow he’d created, things could go very badly very quickly.  

But he felt the amulet around his neck flare with a surge of power, bolstering his attempt to gain control over the creature.  He felt like laughing—with the amulet, and the boost to his charisma granted by the potion he’d consumed, his ability to control undead was as great as that of Karak himself.  Still, there was a moment of uncertainty as the shadow drifted slightly closer, trembling as if uncertain what to do, but then it drew back within itself, compliant.  

“What...  wantss...  living...  mansss...”  The shadow’s voice was like a cold wind through a graveyard, barely more than a whisper.  

“Listen carefully,” the cleric of Cyric said, confident now that the hard part of his mission was finished.  It was still possible that he would not survive the night, but at least the mandate given him by his superiors—and his dark master—would be fulfilled.  

Careful to keep his instructions simple, he told the creature what he wanted from it. 

The undead creature quavered, its glowing eyes flaring in anticipation.


----------



## Maldur

Red Dword, you have very scary powers ( or are in legue with LB)!

Lazybones, good to hear from you
Great start, very promising, in a scary sort of way!


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## Black Bard

*True gift...*

I'm glad that after being bestowed with 5 weeks of delightful reading I'm receiving such a boon...And it's only 2 days since I finished Book VI!!!

I would have posted earlier, but I'd rather finish reading to comment anything... And now, what can I say??
It's wonderful!! I really like your style, and I think everyone will agree with me when I say that you know how to "get a hold" on your readers...  

Anyway, _Travels_ is a great story, and I'm anxious to see how our heroes will fare in this new book...
Congratulations!!!


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## wolff96

We've started book VII!

Nice start, Lazybones... I have a scary feeling I know what that cleric is up to -- we'll see if I'm right.

Great to see this awesome storyhour back in regular updates. Your storyhour and Sepulchrave's are my two favorites by far.

P.S. -- Will we see a Rogue's Gallery update soon with the new stats for our heroes?


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## Lazybones

Welcome aboard, Black Bard, and thanks to all for the kudos.  I can honestly say that it's the reader feedback that has kept this story going as long as it has.  Well, that and a very boring job.

More stage-setting and bad-things-a-happenin'...

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 2

The city of Elturel, perched on a bluff overlooking the slow-moving River Chionthar below, slept a quiet and peaceful sleep.  

A spring storm had come and gone that day, and the streets were slick with puddles gathered in dips in the roads and in the lee of the buildings.  A thick bank of clouds still hung over the sky, so the city was all shadows and indistinct lumps in the darkness of the night.  

In the working-class district of the city, night hung heavily over the dark streets and narrow alleys.  Under the wise rule of the High Rider, Lord Dhelt, the city could not be said to have a true slum, but here the streets tended to be narrower, the buildings in a poorer state of repair.  

Light and the sound of booted footsteps broke the night, their source resolving into a sextet of armed men clad in the livery of the High Rider.  The patrol moved swiftly through the streets, their hard eyes darting into every crack and corner, for all that their vision could press little further than the radius of their torches.  The streets were still, and no footpad or burglar scattered at their coming this night.  Continuing their watch, the six men moved efficiently through the streets, their light finally fading as they rounded a corner onto another narrow avenue. 

As the last lingering ray of light faded, several shadows emerged from the shelter of a nearby alley.  At first, the three looked like malevolent undead, shades that sought the warm touch of the living, but as they moved further into the street, it became clear that they were just men, clad in dark, hooded cloaks that muted any details of their form.  They were carrying large, box-shaped objects, wrapped in thick cloths that dangled out below them.  As they moved into the street, jostling those objects, faint sounds could be heard from within.  

“This is a bad business,” one of the men said under his breath.  The words weren’t intended to travel, but the man in the lead apparently heard, for he spun abruptly. 

“Silence!” he hissed.  The original speaker lowered his gaze and did not reply.  

The leader gestured, and the two others turned in opposite directions, heading down the street.  Within a few moments, both had been swallowed up by the night, vanishing back into the shadows.  

The first cloaked figure paused, then crossed the street to where another alley ran into utter blackness.  He did not need to see to know where this alley led; it backed onto a narrow courtyard that backed onto a busy inn, and two adjacent three-story tenements that each housed perhaps a hundred laborers, crowded into apartments that were built to contain perhaps half that number.  Elturel was a prosperous city, especially with the coming of the spring trade, and like many cities its demand for cheap labor outpaced its ability to provide housing for them.  

The figure did not enter the alley, but bent down and laid his burden down in its mouth.  With a sudden movement he drew back the covering, revealing a large wire cage.  The light was too poor to make out more than a writhing, moving mass within, but the squeaking sound that was now audible was a sufficient identifier for its contents.  

Moving quickly, the man undid the front of the cage, darting back carefully as the score or so of rats exploded into the alley.  A few started back toward him, but a few stamps of his feet drove them back in the direction of their fellows.  He carefully checked the cage for stragglers, then snapped the gate back in place and took up the cage again.  He moved quickly back to the far side of the street, disappearing back into the alleyway from which he had come.  There was no need to wait for his companions; he knew that others were watching, and if they failed at their tasks, there would be no traces left behind for the authorities to find.  

Smiling grimly to himself, the agent found the doorway in the darkness and vanished back into the building from which he’d come, still moving quickly.  By the time dawn came, he hoped to be well away from Elturel, a fat purse speeding him along his way.

* * * * * 

Dawn broke on the Western Heartlands, the sun rising swiftly over the eastern horizon, shining through the clouds for the first time in several days, promising a brighter day than the last few dreary ones as a spring storm had passed through on its long march south.  

The settlement didn’t even have a name, just one of the scattered clusters of farmhouses that dotted the plains along the eastern edge of The Reaching Woods.  The settlement had the look of a military outpost, the buildings squat blockhouses fashioned from thick logs with narrow windows that resembled arrowslits.  The buildings were connected by similarly heavy fences, forming a courtyard in the center that contained a well and a small outdoor workshop covered by a sloping slate roof.  Even the outbuildings, the animal pens and barns, seemed to huddle close to the outer walls of the central structures, as if seeking shelter from the dangers of the world outside.  

As the first rays of the morning sun hit the settlement, they should have illuminated its members already well into their morning chores.  Instead, the area in and around the buildings was relatively quiet, with no sounds of activity.  Even before the light brightened enough to clearly discern the signs, it was clear that something was wrong; the smell of smoke and burned flesh hung in the air, and the main gate to the settlement hung open, dangling drunkenly with one of its hinges torn free from its threshold in the thick wooden fence.  

The morning light also revealed a dark figure, clad in a heavy fur cloak that draped down over the hind quarters of his horse, a thick sword at his belt and a crossbow slung across his saddlehorn.  He watched the settlement impassively, waiting.  

Finally a single figure emerged from the settlement, and started toward the waiting rider.  The dawn revealed the stranger as a monstrous humanoid creature, standing easily seven feet in height, with reptilian features dominated by a pair of sweeping wings that erupted from his back, and gaping draconic jaws.  The reptile-man was clad in armor that was built to accommodate the unique features of his frame, and bore a variety of weapons, including a wicked morningstar and a pair of curving swords at his belt.  As it exited the settlement it scanned the exterior, as if looking for something, then it turned and hurried to join the rider.  

“Did you check everything, Varex?” the rider asked.  His voice was deep, authoritarian; the voice of a man used to having his orders obeyed.  

The reptile-man looked as though he could have crushed the man’s head with a single squeeze of its massive, clawed hand, but he nodded in deference to the human.  “Nothing living remains in that place,” it reported.  

“Did you leave the sigil, where it would be found?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  Lord Jeilu, as well as the Undying One, will be pleased.”

“Then we will get the magic, that which was promised.”

“Indeed you shall, Varex, all that was promised, and perhaps more.  Come.  The others have already departed, with the captives.  Once we have established a trail far enough to the north, they will break off and make their way back into the wood.  I know that you do not want to miss what happens when they reach the rendezvous...”

The dragonkin warrior did not respond, but its eyes flared eagerly, and it licked its lips with a rough, forked tongue.  It followed the rider as he spurred his horse and rode off to the north, leaving the empty settlement behind.


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## djrdjmsqrd

*LB!*

Greetings all,
Just thought I would pop in with my two-cents and say thank you for continuing the efforts of this thread, great job all.

Always, your friendly wallflower,
Djordje


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## Black Bard

*Part 2...*

I wonder what those rogues are up to unleashing such a plague of rats in Elturel... But I can smell trouble, that's for sure... 

And finally the "Great Alliance" begins to play the game... I can sense an even greater problem here... 

With all this evil growing up, someone would ask: " Where are our heroes??"

Anyway, great post!!!


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## Lazybones

Heh... about a month ago, I spent an entire staff meeting coming up with ideas on how to screw with the Western Heartlands.  A lot of those notes ended up in my book VII outline.  As for the heroes, we'll get to them very shortly, but first, the last of the "setting the stage" posts, as we visit another famous Faerunian site, and are reintroduced to some guest stars from an earlier chapter:

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 3


Long rays of afternoon sunlight sparkled as they passed through the multi-paned windows situated along the cantilevered bases of the sloping roof of Twilight Hall, laying down lines of brightness along the smooth, polished wooden floor.  

Twilight Hall, the headquarters of the Harpers, was formed of wood and stone that seemed to blend together in smooth harmony.  The Hall was a compound of structures, really, situated on the edges of the prosperous city of Berdusk, but its distinguishing feature was the large central hall, a building constructed by talented artisans who’d invested a part of themselves its making, and there were many who said that magic had aided them in that work.  The place had the look of a hunting lodge, albeit one crafted for giants, but it was also solid, built as if to withstand a siege.  In fact, the structure had in fact served in such a defensive role several times in Faerûn’s tumultuous history, and blood had been shed on those smooth wooden floors in the past.  

At most times, the main hall was a busy place, filled with comings and goings, as well as people just taking their rest.  Comfortable couches and leather-upholstered armchairs lined the walls, along with bookcases that contained volumes collected from all over the Realms.  Music and stories produced by famous bards were often heard here, accompanied many times by the boisterous noise of men and women engaging in games of chance or tests of mental or physical skill. 

But this afternoon, Twilight Hall was quiet, a somber air hanging over the place, and only a single occupant filled the large open space of the main structure.  At one end of the hall stood a long table of polished blueleaf, surrounded by two dozen chairs of expert and elaborate craftsmanship.  Seated at the table was a single individual, a woman well into her middle years, a look of concentration on a face that was still attractive, if currently lined with the weight of heavy concern.  She was apparently engaged in writing letters, her pen dancing across a sheet of parchment as she swiftly added lines in a smooth, flowing hand.  To the side, propped against an adjacent chair, stood a mandolin, a bow and quiver of long arrows, and a longsword, forgotten for the moment but within easy reach.  The woman herself wore a simple green tunic that could not entirely hide the glimmer of silvery mail links underneath.

She did not look up as two newcomers entered the hall, even though the sounds of their boots upon the floor were clearly audible.  They were an odd pair, who wore the dust of the road and other signs of a long journey just completed.  The first was a silver-haired moon elf, clad in a simple but functional outfit of layered greens and browns.  He carried a composite longbow nearly as tall as he was, itself fashioned from a wood that looked at first glance as if it was silver itself, especially when he walked through the shafts of sunlight.  His companion was a tall, bulky warrior of mixed blood, a half-orc with a pair of battleaxes strapped to his back and wearing a chain shirt under a thick fur vest.  

The pair crossed the hall and came to a stop just a few paces from the table and the woman bard.  As the sound of their footsteps faded she finally looked up, and a worn smile creased her features.  

“Lariel, Gorath, it’s good to see you.  I only wish it was under better circumstances.”  She rose, and embraced each of them in turn.

“We heard the stories, along the road,” the elf said.  “And saw the faces of the people here in the city.”

The woman turned her gaze out toward the hall.  The place was quiet, empty, but it was clear that she was seeing something else, a memory of a tenday past, when the hall had been full not of people celebrating and relaxing, but injured people in rows, tended to by clerics as they lay in cots, some barely able to lift their arms high enough to call for help.  Her brow tightened. 

“Cylyria, are you all right?” the elf asked, concern written clearly in his voice.

The woman nodded.  “It was bad, but it could have been much worse.”  She gestured toward the table, and the three of them sat down.  

“It started in Elden’s Pond, a little village less than a day’s walk from here, to the south along the Aldoon Trail.”

“I know the place,” Lariel said, and his companion nodded with a grunt.

“It was late in the day when a merchant caravan coming up from Greenest stopped in the village.  They’d intended to just stop briefly, to water their horses and put some food in their men before pushing on to Berdusk, but the village was quiet, and no one came out to greet them.  What they found...”

With an angry shake of her head, Cylyria gained control of herself and continued.  Underneath the obvious strain on her there was an iron resolve, an edge that was appropriate for one of the highest leaders of the Harpers.  “They were attacked when they entered the village inn.  It was a cloudy day, so a few of them even came outside, to assault the wagoneers.  We were lucky that even one was able to escape, and the undead did not pursue, uncomfortable even in the pale light that filtered down through the clouds.”

“The surviving merchant rode hard to Berdusk, and raised the alarm.  The sun was already setting by the time he arrived, but we rallied everyone we could, and rode south.  I was all too aware the with darkness the creatures could spread out, cover a lot of ground, and there are other villages, scattered communities radiating out for leagues around the city.”

“We encountered them halfway to Elden’s Pond, moving in a single mass straight toward Berdusk.  Hundreds of them.  They must have killed every single villager in the place, to number so many.”

“Shadows,” Lariel said to himself, his own face a grim mask.  “How could they take an entire village, without anyone sounding an alarm, or trying to escape?  It would only take one, to find a horse, spread word...”

“Not smart,” Gorath said, his first contribution to the conversation.  “Not completely mindless, but they’re not that smart.”

“Indeed,” Cylyria said.  “That’s one of the things that keeps spawning undead from ravaging across Faerûn.  The higher forms are more intelligent, but shadows are not known for coordinating their efforts so.  In a way, they are almost feral, competing with each other to steal the life-energies that they crave so.”

Lariel shuddered.  

“How many did we lose?” Gorath asked. 

“Too many.  Cel Marad.  Galandros.  Fezran Tor.  A score of guardsmen from the city, brave men.  The shadows forced us back, at first, and when we regrouped they had almost reached the walls of the city.  We met them with everything we had—magic, clerical power.  It was Coran Velos, the high priest of Lathander, who ultimately turned the tide.  He charged into their midst, blasting them with divine energies, and when that was spent, cast spells of healing that tore apart the fabric of their warped existence.  They swarmed on him like flies on a spilled pot of honey, but he continued to destroy them even as they drained his life away.  He gave us the time to deplete their numbers, even at the cost of his own life.”   

“But...” Lariel interjected.  “Surely he could have warded himself against their negative energies...”

Cylyria shook her head.  “By pure chance, he had not prayed for the spell that day.  Several members of his congregation had taken ill, and he used his prayers to treat their sickness.  We had no time to prepare, and if we had not had even the little warning that we did, those things would have fallen upon Berdusk in full force.”  She did not have to elaborate; each of them knew the possibilities of what might have happened. 

“I knew Coran,” Lariel said.  “He was a good man.”

“We made sure that his soul was freed, to go on to its proper place in the Heavens,” Cylyria said.  “We would not leave him to a cursed existence as an undead thing.”

“Troubled times all over,” Gorath noted.

“Yes,” Cylyria said.  “The plague in Elturel, although it’s more or less contained since Dhelt quarantined the city.  They say that he himself spent days in the stricken neighborhoods, curing the sick.  Five city wells in Scornubel poisoned, with scores dying and many more seriously ill.  Bandits have been raiding the eastern marches, taking on even well-armed caravans, and the Purple Dragons, who used to patrol the mountain passes and the eastern trade routes, have not ventured out of Cormyr for several years now, ever since the current troubles there began.”

“We heard that there have been slaving raids as well, up north,” Lariel said.

Cylyria made a disgusted face.  “Yes, mostly isolated settlements, but they’ve been hit hard, and they didn’t leave much behind but bodies and scattered traces that all lead north.  Some signs were found, though, that link the raids to the followers of Bane.”

“I thought that the Zhents were laying low in this region,” the elf commented.  “From what I had heard, they’ve got their own internal problems, and their activities have always been focused on the Moonsea region in any case.”

“Banites,” Gorath spat, the word coming out as a curse.  

“Darkhold has denied responsibility—why would they take slaves here, when there are no markets for them within thousands of leagues?”

“The Zhents have access to portals,” Lariel reminded her.

“Yes, I haven’t forgotten that, as if that little fiasco in the Dalelands last year wasn’t enough of a reminder.  But somehow, I’m a little suspect.  Everything that’s happened—it’s all too neat to be a coincidence, but it just isn’t the Zhents’ style.”

“If not the Zhents, then who?”

“At this point, we have all the usual suspects.  The dark churches: Shar, Mask, Cyric, and a few others who haven’t been as active out here.  The Iron Throne and the Shadow Thieves have been active on the Sword Coast for some time, but these sorts of things seem a bit ambitious even for them.  Or it could be a fiendish plot; reports indicate that the practice of demon-worship is taking hold again among some of the humanoid tribes dwelling in the western mountains.  It’s possible even that your friends from up north are involved in some way; I read your report on what they’re doing up in Ascore.” 

“As far as we can tell, they’ve got a semi-permanent camp there, but they haven’t ventured far beyond the edge of the desert,” Lariel said.  

“What you may not know is that one of them was killed in a warehouse in Elturel last year, in connection with that whole Cyricist arms-running operation.”  Lariel and Gorath shared a look at that news, but said nothing.    

“Divination wasn’t able to reveal any clues?”

“Only a few scattered bits of information.  Whoever’s behind this has covered their tracks well, and they have some potent allies in high places to help shield them.”

“What does the Lords’ Alliance have to say about all this?”

“At the moment, the official line is that it’s just another bid for power by the Zhents.  They may be right, especially if Fzoul’s been able to smooth over the internal dissention at Darkhold, but as I said, I have my doubts.”

“So you want us to gather information then, find out who or what is behind this,” Lariel concluded. 

“I hate to admit it, but we are scattered.  There are just too many things going on in the Realms right now, and many of our best agents are too deeply involved to pull out and bring back here to deal with this.  And we’ve lost some good people in the last year, even before what the bards are already calling the Night of the Shadows.  There are some others who perhaps, might be able to help... but we will have to see.”

Lariel stood, and Gorath was quick to follow.  “We’ll do our best,” he promised.  

“I know,” Cylyria said, hugging them both again before they stepped back away from the table.  “Good luck to you, and may the luck of the Lady follow your steps.”

Lariel nodded, and the two Harpers left.  Cylyria watched them go, and with a sigh returned to her place at the table, and the stack of letters that she still had to write before morning.


----------



## Broccli_Head

Hey LB, love the way things are changing in your Realms!

IMC, already a major city in the Heartlands is in jeopardy. Thanks for inspiring me and other DMs to mess with status quo and canon!


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## Lazybones

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> *Hey LB, love the way things are changing in your Realms!
> 
> IMC, already a major city in the Heartlands is in jeopardy. Thanks for inspiring me and other DMs to mess with status quo and canon! *
> _emphasis added_




Thanks broc; this struck a chord with me, so I thought I'd reply on a philosophical note aimed at the larger community in general. 

Many people hate the Forgotten Realms because of the prevalence of high-level NPCs (both good and evil).  They suggest that PCs will always be overshadowed in a world where Elminster, Cylyria, Storm, the Seven Sisters, and all the others exist, and that you can never have truly new "heroes" in a world with so many potent figures already in place.

If you haven't already guessed, I think this is totally bunk.  I added the emphasis above because the FRCS itself insists that the setting is there to be changed by each individual DM, and that "canon" is meant to be overturned if that's what the DM wants to do.  Personally, I like bringing in elements from the sourcebooks and novels (not too many of the latter, though), and I think it enriches the story to have a setting that many people are already familiar with.  That said, _Travels_ is my tale, not Ed Greenwood, Bob Salvatore, or WotC's, and I am perfectly willing to change whatever I want in order to tell a good story.  

Just my 2c from the safety of my own thread (I've learned that you participate in the "love FR/hate FR" threads at your own risk  ).


----------



## Maldur

HE, I do love your Forgotten realms, and it did help in messing up mine, I even had to warn my players it was not the FR they could read about elsewhere.

You also give a good example of how very different characters can work together (even becoming friend or more) despite their differences.

Great stuff, but where are the Travellers?


----------



## Lazybones

Tried a few times over the holiday weekend to get this up, but either I couldn't log on, or couldn't post when I finally did get on.  Anyway, here's an update of what our band of heroes has been up to since the end of book 6.

* * * * *

Book VII, Part 4


_ Journal Entry
28 Tarsakh, 1374 Dalereckoning

It has been a long time since I have last written an entry here.  Alera suggested... no, _insisted_ would be a better word, I think—that I write again, to explore some of the feelings that have troubled me since... since Undermountain.  I thought I had kept my thoughts from showing on my face, but Alera has always had the ability to see beneath the surface.  Even on the day that we returned, she never blamed me for what happened to Pelanther—for Pel’s death.  I wish that I could dismiss the lingering guilt that torments me as well.  I _know_, in an intellectual sense, that there was nothing that I could have done differently, that we had all willingly embarked upon our mission with full knowledge of the risks.  

But that realization doesn’t make it any easier at night, when the dark thoughts come.  And the dreams.

We placed Nelan in the custody of the church of Oghma, and there he remains, a full month later.  The high priest offers optimistic assessments when we visit, but the truth is written so plainly in his eyes that it is almost painful to hear them.  Perhaps Nelan will someday recover.  If in fact the being that we brought back from Undermountain _is_ Nelan, bears some small part of who he is, and is not merely a shell crafted by the fell power of the deepspawn.  Alera refuses to give up hope, however, and so I will add my prayers to her own.  

Dana and I have both been hard at work tracing clues to help her decipher what she learned in her _commune_ with her goddess.  Ah, Dana.  We were quite surprised when we ran into her as we were returning to the shaft at the Yawning Portal, but in hindsight, the idea of her braving the deadly dangers of Undermountain alone is not at all farfetched.  She is brave, and more powerful now than ever, and yet at her heart is the same woman that we rescued from the clutches of those hobgoblin brigands not so long ago.  I still smile when I think of the way she and Benzan came together when they first saw each other, and in the last month it has seemed to me that while Dana’s inner wounds have not fully healed, she is more at peace with herself than I have seen in a long time.  And Benzan seems better, too; that pleases me as well, for I was worried about him after what happened in Undermountain.  For good or for ill, though, the irreverent, wise-cracking, and smart-assed fellow that we all know and love has returned in full force.  Dana has taken some of the sharper edges off him, and for all that he pretends to protest at the loss of his “freedom,” I believe that he is more genuinely happy now than I have ever seen him.  I wish them both the very best.

Lok is as stalwart as ever.  He has elected to remain with us, and aid us in our quest to free Delem from the clutches of the demons that have enslaved his soul.  I am not surprised, of course; Lok has always been the rock that has served as an anchor for us, holding us together through the many storms that we have faced.  We all gladly contributed a share of the treasure that we brought back from the deepspawn’s lair to outfit him in new armor, and to commission a powerful battleaxe for his use.  Even though what we left behind could almost fill the room in which I am writing this (and Benzan, despite his comments at the time, has mourned the loss of that wealth on more than one occasion), what we did recover was sufficient for all of us to upgrade our gear and replace lost and depleted items.  Benzan invested most of his share in purchasing a magical bow, and Dana has bought some magical boots that greatly increase her speed.  I myself obtained a backpack similar to Lok’s old _bag of holding,_ which should prove very useful in our future journeys.  I also took the time to scribe some new scrolls, and have mastered a few new enchantments with the patient help of Alera.  

The last few days, I have felt a lingering sense of anticipation that I cannot fully shake.  Something is in the air, like a storm that one can’t yet see in the sky, but can feel coming.  Maybe Alera is right, I need to get out of this house, leave the laboratory where I have passed so much time this last month, and get out into the city.  Perhaps my avoiding the company of other people and throwing myself into my magical researches was a misguided effort to avoid confronting the thoughts that I haven’t wanted to think, feelings that I didn’t want to feel. 

As I write this, the sun is setting outside, just visible over the roofs of the houses as it sinks down into the water.  It is always an ending, of sorts, a departure of one day spent.  But while I will end this entry with that thought, there’s still a lot of story left to be written.  Tomorrow, after all, is a new day._


----------



## Broccli_Head

good to see Cal writing again!

I have liked his introspection.


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 5


Dana’s feet, clad in soft-soled shoes, slapped against the well-worn cobblestones of the city’s streets as she ran through the diverse neighborhoods of Waterdeep.  The streets were more crowded than she was used to; normally she ran in the early mornings, in the half-light of the dawn, before the hordes of people came out into the city’s avenues with the coming of the day.  Many of the streets were already jammed with people moving about their business, and the sun was barely two hours into its journey across the sky.  Accordingly, Dana directed her course to the lesser-traveled byways, choosing a route that led along the hills near the Mountain and through the city’s several public parks.  

She liked running.  It allowed her to clear her mind, and while at first she had preferred to run in the open spaces outside of the city, she was developing a certain understanding of the charms of the city.  At first she had thought of the place as crowded, dirty, and generally unpleasant, but now, after nearly a month here in town, she was returning the waves of shopkeepers opening up their shops for the early-morning crowd, and smiling at children whose faces held the promise of unlimited things to come.  

Today, though, she was running to distance herself from fresh worries, and she barely noticed the people around her.  For once it was not about her and Benzan; in fact, things had been going great between them ever since their reunion in the dungeons within Undermountain.  Dana had no desire to rush things between them, although it had been quite entertaining the way his face had taken on that momentary look of stark, unrelenting terror, that one time that she had mentioned the “M” word.  She smiled to herself at the memory, but it faded quickly.  

She should have checked sooner, although it was only recently that she’d had the means to do so.  In between her frequent trips to the city’s library and the Mages’ Guild with Cal, she had spent time at the local temple of Lathander.  The clerics of the Morninglord had a scrying font that they willingly allowed her to use, and she in fact had put it to use trying to track down a few leads that her researches had turned up.  

Yesterday, finally, she had decided to use the font and her _scrying_ spell to view her father.  

What had struck her immediately was how old her father had looked.  He seemed to lack the powerful presence that she remembered from her childhood, when he was all that she had, after the death of her mother.  He’d built a mercantile empire from the three-wagon coster that he’d inherited, and held a position of great influence among the leading families that ruled Iriaebor.  His great regret, of course, was that he’d never had a son to inherit his work, and while he’d always shown her love and affection, he’d had not been able to fully hide his feelings from his daughter.  

For a moment, as she had watched him, home at work at the same desk where he had spent so many long evenings when she was a child, he looked up, eyes searching.  He could not see her, however, and her tears falling into the font blurred the image, breaking the connection.

She hadn’t been gone more than a year, and it looked like he’d aged a decade in that time.  Was he ill?  No, if that were the case, he’d have access to the finest clerical aid that worldly wealth could buy.  

She came to a sudden stop, willing the speculations aside with an effort of will.  She looked around, and realized that she’d run into one of the parks along the northern border of the city, not far from the docks.  The city wall was visible to her right, a long arc that held the expanse of trees and grass in its embrace.  

She turned to head back, and froze.  

She wasn’t that far away, close enough so that Dana could have called out to her without raising her voice.  She was seated on a bench under a leaning tree whose branches shielded her from the light of the bright morning sun.  She had changed her hairstyle, and her clothes were a lot different than Dana remembered, but those changes weren’t enough to keep Dana to recognize her instantly.  But it wasn’t anything about her appearance that caused her heart to freeze in her chest for a moment.  

Elewhyn, formerly crewmember of the _Raindancer,_ who had shared their adventures on the Isle of Dread, was holding a small bundle in her arms, and she stared down at it lovingly while she made a few cooing noises.  The bundle shifted, confirming Dana’s initial assumption as a pair of tiny arms reached up toward the half-elven woman’s face.  

Uncertain, Dana retreated back behind a knot of trees, until she could no longer see the woman and her child.  She hadn’t thought of Elly ever since they had parted ways back in Citadel Adbar.  Had it been so long?  The evidence of the child seemed to confirm that; she hadn’t showed any signs at the time of their parting.  Dana felt a cold chill as she formed the timeline in her thoughts, linking the current presence of the child with another time, long past, back on the Isle of Dread...

She cursed herself for her foolishness, told herself that she wasn’t jealous, that it wasn’t anyone’s fault.  What if the child wasn’t Elly’s?  No, she’d recognized the look that the woman had given the child, a look of pure love that could only come from a mother.  She turned away and started walking, barely aware of where she was going, only that her ultimate destination could not be avoided.  

But she could not escape the question that grew in her mind with each step she took.  

What was she going to tell Benzan?


----------



## Lazybones

Well readers, should she tell him?


----------



## Broccli_Head

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Well readers, should she tell him? *




Does the timeline fit? Hasn't it been a few years? Too long for a 'lovechild' to still be an infant, right?


----------



## Lazybones

It's been a little under a year since they left the Isle of Dread.


----------



## Black Bard

It's a shame that Lok have lost his _frost_ battle axe, but now I'm anxious to see the Traveller's new equipments!! 

I must say that I greatly enjoy those "journal moments" of Cal... He has some style... 



> Dana had no desire to rush things between them, although it had been quite entertaining the way his face had taken on that momentary look of stark, unrelenting terror, that one time that she had mentioned the “M” word.



Incredible how some things are the same, even in Forgotten Realms... Great line anyway!!!


----------



## Black Bard

> Well readers, should she tell him?



I think that Dana should do well in tell Benzan... of course, accompanied with some sweet *flurry of blows* ...


----------



## Maldur

Cliffhangers! and the adventure proper isn't even underway.

Bravo!


----------



## wolff96

Yes, she should tell him.

With that and the (eventual) return of Delem, it ought to be an interesting couple of months in that relationship...


----------



## Lazybones

Hey readers.

I was reviewing what I've written on Book VII so far, and have noticed that this book focuses less on the nonstop action that is my trademark, and more on character development and scene-setting.  I'm currently a few chapters ahead and considered editing down some of this material, but couldn't find anything that didn't advance the overall plot of the story.  

I am building to something, though, and promise that once the ball starts rolling, we'll have battles and dramatic surprises aplenty.  And cliffhangers, Maldur: plenty of cliffhangers.

Thanks for reading. 

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 6


Benzan hesitated in front of the plain wooden door.  Behind him, the sounds of the inn’s common room carried clearly, even though the evening crowd hadn’t fully arrived as of yet.  He felt a tingle pass through him, like the anticipation he felt just before a battle, and he had to resist the urge to reach down and touch the hilt of his sword.

He took a deep breath, and knocked.

He heard the footsteps before the latch caught, and the door opened to reveal her.  She looked a little different, more settled, her hair somewhat longer and her features less weathered.  Her eyes widened as she saw him.

“Benzan!” 

“Hi, Elly.”

She was clearly shocked and surprised, but she recovered quickly.  “Please, come in.”

The room wasn’t large, a small outer chamber that apparently opened onto an adjacent bedroom.  A small table, a pair of chairs, and a short chest of drawers were the only furnishings, but the woven carpets on the floor and the curtains on the windows gave the room a nice, homey look.  

“How did you find me?” she asked.  She closed the door, but didn’t move from it, standing there with her arms folded tight against her body.  

“Dana saw you, in the park.  It wasn’t that hard to find you; I had a good idea of where to ask the right questions.”

“Then you know.”

He nodded.  She gestured for him to sit down at the table, and he did, glancing searchingly into the adjacent bedroom as he passed the doorway.  

“She’s not here.  Maiglan’s taking care of her for me today.”

“Why didn’t you try to get in touch with me?  Or did you...”

She looked up at him, her eyes deep with feeling.  “Benzan... I don’t regret anything that’s happened, Benzan, but we knew all along that what we had, it wasn’t permanent.  You are a traveler, not the sort to settle down in one place for long.  Would it have changed anything, if you had known?”

“I would have helped.  Taken care of you and...”

“Izandra.  I named her Izandra.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“She’s a wonder,” Elly said, and for a moment her face seemed to take on a glow.

“Motherhood suits you, Elly.”

“You know, I never thought it would, but I guess you’re right.  Now that I have her, I can’t imagine my life without her in it.”

“How are you... getting by?” He didn’t have to elaborate; life in Faerûn was hard enough, even if one wasn’t a single parent.  

“A friend of Kael owns this inn; she lets me stay for a reduced rent, and I help out around the place.”  She saw Benzan’s face harden, and she added, “It’s not like that.  It’s nice—almost like a real family.  It’s a nice place, good neighborhood, and there are other children about for when she gets older.  And it’s not like I’m poor; I sold the magical spear that we brought back from the Isle for a good sum, and I have a few investments that are paying small, but steady, dividends.”

“You always were practical, Elly.”

“We get by just fine.  I don’t miss the life of the sea... well, not that much, anyway.  I certainly don’t miss the constant danger that traveling with you and your friends entailed.”

“Elly...”

“How are the others?”  By the way she looked up and suddenly met his gaze, it was clear which of the “others” she meant.

Benzan smiled, his feelings laid bare in his eyes, a truth that Elly read clearly even before he spoke.  “The others... they are great.”

“Will you... be staying in the city long?”

He shook his head.  “I don’t think so.”  He almost told her about Delem, about all that had happened, but he decided not to.  “We’re headed south pretty soon, I think.”

“Well, if you want to stop by before you go, you can see her...”

He nodded, even though he knew it was unlikely even as he did.  Already he was nearly overwhelmed by it all; if he actually saw the child... _my daughter_... he wasn’t sure if he would be able to handle it.  She saw it, too, understood even as she tried to keep her feelings from showing on her face.  He rose, too quickly.  She stood as well, and the two of them stood there, facing each other over an uneasy silence.  

“I’m sorry I didn’t try to contact you, Benzan.  I never wanted to do anything to hurt you, please believe me.”

“Of course, Elly.  I’m not sad, or angry... it’s all just a little overwhelming.”

“I understand.  It was for me too, believe me.”

He reached into the pocket of his cloak, and withdrew a small bag.  “I want you to have this.  It isn’t a handout, and I know you can take care of yourself just fine, but I really want you and... Izandra to have it.”

She took the bag, nodded.  “Thank you.  We’ll be all right.  And when she’s old enough, I’ll tell her about her father, I promise.”

“I will be back, Elly.  And if you ever need anything...”  He left it hanging; both knew that it would be difficult at best to find him, if it came to that.  But he would stop by the local temple of Lathander on his way out; he’d passed it coming here.  He had another bag for the priests there, and some instructions as well.  For once, he wouldn’t mind leaving town with only a few coins in his purse.  He also knew that Elly would put the rubies that were in the bottom of the pouch he’d given her, under the gold and silver, to good use.  He’d intended to buy magical arrows with them, but suddenly that intent seemed like an utter waste.  

For all their denials, Benzan knew that everything had changed.  He’d have to speak to Cal, too... just in case.  

They embraced, holding each other tightly for a long moment.  Elly was the first to break the hug, although there was a reluctance in her face that she quickly hid before he could see it.  She followed him to the door.  

She didn’t start crying until she could no longer hear his footsteps on the floorboards of the stairs outside.


----------



## Broccli_Head

I, for one, appreciate character development.  Please continue.


----------



## Lazybones

I have updated the characters in the Rogues' Gallery thread (the link is in my sig).


----------



## Dungannon

I love the character development posts.  They are what truly set this SH apart from the others, IMO, and make this story all the better as a whole.  Keep up the great work, LB.


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## Salthorae

*agreement*

I'm gonna have to agree with the others so far...I love the character development, it's almost like reading a novel in that I get to know the thought and motivations behind the characters...

And i'm frustrated that I don't know the end yet...just like when i read a novel 

Love the Story Hour LB...keep it up


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the supporting posts, all.  

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 7


Dana grimaced as she slipped and the tunic she’d been repairing fell off her lap onto the floor.  She quickly picked it up and saw that last three lines of thread that she’d just sewn had torn.  She forced herself to take a deep breath before starting again.  The tunic was really past its days, and she already had more than enough new clothes to replace it, but she wanted something to do with her hands, something to focus on other than...  So far, it wasn’t helping much.  

From the doorway behind her, Benzan watched her, watched the movements of her hands as they moved across the cloth, admired the muscular curves of her neck and shoulders, the way her hair drew back casually into the cord she’d wrapped around the extra length to keep it out of the way.  She normally kept her hair trimmed short, but lately she’d let it grow out some, enough to fall almost to her shoulders when she didn’t keep it tied back.  

His breath caught in his throat as he admired her.  By the gods, she was beautiful, even in her current state of casual disarray.  She wasn’t an alabaster model of beauty such as noble society held up as an ideal, but a strong, capable woman whose skills had been tested in the chaos of battle, the trials of spirit that the four of them had faced in the last years.  The strain of those tests showed in her face, but to him they only bolstered the appeal that she held for him. 

Not for the first time, he wondered why in the world she had fallen in love with _him,_ of all people.  Not that he was going to question that good fortune.

He hadn’t made a sound, but suddenly she turned and looked up at him.  She smiled, but there was tension there, as well. 

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”  He came into the room, toward the chair where she was sitting.  “Looks like that patient is already too far gone to save,” he said, indicating the worn tunic.

“Yeah.  Well.”  She looked down at her lap for a moment, and while her head came up again quickly, he sensed the turmoil within her.  “Did you see... did you see Elly?”

“Yes.  Thank you, for telling me.”

“You had a right to know.”

The chair wasn’t really big enough for two, but he leaned on one padded arm and reached down to touch the side of her face.  “I love you.  It’s still strange to hear myself say it, sometimes... but it’s true.”

Her eyes shone.  “I love you too.”  Then she snorted.  “But don’t think this means that I’m going to take it easy on you.  Somebody’s got to help keep you in line, and alive—gods know that Cal and Lok alone can’t do it.”

He smiled, and took her hand, pulling her up to him.  For a moment they held each other, then melted into a long kiss.  

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked him, when the finally pulled back. 

“Later.  Have you talked to the others yet?”

“Just briefly.  They’re down in the library, waiting for you to get back.”

“Let’s go talk to them, then.”

The two of them left the room and went down the back stairs to the comfortably furnished library that adjoined the storerooms at the back of the inn.  Although Alera had offered to let them stay at the Calloran home as long as they wished, Cal had finally insisted that they take rooms in the city.  The inn where they’d spent the last two tendays, “The Laughing Dragon,” was a sprawling three-story extravagance that took up half a city block.  It was expensive, of course, but the four of them had more than enough money even after their numerous purchases and projects of the last few weeks.  Cal still spent a lot of time at his family estate, working in the laboratory maintained by his great-aunt, but recently he’d come here more often, as eager as the rest of them to finally be going once again. 

The library was big enough to accommodate a dozen people easily, but Cal and Lok were the only ones there when Dana and Benzan entered.  The four of them gathered around a round wooden table under a pair of slanted windows that let in twin rays of light from the cloudy day outside.  

Cal was the first to speak.  “Benzan?”

“I’m ready to depart,” the tiefling responded. 

Cal nodded.  “Then we are all prepared?”  He briefly met each of their gazes in turn, long enough to register their nods.  “The only question, then, is how we will proceed.  Dana has stated her desire to visit Iriaebor first, to see her father.”

“And the full moon is only a few days away.  At the Temple of the Moon in the city, I can attempt another _commune_.”

Cal’s expression darkened briefly.  “We’ll need all the guidance we can get.  Our combined researches have not yielded much in the way of clues.  We were able to get some information on certain known Demon Princes, and we can only hope that it is enough for us to ask the right questions of the Goddess.  Assuming there is more we can learn from that source—I mean no offense, Dana, but these beings are virtually gods themselves, in their own dark realms, and divinely provided lore can often be murky when it involves the private affairs of such entities.”

Dana nodded, they’d been over all of this before.  One thing was sure, though, they’d exhausted all of the options available to them in Waterdeep, and the City of Splendors was a place where virtually anything was available for sale, even information, if you had the right price.  

“Of course, arcane magic hasn’t been of any more help,” Cal said.  “But this side-trip to Iriaebor may prove fruitful for another reason.  It’s not far from Berdusk, where Twilight Hall is located.  The followers of the Harp are renown for their command of obscure facts and legends thought lost.  Cylyria Dragonbreast, in particular, is one of the most knowledgeable bards in the West, and she is only one of many agents who come from all over the Realms.  We’ve done favors for the Harpers in the past, and they might prove willing to help us.  And even if they do not have ready answers, we can try our luck at the temple of Deneir in the city, which is located adjacent to the Hall.”

None of the responded immediately.  All of them were ready to do something, to replace this inactivity with decisive action, but all were experienced enough to know that they were grasping at straws, with no concrete leads to guide their path. 

“All right then, let’s do this,” Benzan finally said.

“It will take many days to reach Iriaebor,” Lok commented.  “Were you thinking of taking ship down to Baldur’s Gate, and then heading upriver to the city?”

Cal and Dana exchanged a glance.  “Actually, we think we’ve found a much more... expeditious... means of travel.  We mean to be in Iriaebor by the end of the day, if not within the hour.”

Benzan shot Cal a wary look.  “Uh oh, you don’t mean...”

“It’s safe,” Dana insisted.  “I will take us someplace that I know intimately, so much so that the chance of mishap is nearly nil.”

“Yeah, but we’re _very_ good at beating the odds on that sort of thing.  Besides, how can you take all of us?  I thought that even a powerful mage—or cleric—could take only a small amount of excess weight with them.”

Cal interjected, “I believe that I may have the answer for that.  How do you feel about cats?”

Benzan raised an eyebrow, suspicion in his eyes.


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 8

The place had the look of a forest glade, although a closer look would reveal that such an impression was just a carefully cultivated illusion.  In reality, the small grove was just an island within an urban core, the many tall towers of Iriaebor visible through the gaps of the trees in all directions.  A few nice extra touches had been added to give the area within the ring of trees an extra sylvan touch; a small spring bubbled down from a carefully crafted pile of heavy volcanic rocks into a pool a man’s height across, and neatly tended patches of wildflowers spread out in a ring around the edges of the pool.  A few stone benches had been placed covertly among the trees and undergrowth, designed to blend in with the naturalness of their surroundings.  A faint path of well-worn stones was just visible among the grass, leading out beyond the grove.

The place was quiet, although the sounds of the surrounding city could be made out if one listened for them.  But the emptiness of the small glade was broken as a shimmering formed in the air, beside the pool.  The wisps of light gathered quickly into a human-sized form, and then resolved into not one, but two people that appeared as the glow faded back into nothingness.  

Dana and Cal looked around at their new surroundings.  Each of them carried a small cat, Dana’s a pure black and Cal’s white with streaks of gray in its fur.  

“I’ve got to get that spell,” Cal said with wonder.  “Very convenient way to travel.”  He placed the white cat down, and it walked a few steps away before turning to face him, apparently nonplussed at the change in its surroundings. 

“Yes, but not without its risks,” Dana said.  The black cat meowed loudly at her, but she held onto it for a moment longer.  She stroked its head, but it continued its efforts to break free from her embrace.  

Cal cast a spell, and the white cat’s form began to shift and shimmer, growing until the cat was gone, and Lok was there in its place.  The genasi stretched, checking each of his weapons out of habit.  

“I think I prefer that to the umber hulk,” he said.  

The black cat meowed again.  Dana finally let it go, and it jumped down to face Cal, looking up at him expectantly.  

“Oh, wait, I forgot to memorize a second _dispel,_” the gnome said.  The cat hissed at him menacingly, but then Cal laughed, the others quickly joining in.  “All right, I couldn’t resist.  Just a moment.”

Cal readied his spell again, and a few moments later Benzan was standing there beside Lok. 

“All right, next time you get to be the cat,” the tiefling insisted. 

“My _polymorph_ spell only works on others,” Cal said, still grinning.  “Besides, you are a lot heavier than I am—better not to strain the limits of Dana’s _teleport_.”

“So where are we?” the tiefling said, looking around at their surroundings.

“We are on a corner of my family’s estate,” Dana explained.  “I spent a lot of time here, as a child.  I thought it would be better to teleport us here, instead of startling someone by appearing suddenly in the house.”

“It’s pretty,” Lok noted.  “Peaceful.”

But Dana frowned, lost in thoughts of her own.  She led them along the path, out onto the rest of the estate. 

The grounds were of considerable size, and had the look of a well-tended park.  The estate house was just visible atop a low rise behind a row of trees, and beyond that the spires of the city rose in a jumbled medley.  Some of the towers seemed unfinished, with jagged tops and occasionally scaffolding making their shapes less clearly defined. 

“Lot of towers here,” Lok commented.

“Yes, it’s almost a sport,” Dana commented, as she led them in the direction of the manor.  “The noble families like to play games of ‘who’s the biggest,’ when they’re not plotting how to take over each others’ lands and influence.  Bron, the leader of the council that governs the city, has barely been able to keep them all in check.”

“Someone’s coming,” Benzan warned.  They halted and could all hear it, the sounds of multiple people approaching quickly through the growth that filled the spaces between the garden paths.  

They suddenly burst into view from two sides, ahead of them, seven armed and armored men, each carrying a loaded crossbow or a heavy spear at the ready.  “Hold!” one of them shouted.  “You are trespassing on private land...”

He trailed off as Dana stepped forward, and his eyes widened in surprised recognition.  “Lady Ilgarten!  Why... I mean, how did you...”

“It’s good to see that the estate is well protected still, Edra,” she said, already walking past the surprised guardsmen, her friends trailing along behind.  The guardsman just stood there for a moment, but he quickly rallied and hurried after her, running a curious gaze over her companions as he did so.  

He opened his mouth to say something, but Dana preempted him.  “Is my father at home, Edra?”

“Yes, m’Lady,” the guardsman replied.  “But he’s meeting with an important...”

“I won’t interrupt him,” she replied, “but I’ll want to speak to him as soon as he’s free.  And I’ll need rooms prepared for my friends.”

The guardsman, clearly overwhelmed for all that he was nearly twice her age, finally just nodded.  He gestured toward his men, who quickly disappeared back down one of the side paths that wound around toward the front of the house.  Dana took them the back way, and Edra followed along with them.  

Her pace had been faster than a walk, not quite a run, but as they reached the building, she hesitated.  The place was truly a mansion, two stories tall and several hundred paces in length, fashioned from huge blocks of white stone.  Great attention to detail had been shown in the moldings and other decorations that ran along the edges of the structure.  A patio in red tile spread out behind the structure, with several ornate windowed doors providing access.  The path led right up to the edge of that patio, directly adjacent to one of those doors.  

“It’s been a long time, m’Lady,” Edra said, softly.  

“Indeed,” she said, taking a deep breath.  She moved toward the door, but the guardsman was there in an instant to open it for her.  

The door opened onto a compact landing.  A wide entry to her right led obviously to the kitchen, from which the smells and noises of food cooking drifted.  Directly ahead a narrow staircase led upstairs, and to her left an open arch opened onto a long hallway that accessed the rest of the house.  

Her companions were silent, respecting their friend’s homecoming.  Dana felt old emotions come crashing back into her, old memories of this place and the loves and losses she had felt here.  Outwardly it looked as though nothing had changed, but the place felt... quieter, more somber than she had remembered.  

“I’ll tell Maribel you’re here, have rooms made up for your friends,” Edra said, disappearing into the kitchen. 

“Sorry,” she said, turning toward her companions.  “It’s just...”

“We understand,” Cal said, pressing her hand briefly.  She looked briefly at Benzan, who stood there, a distracted expression on his face.  

“Well, come on.  Let me take you to the parlor, where we can rest and get something to eat while we’re waiting.”

She led them into the hallway and then toward the front of the house.  They entered the foyer, which made the rest of the house that they had seen look almost provincial.  The foyer was floored in smooth marble blocks, with a chandelier dangling from the vaulted ceiling high above them.  A spiral staircase wide enough for four men to ascend at once wound up to another landing on the second floor.  Double doors, each with a half-dozen panes of flawless glass set into them, opened out into the front yard, flanked by more windows to either side.  

Dana directed them toward a side arch that opened onto a comfortably apportioned sitting room, but before they could enter, another door on the far end of the foyer opened and a man stepped out. 

He was a tall, well-built man, well into middle age but showing no sign that advancing years were hindering him.  Dana instantly recognized him as a warrior, both by the way that he carried himself and by the hard edge to his dark brown eyes.  He wore a functional tunic that bore the crest of the city on the breast, and carried no weapons other than a small dagger with a gilded hilt.  

For a moment, a chill came over her as she locked gazes with the stranger, and so she didn’t immediately realize that another figure had come out of the room behind the stranger.  

“Dana...”

Her father’s voice shattered the connection between her and the strange warrior, and she shifted her gaze to the man standing beside him.  He was everything that the stranger was not—clearly showing his years on his balding and wrinkled face, his body bulging with more than a little extra weight.  Artemos Ilgarten wore garments that looked simple but on closer examination showed their cost and quality, and which Dana knew probably cost more than an average peasant farmer made in a year.  

For a moment father and daughter just stood there looking at each other in surprise, and then belatedly they came forward and embraced.  Dana saw that her father’s movements were strained, hesitant, and when she grasped him she could feel the weakness that gripped the man whom she could never remember as anything but strong.  Tears filled her eyes despite herself, when she pulled back from him. 

“My daughter, come home.  Ah, excuse me.  My guest... Dana, I don’t believe you’ve met the defender of our fair city, lord of our meager legions.  General, my daughter, Dana.”

The soldier bowed.  “A pleasure, Lady Ilgarten.  I am pleased to see you return to Irieabor, to brighten our city once again with your presence.”

Artemos nodded, and turned toward the door.  “Thank you again, General Goran.  I will think on your words today, I promise.  I am sure that the Council will be receptive to your proposal, given everything that’s happened.”

“Thank you, Councilor.”  Goran shook Artemos’s hand, and as he turned to depart, shot another evaluating gaze over Dana and her companions—who had faded into the background during the exchange.  With another smile and inclination of his head toward Dana, he left via the front doors.  

For a moment Artemos looked pensive, but then he smiled and turned back to his daughter and her friends.  “I’m sorry, Dana,” he said, embracing her again.  “Times have been... difficult, of late.”  He shifted his gaze to the others.  “And you have brought guests, new friends.”

Dana introduced them, and the elder Ilgarten nodded to each in response to their greetings.  His eyes were like scales as he evaluated each of them in turn, and they lingered longest on Benzan, who looked like he wanted to activate his _ring of shadows_.   Finally, after all three had been introduced, he brought a smile back to his face and said, “Where are my manners?  Your friends, guests in my house—and where are my people?  Maribel!”

At his call, a thick-set middle-aged woman appeared in the far doorway.  “Why, if it isn’t Dana, come back home again,” she drawled, her voice thick with an eastern accent—Chessentan, perhaps.  “Welcome home, m’Lady.”

Artemos looked at her again, and she saw that his gaze lingered on the spear in her hand, and the _moon mote_ symbol that dangled from her neck.  Suddenly, she thought, he looked very, very tired.

“Rest yourselves,” he said to all of them, “and wash the dust of the road off of your feet.  It is not long to the noon meal, and we can talk more then, about what brings you to Irieabor.”

And with that, he left them.  Dana took a halting step after him, as if to follow, but he quickly crossed back to the door of the study, closing it decisively behind him.  

“Come,” Maribel said to them.  “I will show you to your rooms.”


----------



## Black Bard

*Character Development...*

Lazy, please don't worry about focusing too much on CD... It's wonderful!! And you have a special knack for this, I must say...

I'm anxious to see our heroes dealing with the Harpers, especially Gorath and his fellow... but I have a feeling that this encounter will still take some time... precious time... 

Anyway, congratulations!!


----------



## Maldur

I couldn't agree more.

Im very jealous, not only can he write great action scenes, he can also do Character developement 

You keep writing, I'll keep reading.


----------



## Rugger

Ya'know....

I had gotten a bit behind, so I just sat down and got all caught up, and then I read the comments...the character development has been as good as, if not better than, the action! I'm not missing the action scenes at all.

Damn fine work LB!!

-Rugger
"I Lurk!"


----------



## Krellic

Yea.., character development, we'll probably be deluged in combat shortly anyway, judging on past form!


----------



## Lazybones

The plot thickens...

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 9


The man known within the Black Network only as the Pereghost sat at his desk.  The small room, with its walls of bare, unadorned stone, was decorated as an apparent tribute to military values.  A number of heavy, functional weapons hung from pegs behind the desk, and the side walls bore a collection of old banners—some still bearing faded bloodstains still visible in the cloth—several dented shields bearing a variety of insignia, and a spiked helm that looked as though it could comfortably fit a giant.  One thing stood out; at the end of the row of weapons hung a simple farmer’s tool, an iron hoe with a thoroughly rusted blade.  Those who came here often remarked upon that incongruity, wondering at its significance.  Some suggested that it indicated that the Pereghost had come from simple beginnings, and kept the tool as a reminder.  Others argued that the hoe was a reminder that even a simple tool could be a weapon, in the hands of a man desperate enough to use it.  In any case, the mystery remained unsolved, for like most of those who dwelled in the Darkhold, the man did not speak of his life before he had come to the Zhentarim.  

The man himself looked somewhat incongruous in his chosen surroundings this day.  Chain links were just visible peeking out from under his tunic, but otherwise his clothes were expensive linen lined with fur—even spring was cold within the Sunset Mountains.  Today he bore a pen, not a blade, marking reports with a quick, efficient hand.  Occasionally his angular features would twist into a scowl, but otherwise his face was as cold as the bare stone walls surrounding him. 

He heard footsteps in the hall outside, and placed the report to the side just as a tall, powerful woman entered the office.  

“Ah, Pelara, you have arrived at last.  I trust your long journey was not too... tedious?”

The woman fixed him with a stare that contained hatred that she did not bother to mask.  She was clad in plate mail that had been masterfully fit to her muscular form, and a wickedly spiked morningstar marked all over with spiraling runes hung from her belt.  She held her helmet in the crook of her arm, revealing a face that might have been considered attractive, were it not painted with vertical stripes of color that gave her an almost garish appearance.  

“You can save your false politeness, Traitor.  I only hope that I am present when Fzoul finally sends your death order, so that I can watch you kick out your last moments on the end of the hangman’s rope.”

The Pereghost leaned back in his chair and regarded her.  He did not relax his guard—he rarely did, and never in the company of the servants of Bane—but nor did he let the woman’s vicious comments incite him.  In his youth, of course, such words would have driven him into battle, but age and experience had inured him to such petty tactics.  And besides, it wasn’t as if he and Pelara hadn’t played this game many times before.  They had known each other for nigh on thirty years, in fact had sworn fealty at Zhentil Keep before Manshoon himself, when both of them were young, arrogant, and full of vague but mighty ambitions.  

“It is a pleasure, as always, to hear your fond endearments, Pelara,” he said.  “If you are finished with your greeting, then, what orders come from our mighty leader this time?”

Her eyes narrowed to daggers, but she held her anger barely contained as she moved fully into the room.  As she did, he saw the subtle signs about her person that he’d missed before, in the first clash of their greeting.

“Ah, so you’ve finally earned that promotion.  Congratulations.”

“You can save your false flattery as well, Pereghost.  Fzoul is not pleased with the news coming from the West.  He, and many others besides him, wants to know why nothing has been done to respond to these flagrant efforts to discredit us.  Slaving raids carried out in our name on villages barely a week from here, and the slaves vanish into the ether without a trace.  The humanoid tribes of the southern spur of the Sunsets refuse to pay tribute, and reports are that they are mobilizing for something.  Raids on caravans have increased throughout the region, and yet somehow the portion flowing east into the Network are lower than they’ve been since after the Time of Troubles.”

The Pereghost leaned back in his chair, and his jaw tightened.  Few in the Zhentarim liked to remember those days, when Bane had disappeared and the Black Network became embroiled in a vicious internal struggle for power.  Things had quieted down somewhat since that time, but there were still tensions.  He himself, for instance, was right in the middle of one such fault line.  Many, he knew, felt as Pelara did, considering him little more than a traitor, eager for the word that the time had come to cleanse Darkhold of its divisions.  

But that time would not come soon, the warrior knew.  His faction still had a lot of supporters in key areas, and in the face of this new crisis the Zhents would need all of the force they could muster.  

“So, what would you have us do?” he asked, his voice level and almost casual.

His calm demeanor seemed to make the woman more angry, and she trembled with it as she slammed a mailed fist down on the edge of the desk.  “You must act!  You have a full legion here, sitting on their hands while the name of the Zhentarim is slandered.” 

He leaned forward again, folding his arms before him on the desk.  “And who would we strike against?  Whoever is behind this, they have not been foolish enough to leave us a signed note, claiming responsibility.”  In fact, he did have more than a little information, leads cobbled together from a variety of sources, but he wasn’t going to share anything until he found our how much she—and the Zhent leadership—knew.  And there were the dreams...

For the moment, he kept all of it hidden behind a neutral mask, watching her. 

“Our enemies are well known,” she said.  “What of your... _friends_ in Amn, in their towers?”

The Pereghost almost smiled.  So, she knew nothing after all.  He snorted.  “The leaders of the Two Towers have reason to hate us, but the Cyricists lack the organization and the discipline to coordinate something like this.”  _But the dreams..._ 

“Your loyalty to your oaths is admirable,” she said, mockingly.  He met her gaze squarely.  Both knew that he had been subtly tested in the last few months, but even his proven loyalty to the Zhentarim would not be enough to save him when it came time to purge the last of those still attached to Cyric from the ranks of the Black Network.  He knew that day was coming, but there was nothing he could do about it; his ties to that master went deeper than even the binders that connected him to his current allies.  

He shrugged dismissively.  When that day came, he would deal with it; he had made his preparations.  

“If you are too incompetent to ferret out those behind the slaving raids,” she went on, “at the very least you should send a punitive expedition out against these humanoids that defy the Network, and the bandits that think they can pluck our chickens without paying their proper tribute.  If you let these transgressions pass, it will only encourage others to challenge us in the future.”  She reached out and slid a heavy iron paperweight across the wooden surface of the desk.  “I would have thought that a man with your background would have seen such an obvious truth.” 

He held his tongue, although there were numerous retorts he could have used against such an argument.  The armed forces in the Hold were depleted both from the infighting and those that had been siphoned off for the disastrous campaigns in the Heartlands from last year; he had only about five hundred regular troops left and perhaps a hundred more less-effective auxiliaries.  Plus he knew that the leadership had to be aware of the reaction of the Lords’ Alliance to the recent raids; even his limited sources told him clearly that an armed response against them was very possible come summer.  And finally, a campaign in the Far Hills would not be an easy one; the humanoid tribes that lived among the crags and ravines of the region knew every hiding place, every twist and trick of the land, and in many cases were dug into extensive fortified complexes that could virtually withstand a siege.  

But he held his tongue, not so much because he was afraid of what the leadership of the Zhentarim wanted, but rather because of his dreams.  They had been vivid of late, staying with him for long after he awoke.  Just last night, he had dreamed of the armies of Darkhold marching out to battle, but without him at their head.  

So he only sat there, his face a mask of false deference, even as Pelara stared at him warily.  That deference made her uncertain, but she finally tugged a scroll out of her belt and placed it on the table before him. 

“This places me in command of the military expedition that will depart from this fortress in three days’ time.  Reinforcements will be sent to bolster the operation; a wing of flyers with a Skymage will be arriving before then, and will support the mission.  In addition, I have brought a pair of underpriests, and a squad of veteran cavalry.”  

_Those last will be particularly useless in the mountains,_ the Pereghost thought to himself.  But outwardly, he only stood, nodded, and replied, “Very well.  I will have quarters prepared for you and your men, and will notify the quartermaster to expect the flyers as well.  I am sure your expedition will bring great glory to the Zhentarim; you will find that the forces of Darkhold are up to the task.”

She looked at him suspiciously, but he had given her no further provocation to hang another insult upon.  Finally she turned and left, her booted feet clapping loudly against the hard stone of the floor.  

The Pereghost sat back down in his chair, a pensive look on his face.  

Idly, he wondered just what it was that Cyric had in mind.  Whatever it was, it looked as though it would be an interesting year for the Western Heartlands.


----------



## Maldur

[sly voice on] Interesting [sly voice off]


That gave me a great idea for my own campaign 

Thanks LB!


----------



## Broccli_Head

Yeah...I was wondering why Darkhold had become so silent after Semmnon defected. I see that you are going to be using them also. 

I used them to great effect in my campaign to clean up and then occupy Iriaebor. Hopefully, I'll catch up with that session soon.


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 10


An arrow knifed through the air, slashing down out of the sky to explode into the back of the surprised mountain ram.  The creature bleated as it staggered off, but it barely made it a dozen steps before the effects of the deadly wound caught up with it, and it fell into a limp heap.  

A hundred paces distant, the hobgoblin rose up out a smattering of brush that did not look as though it could have concealed a figure of his size.  His composite bow was nearly as large as he was, formed of wood and horn and decorated with a smattering of dark colored feathers at each end.  He was still young, even as reckoned by that warrior race, but he was both muscular and possessed of a smooth grace that showed in the way that he moved.  He wore a mail shirt under plain outer clothes of grays and browns designed to help blend in with the sparse cover that could be found here in the rocky hills.  

He gestured, and a trio of hobgoblins dressed in similar fashion rose up from behind the cover of an adjacent ridge and started toward the downed ram.  The archer saw their looks, of course, and read them for what they were; resentment at his position of leadership over him mixed with an undercurrent of grudging respect for his skill.  He kept watch while the trio moved quickly to where the ram had fallen, and set to work dressing the kill for speedy travel. 

Hobgoblins were a fighting people, bred to the warrior life from their earliest years.  They were also crafty and organized, talents which set them apart from many of the chaotic humanoid races that plagued the civilized lands of the Realms.  The archer knew that the three under his command on this patrol would follow his orders, but understood their mistrust.  For all that he’d been with this tribe for over a year now, he was still an outsider, and for all his abilities, still young.

The last two years had been difficult, a forging-fire through which he had come, tempered almost to the point of breaking.  He’d grown up far from here, among a tribe that dwelled along the northern fringes of the Wood of Sharp Teeth.  That tribe had been decimated by a group of adventurers from Elturel, who had discovered the mining operations and the trade in weapons that the hobgoblins had been involved in.  Only a few of his people had survived, scattered to a life of wandering and privation.  Most had perished, but something deep within him had given him the strength to survive, if only barely.  By the time his wanderings had led him to this community he had the instincts and talents of a feral hunter, quick and deadly.  He’d been allowed to live and even to work back up to the warrior ranks by the current leaders, even though the customs of his people could have led him to end up as a slave.  

The hobgoblins returned, adding the remains of the ram to their already considerable burdens.  This had not been his first kill of the day. 

“We return,” he said, and the others nodded in approval.  

They made their way up the narrow tracks that led deeper into the hills, up into the massive range of mountains that loomed up behind them.  Those mountains looked utterly implacable, an impassive barrier.  There were routes that led into the range, difficult routes at best, but they were not going quite that far this day. 

As they walked, the archer thought more on his current predicament.  All too aware of his tenuous position, he’d thrown himself into honing his skills in the last year, volunteering for scouting missions, working with the masters of blade and bow until his muscles cried out in protest.  One advantage he’d had was that his newly adopted tribe was led by shamans, not by a warrior-chief, and rather than feel threatened by his achievements, the priests had praised him and encouraged him to cultivate his ambitions.  Their leadership gave him other concerns, but he’d wisely kept his thoughts on those matters to himself. 

The hunting party crossed another line of ridges and headed up a steep defile between two jagged-edged peaks.  The trail, little wider than an animal track, didn’t seem to go anywhere as the cliffs to each side rapidly closed to a point, but as they neared the summit a sudden cleft opened onto their left in one of the cliff walls, and they ducked into the opening.  

The narrow passage beyond the cleft was dark, deepening to a pure black as the walls above them closed in, but hobgoblins possessed excellent darkvision and they made their way deeper into the tunnel without mishap.  The corridor slanted down and to the right before it opened onto a sprawling valley, a bowl embraced within a ring of surrounding peaks.  There was water here, streams flowing down from a few of those mountains, but the game that had once been here was gone, long since sacrificed to feed the needs of the current owners of the valley.  

The acrid smoke of the cookfires came to him over the wind, even before he caught sight of the camps.  There were four such encampments, scattered in knots around the far edge of the valley.  He led his companions toward the largest, but did not relax his vigilance.  If anything, he was more alert, scanning the rocks for any signs of trouble. 

Even so, he got little warning when a troll stepped out from behind a huge boulder beside the path.  The creature stood over him, a good three feet taller than him and twice his weight, its expression ferocious as it challenged him.  

“Smell meat.  Give meat Larg, Larg let hobs live.”

The archer did not flinch, even though the troll’s slavering jaws snapped just a few feet from his face as the creature spoke.  His companions had quickly adjusted, unlimbering their burdens while hands crept to weapon hilts.  They were all veterans, skilled warriors, but knew that the vicious creature could probably tear them all to bits without working up a sweat.  They did not speak the giant tongue that the troll used, but the archer understood, and replied in the same guttural speech.

“You touch me, priests not like.  Priests call fire, burn Larg.  Burn Larg good.  Larg return to camp, priests bring food.  Larg know rules.  Follow rules, get much food and gold.”

The troll slavered, snapping its jaws in anger.  But the hobgoblin noticed that the creature did not roar at him, and it was trying not to make too much noise. 

Maybe it wasn’t as dumb as he thought.

He waited, and finally the troll stepped back into its hiding place.  The look that the creature gave him dripped with pure hatred, but it did not attack as he and the others gathered their burdens and hurried past.  They were not molested again as they made their way back to the camp.  

“Glad to see you get back,” the sentry said as greeting.  “None of the other forage parties have returned yet, and pickings have been getting slim of late.” 

The archer gestured for the others to go inside, while he lingered for a moment outside.  The confrontation with the troll had not been that much of a surprise, but he was curious if anything else had happened in the valley in his absence.  “We’ve cleaned out the area,” the archer replied.  “Game’s going to get scarce soon.”  He cast a meaningful glance over at the other camps, and the sentry nodded. 

“Them trolls are going to be trouble.  The giants are too stupid to think of anything that the priests don’t put into their minds, but the trolls...”

“One accosted me on the way in.”

The sentry raised his eyes.  “Garsham made an example of one a few days ago.  Might be time for another lesson.”  

The archer nodded.  He turned to go into the camp, but before he did, his gaze traveled to the very end of the valley, where a sheer cliff face formed the farthest edge of the bowl.  There, at the base of the cliff, difficult to make out if you didn’t know to look for it, was a gap in the stone.  The gap was flanked by two vague forms, each well taller than the hill giants that shared the valley with them.  The archer had seen them up close, and knew that the stone formations were huge statues, whatever details they had once borne weathered away by centuries of wind and rain.  He had never gone through the gap into whatever lay beyond; no one in the camp had, except for the priests.  But that was why they were here, of that he was convinced.  

As if reading his mind, the sentry shot a quick glance around, as if to verify that no stray ears were about, then said, “He’s here, the human, meeting with the priests.”  He shuddered, and it wasn’t from the cold.  “At least he brought something to eat.”  The hobgoblin warrior rubbed his hands together.  “Pack mules, three of them.  Butcherin’ them as we speak.  Brought them boxes there, in the middle of the camp.”

The archer saw them, a half-dozen long crates that sat in an uneven pile.  No one in the camp had gone near them; in fact, they seemed to be making a deliberate effort to ignore them.

_I wonder what new twist _those_ are hiding,_ he thought to himself.

He didn’t realize that he’d spoken his thoughts aloud until the sentry answered him.  “Weapons, maybe, or supplies.  Not that I’d likely want anything brought by _him_.  Worse than the priests...”

As if he’d suddenly realized what he was saying, and to whom, the sentry stiffened, and turned back to his watch, holding his bow too tightly in a mailed fist.  

But the archer’s attention had already shifted, and he barely noticed the guard’s careless comments.  With a final absent nod to the guard, he turned and went into the camp.  The plots and plans of the leaders were not his concern.  But he knew that the sentry was right, that the little alliance that the priests had forged here was a fragile one, and that if something didn’t change soon, it was likely that blood would flow upon the barren rocks of this little valley.  

His face was grim as he sought out the familiar outline of his tent.


----------



## Dungannon

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *He’d grown up far from here, among a tribe that dwelled along the northern fringes of the Wood of Sharp Teeth.  That tribe had been decimated by a group of adventurers from Elturel, who had discovered the mining operations and the trade in weapons that the hobgoblins had been involved in.  Only a few of his people had survived, scattered to a life of wandering and privation.  Most had perished, but something deep within him had given him the strength to survive, if only barely.  By the time his wanderings had led him to this community he had the instincts and talents of a feral hunter, quick and deadly.  He’d been allowed to live and even to work back up to the warrior ranks by the current leaders, even though the customs of his people could have led him to end up as a slave*




I always wondered what happened to the young hobgoblin with the dogs who ran away from that encounter long ago.  Now I know.


----------



## Maldur

Well spotted!

I didn't realize until you reminded me.

mmm, revenge hobgoblin style?


----------



## Black Bard

Very interesting... So the hobs are in league with the the Cyricists in Amn, isn't it??


> Idly, he wondered just what it was that Cyric had in mind. Whatever it was, it looked as though it would be an interesting year for the Western Heartlands.



The heroes would be glad if *only* Cyric had plans for the Western Heartlands this year...


----------



## Lazybones

Glad you caught that, Dungannon!  I like to connect threads throughout the story; I've got a nice little list of "loose ends" that may come back either in this book or in later installments.  For example, there's already one more character from Book I in the current plotline, and soon we'll be introduced to someone else who's linked to another major Book I figure...

Anyway, Part 11 is fairly short, and doesn't leave you with a proper weekend cliffhanger, so I'll post Part 12 later today.  Next week we get to the action! 

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 11


The quiet knock on the door was clearly audible, but Artemos Ilgarten didn’t look up from where he sat at his expansive desk of polished oak, his pen traveling a busy course across the pages of a ledger book easily an arm’s length high.  

The door opened slightly, enough to admit Dana into the study.  For a moment she looked around, memories washing over her as she took in the familiar sights, the smells of this place.  And her father, hard at work—as always.  

“Father.” 

The pen went down, and Artemos’s face came up.  “Dana.”  She came closer, but didn’t sit in either of the comfortable chairs that faced the desk.  “I’m sorry I wasn’t better company tonight, at dinner.  Your friends seem like interesting people, though, competent.”  

Dana frowned, although she knew that her father’s comments were meant as a compliment.  No, she was thinking of the discussion that had accompanied the dinner, as her father had related to them the litany of disasters that had befallen the Western Heartlands in recent months.  Cal had asked many pointed questions, his concern obvious, and while Lok had said little, Dana knew him well enough to see that the genasi shared his worry.  After all, they had all had more than a little to do with helping the people of the Western Heartlands against such evils, back in the time when they had all just met, and coming to know their own abilities.  Benzan, on the other hand, had said little, clearly distracted, and while her father had not pressed him, Dana had recognized the sharp attention that he’d paid to the tiefling.  

But Dana didn’t want to bring up Benzan right now, when it was clear that her father had deeper things on his mind, problems that predated their arrival, and which penetrated deep.  Even in her limited time since arriving she’d seen it on the faces of the people who lived and worked here, masks of worry that they no longer bothered to try to conceal. 

“It is a time of crisis here in the west,” her father was saying, repeating the same sentiment that he’d expressed earlier during dinner.  “And Iriaebor is ill-equipped to face it, at the moment.  We’ve lacked strong leadership since Lord Bron died, and perhaps even before—even he could do little to halt the squabbling between the merchant houses.  General Goran’s expanded the Guard to almost double its original size, and he’s pushing a measure through the Council that will authorize him to initiate additional recruitments through his mercenary connections.”  

“There was something about him...” Dana said.  “He made me uneasy, the way he looked at me.”

Dana didn’t realize that she had spoken aloud until her father responded.  “Yes, there are those among the families that mistrust him, wary of another Bron to set himself up as Lord of the City.  Even so, he’ll probably get his program approved, given the potential threat, but its unlikely that patrols will be extended much further beyond their current tight radius about the city.  People are jumpy, nervous.  There’s a feeling in the air, of dark things waiting to happen.”

Dana’s frown deepened.  “If it’s as bad as all that, why aren’t the other civic leaders doing anything?  The heads of the churches, or the Harpers, or even the Lords’ Alliance?”

“I am sure they are all doing their best,” Artemos acknowledged.  “But if the Zhents march down from Darkhold, it will be us in the way, not Twilight Hall or the soldiers of the Lords.”

“I was planning on visiting the Moontower tomorrow,” she admitted.  “Perhaps the priests there will have more information.”

“Perhaps.”  For a moment his face clouded, then his eyes rose to see her again and softened.  “I am sorry, daughter.  I apologize for not being able to give you a more happy homecoming.”  

Dana nodded, forcing a smile.  While this was still her home, she was no longer part of this place, could no longer feel like anything more than a visitor for all that it felt good to see her father once more.  That had been the case for a long time, even before she had finally made the decision to leave for good, perhaps all the way back to when she’d been fostered to the monastery of the Sun Soul for her education and training.  All the way back to when her mother died, a memory that still bit with the pain of loss despite all the intervening years.

She saw some of that reflected in the eyes of her father, and knew that he felt it, too.  

Sadly, he lowered his eyes again.  “What will be, will be,” he said.


----------



## Black Bard

> For example, there's already one more character from Book I in the current plotline, and soon we'll be introduced to someone else who's linked to another major Book I figure...



I guess you're talking about the priest of Mask, Benzan's pal, don't you??


----------



## Lazybones

_Former_ priest of Mask; remember, Guthan worships demons now.  Hmm... _demons_... what a coincidence!

Muwhahahaha...


----------



## Maldur

Please, don't give hints. They are about as bad as cliffhangers


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 12

Dana reined in her horse as Cal called their little column to a brief halt.  The horse skittered a bit before she could bring it under control and quiet it.  It was her fault that the horse was still a little skittish, really; in the last four days since they’d left Iriaebor the saddle had been vacant far more often than not.  With her new magical boots she could easily keep up with the pace that the rest of them set mounted, without tiring, and she had to admit that she enjoyed jogging with the magically-enhanced stride that ate up the miles beneath her feet. 

Those four days of travel had gone by quickly, despite the fact that they’d set out cross-country directly toward the Reaching Wood instead of taking the more-traveled road up the Sunset Vale to Asbravn.  The only trouble they’d faced was a fast-moving storm that had passed by to the north, dropping only a few scattered drizzles on them that had cleared up within a few hours.  The horses provided for them were hardy, strong beasts, used to bearing burdens long distances on the roads that stretched between the widely separated city-states of the West.  And between Cal’s magical backpack and her own ability to create foodstuffs, they could travel light, enabling them to press on faster than most travelers would have been able to manage. 

Not for the first time since their hasty departure from Iriaebor, she thought back over their journey, and the reason they were here.  Her brief conversations with her father had prepared her, but it had been her visit to the Moontower the following day that had ultimately led to this course.  The visit had stirred many memories for her, the sight of the familiar stone columns and marble galleries of the massive structure.  It had been her mother who had brought her there for the first time, when she was still a child.  She had fallen into the atmosphere of the place with an intensity surprising in someone her age, and had brought home with her a trinket—a tiny silver moon on a string of delicate chain links—given to her by Astyaril Hulenese herself.

But now Astyaril Hulenese was long since gone, and the new Moonwarden of the temple had been a rail-thin figure of a man named Avril Lessalon.  Once the initial wave of memory had passed, she had noticed how empty the temple seemed, its staff of clerics reduced from the nearly three-dozen of her childhood to little more than a score now.  The elder priest had welcomed her warmly, placing the facilities of the temple at her disposal, but their conversation had quickly turned to the ills facing the region.  Lessalon was one of a triad of leading clerics in the city—leaders of the churches of Selûne, Eldath, and Chauntea—and focused on an issue that was of forefront concern to that council, the Reaching Wood.

_“We are concerned about developments in the Wood,”_ he’d told her.  _“Historically the forest has been inhospitable to bandits and raiders, for the druids within have been vigilant in patrolling its borders.  We have little commerce with them, for they prefer the solitude of the deep wood to the byways of civilized men.  But since the troubles have begun, we have heard nothing from them, despite several attempts to establish contact.  Some have even suggested that the druids are part of the threat, finally turning against even the peaceful trade that passes under the forest boughs.”_

_“I find that difficult to credit,”_ she had replied, though her father’s words had echoed in her mind then, and now.  _“I’ve heard that the denizens of the Wood can be rough, isolationist and fiercely protective of the forest, but I’ve never heard of open assaults on travelers using the Scornubel road.”_

_“Indeed. The merchants, as you might imagine, are quite upset—that road is a busy avenue for the trade down from Scornubel. But with everything that is happening, they are unwilling to send soldiers to investigate, and their General Goran has been quite vocal in his support of this policy.”_

And so she and her companions were here.  Lessalon had not quite gone so far as to ask her, but the request was clear if unspoken.  It meant that she would have to wait until the next full moon, if not later, to seek new answers in their quest to aid Delem, but she could not turn her back on those in need, especially here in her homeland.  She’d told herself that many times now, in the days since, but still she felt a gnawing guilt that tore at her newfound equilibrium.  It helped that her friends had been completely supportive, lending their aid without hesitation.  It helped some.

She glanced at her companions as her horse snorted a final protest before settling down—reluctantly, it seemed to her.  Inevitably her gaze shifted to Benzan, riding a short distance away.  He was looking ahead, at the line of trees that had been visible since midday, the line that they’d been paralleling as they made their way gradually north.  The line marked the border of the Reaching Wood, a vast primordial forest whose southern spur formed a wide belt along the eastern bank of the River Chionthar.  The forest was reputed a wild, untamed place, but under the stewardship of its druids malevolent only toward those who brought evil under its boughs.  And yet since they’d caught sight of it the place had seemed foreboding, even from a respectable distance.  

As if he sensed her watching, Benzan turned toward her.  As his gaze met hers, he smiled.  He wheeled his horse around and started back toward her, but was interrupted as Cal addressed them. 

“Smoke on the air,” he told them, “from the north.”  They all looked in that direction, looking off into the distance where the wood ran as far as they could see until a line of hills broke the far horizon.  They couldn’t see anything, but there was a fair breeze that would have rapidly dispersed a column of smoke.  

“Do you want me to scout ahead?” Dana asked.  With her boots, let alone her ability to call upon Selûne’s power to fly, she was the most mobile of any of them.  Benzan frowned, and she could see the sentiment in his eyes at the idea.  Dana felt a twinge of anger.  It was only the latest in what might become a trend, if she let it go unsquashed; a tendency for him to overprotect her.  But Cal shook his head as well.  

“I’d rather we stayed together, at least for now,” he said.  There was no objection, and they pressed on to the north at an easy trot. 

The maintained a brisk pace for perhaps half an hour.  Soon they could all detect the faint scent that the gnomes had detected; an acrid tang of smoke mixed with something else, an odor of death and destruction that all those who bore arms for a living were familiar with.  Benzan’s sharp eyes were the first to note the column of smoke, really just a long trailer of wisps that scattered quickly in the breeze.  The smoke originated from just within the edge of the treeline, ahead to their left. 

“Be wary,” Cal said.  

As they drew nearer, they realized that the smoke’s point of origin intersected a road that emerged from the wood and stretched out to the north, rapidly disappearing in the bends and twists in the land in that direction.  The could also make out the vague forms of what had been wagons, most of them now just scorched hulks, and smaller mounds that promised a grim scene even before they reined in and dismounted a short distance away, leading their reluctant mounts forward.  

It had been a considerable merchant train, by the looks of it.  The remains of eight wagons littered the stretch of road, a few surrounded by the bloated and stinking corpses of horses.  Small forms marked the remains of men, some little more than shredded cloth and bones.  Too few for a caravan of this size, indicating that some had escaped... or been taken by whoever had done this.  

Cal wore his feelings clear on his face as he walked through the area, and Lok wore a hard look that seemed etched from stone.  Benzan bent to examine one of the corpses, and paced off a circle around one of the wagons, his sharp eyes alert as he scanned for traces.   

“How long, do you think?” Cal asked. 

“Better part of a day, I’d guess,” Benzan said, kneeling to examine something in the turf beside the road. 

“Any signs of who... or what... did this?” Dana asked, her voice tight.  She had stopped beside a body that was only barely recognizable as that, a few white shards showing from a blackened heap.  She had seen a lot of death since she’d first left Iriaebor two years ago, but she doubted that she’d ever get used to seeing sights like this. 

Benzan hadn’t responded, but he looked thoughtful as he knelt there beside the burned-out wagon.  Abruptly, his head shot up, and his hand darted into the quiver at his belt for a long arrow.  

Before any of them could ask, they all heard it too, a loud crashing noise that erupted from within the forest to their left, off the road.  Dana, who was closest to the noise, retreated quickly to where the rest of them were readying weapons and spells with the calm ease of experience.  Whatever it was, it was approaching fast, but the dense forest undergrowth masked it from clear view.  Cal first summoned a magical _shield,_ and even as the barrier sprung into being he turned to Benzan, shrouding him within the protection of _improved invisibility_.  That tactic they’d agreed upon in advance, after witnessing its effectiveness back in Undermountain.  Invisible, Benzan’s ability to find weak points in a foe’s defenses became that much more deadly.  Dana, in the meantime, enhanced Lok with _bull’s strength_.

The approaching noise grew closer, and the undergrowth facing the road started to quiver.  They heard rather than saw Benzan draw and fire, his arrow suddenly appearing as it lanced through the brush, the missile trailing a line of burning flame as the power of his new bow imparted its magical energy to the arrow.  They saw a flash of fire and heard an angry roar that indicated that the shot had struck home.  

Or at the very least, ticked off whatever was there. 

They didn’t have to wait much longer to see the identity of their foes, as several huge forms appeared and tore through the undergrowth in a ponderous rush.  They were beetles, huge things each the size of a considerable wagon, their sheer mass punching holes in the thick shroud of brush as they skittered forward onto the road.  Their bodies were covered by armored carapaces colored in a drab medley of dark colors that formed a sort of camouflage, and it was hard to see what was more dangerous, the hard chitinous horns that jutted from their heads like a massive spike, or the snapping mandibles that looked large enough to take a head or an arm off with a single powerful bite.  

There were six in all, and without hesitating they immediately turned as one and came menacingly forward toward the companions.


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 13

The half-dozen massive stag beetles scuttled forward.  They didn’t move very fast for their size, but they didn’t have that far to go before reaching the companions.  

The four adventurers did not wait for them to close the range.  Even as Lok stepped forward and hefted his axe, the others were launching spells and attacks.  Flaming arrows appeared from empty air as Benzan rapidly plied his bow, and even though the beetles’ carapaces seemed as hard as armor, a violent screech told of at least one hit telling.  

Cal cleared his mind for another spell.  Beside him, Dana looked about to do the same, but she found herself fighting the reins in her hand as her horse backed away, panicked by the appearance of the beetles.  The others had already either dropped their reins as they prepared for battle, or hastily lashed them to whatever was nearby.  Benzan’s horse was tied to a wagon shell close to the approaching beetles, and the animal neighed in desperate fear as it reared and tried to get free.  Its struggles only attracted one of the beetles, which made its way toward the trapped horse.  

Dana cursed as her horse dragged her off balance.  She dropped her spear and hurriedly wrapped the reins around a sapling that tilted at an angle just off the road.  Leaving the horse, she quickly recovered her spear and returned to the fray.

Lok stood his ground, waiting for the first beetle to reach him.  The ground shook with the combined weight of the six giant vermin, but as the first loomed over him he felt a surge of magic flow into him.  With his speed boosted by Cal’s magical _haste_, he tore into the beetle’s head with his axe.  Even without the rime of magical frost from his old familiar weapon, now resting in a room deep under the ground hundreds of miles away, his new blade tore deeply into the thing’s hide.  Fetid ichor sprayed onto his arm as the beetle snapped at him with its mandibles, but with his enhanced speed he easily brought his shield around in time to block.  The thing’s sheer weight threatened to drive him back and overpower him, but with a yell he unleashed a flurry of powerful strokes, his axe tearing vicious gashes in the beetle’s head.  Before the thing could manage another attack it shuddered as a final blow slammed hard into its braincase, and collapsed to the ground in a quivering heap.

Before he could rejoice in his victory, though, he turned just in time to see a second beetle that surged over him, trampling him into the ground.  

Cal found himself unpleasantly exposed as a pair of beetles surged toward him.  In a flash he quickly catalogued his remaining spells; while a _polymorph_ could transform one into a harmless form, casting the spell on an unwilling foe depended largely on overcoming its inherent fortitude—and these beetles looked pretty tough, from his current vantage.  A _web_ might immobilize them briefly, but with them already on the road there was no way to place the spell that would not capture Lok and possibly Benzan as well.  Reluctantly, he drew out his wand of _color spray_, and as the beetles entered its range unleashed a barrage of blinding light.  Even if the beetles were too tough to knock out, the display should stun them for at least a few seconds, give him and Dana time to act...

Only when the colors dissolved, the beetles were lumbering toward him, unaffected.

Benzan continued to ply his bow at his chosen target, even as it turned aside and chittered eagerly toward the wagon where his horse grew increasingly and understandably desperate in its struggles.  He trusted in Cal’s invisibility to protect him as the creature trampled past within a few paces of where he was standing.  Three smoldering arrows already jutted from holes he’d blasted in its armored form, but the stupid thing seemed ignorant of its pains as it focused on its prey.  The tiefling shouted in a last-ditch effort to draw its attention, but instead of turning it swept forward and snapped its mandibles firmly around the torso of his hapless horse.  The horse screamed as a loud snap filled the clearing, then went down thrashing as the beetle drove it forward from the wagon.  The reins, still fastened to the burned out shell, tore a huge chunk of wood free and dragged after the vermin and its meal. 

“Damn...” Benzan said.  He raised his bow to fire again, but turned as he heard a familiar cry from behind him.  

Lok felt the mass of the beetle over him, pressing him down roughly into the damp ground, threatening to smash him through sheer weight.  Grunting he shifted his arms and planted his weight firmly, heaving up with a strength that forced the beetle off two of its legs as it pivoted and tried to get at the crunchy morsel it had trampled.  The beetle slid off his armored body and twisted to bring its mandibles to bear, but staggered as Lok slammed his axe into its side.  Its carapace cracked as the axe tore through into the soft flesh underneath, and the beetle let out a screech that grated like fingernails on slate.  

Lok raised his axe to strike again, but before he could attack he sensed another large form looming behind him.  Before he could fully turn he felt something like iron bands snap around him, and a massive weight crushing his body squeezed him tightly within his armor, the metal plates bending under the stress.  He tried to twist free, but it was like fighting against the inexorable press of a mountain.  Looking up, he saw the wounded beetle had turned and was coming forward, its own mandibles working eagerly as they sought to tear free their own bit of flesh from this troublesome snack.

Cal gave way as the beetles surged at him.  He leapt aside as the first nearly trampled him, and even though he avoided being caught under it he felt a thick leg clip his side and knock him roughly aside.  He managed to roll with the impact and come back onto his feet, just in time to see the second beetle charging straight toward him, mandibles snapping toward his head.

The battle was not going well.


----------



## wolff96

Demons, devils, and the avatar of a rogue god.  And now they're getting hammered by a sextet of beetles. 

Humility is a good thing, right?  

Love the battle description as always, Lazybones.


----------



## Maldur

Yeah, great as ever!

thanks, LB.


----------



## Lazybones

In Neverwinter Nights, stag beetles are one of my favorite monsters to use as a DM/builder.  With a 4d6+9 bite, even high-level characters have to respect 'em (and low-level characters had best run!).  

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 14

Cal realized belatedly that the cry he heard was his own, drawn out by the surprise of having a beetle the size of a wagon rumbling rapidly toward him.  The beetle’s mandibles snapped down at his head.  Blue light flared as its jaws snapped on the edges of his magical _shield_, the barrier holding just long enough for him to leap back.  The beetle came on, however, but the momentary delay gave Cal just enough time to utter the syllables of a spell. He felt the familiar prickling of his flesh as the _stoneskin_ settled in around him, girding his frame with protection stronger than the most skillfully forged set of plate armor. 

Lok was caught between two beetles who seemed intent on tearing him into two roughly equal portions.  The combination of his magical armor and Cal’s _haste_ had thus far kept the pair from succeeding, but pinned between the two of them, the genasi warrior knew that even his considerable fortitude would not keep him safe for long.  With his enhanced speed and strength he managed to tear free of the first beetle’s grasp, ignoring the pain that twisted through his torso as he lifted his axe to strike the wounded one in front of him.  He scored a hit that tore a deep gash in its head, but the beetle seemed nonplussed by the hurt as it snapped at him again.  This time it failed to get a good hold on him, but his trained instincts warned him that the one behind him was coming on again, seeking to regain its hold.  

Still, he started when he heard a warcry sound out somewhere behind him and to his right, and he sensed rather than saw the beetle behind him suddenly shudder and then shift its massive frame to the side.  He could not turn to see what was happening, though, as the wounded beetle lurched forward again, and he had to put all of his attention into ducking another vicious snap of its powerful jaws.

Dana rushed to Cal’s aid, engaging the beetle that had tried to trample him with her longspear.  She thrust the head of her weapon at its head, biting off a curse as it glanced off of the creature’s thick hide.  The attack certainly got its attention, though, and she danced back swiftly, able to easily outpace it even without the boost from her magical boots, drawing it away while she continued to thrust at it with the spear. 

Cal found himself hard-pressed.  The beetle attacked him again, and even with his _stoneskin_ he felt pain as its mandibles snapped onto his shoulder, dragging him upward.  He managed to pull free before it got a firm grasp, and staggered back, knowing that he would not be able to outdistance it.  

Suddenly, a long arrow slammed into the thing’s head, just below one dark, alien eye.  For an instant, he thought of Benzan, but then he saw that this arrow flared with silver tendrils of electrical energy that spread out into a deadly nimbus around the creature’s head.  The discharge only lasted a second, but it was clear that the beetle felt the pain.  It lifted its head just in time to take a second arrow placed only a handspan from the first, driving just as deep.  The beetle screeched in pain, confused, and Cal took full advantage of its distraction to draw his wand and fire an _acid arrow_ point-blank into its open mouth. 

That seemed to get its attention, anyway, and it came at him again, charging blindly forward.  This time there was no chance to escape, and he went down, trying to protect his head as it trampled him.  

Benzan ground his teeth with frustration as he rushed toward Cal and his massive adversary.  Thus far he’d scored several hits, but even with his sneak attacks and flaming arrows they seemed to do little more than annoy the lumbering creatures.  For a moment he felt divided as he saw another beetle chasing after Dana, but he forced himself to focus on his current target.  He knew—he hoped—that she could handle herself. 

He saw the arrows streak out from the forest cover on the opposite side of the road and hit the beetle, and he saw a hulking man-sized form appear from the same location and charge into melee with the beetles threatening Lok a short distance away.  He did not spare any more time for these new allies, if allies they were, for the beetle swept forward over Cal, the gnome disappearing under its sprawling body.  Benzan charged, drawing and firing one more arrow before he drew his sword.  The arrow glanced off the beetle’s thick carapace, but his sword bit deep into its body, staggering the beetle as it lurched forward another step, then a second, before it stumbled and fell to the ground. 

Benzan dropped his bow and heaved at the creature, trying to lift it enough to get to Cal.  The gnome finally appeared, looking haggard but otherwise intact, and crawled out to safety.  Fortunately the creature’s full weight hadn’t landed on him, only the edge of its shell that had dragged him down when it had finally fallen. 

“Thanks,” he said, trying to shake off the slicks of mud that covered his clothes.  Benzan realized that he must be visible; he looked down and saw streaks of mud and blood from the beetle covering him, partially outlining the lower half of his body. 

“We’re not done yet,” Benzan said, dropping the beetle and looking for his bow.  

But the battle was already drawing to a close.  Lok and his newfound ally had tore into their two adversaries with equal vigor, and even as the tiefling and gnome moved clear the last shuddered and fell.  Dana had drawn her beetle into a fruitless chase, whittling it down with thrusts of her spear; finally the realization of pain had reached its tiny brain and it broke away, turning back into the forest to vanish in a flurry of scattered underbrush.  The final beetle had spent its time devouring Benzan’s horse, but now lay unmoving beside what was left of the carcass, at least a half-dozen arrows jutting from its body.  

The archer who had plied those arrows now emerged from the forest, moving to join his companion beside Lok.  As the adventurers came together to face them, they recognized the strangers, among the last people they’d expected to find in this place.

“Lariel!  Gorath!” Cal exclaimed.  “Tymora’s luck, your timing is exceptional, but we’d not expected to see you here!” 

“Indeed,” the elf archer—an arcane archer of Evereska, he’d introduced himself the last time they’d met, in another isolated place far, far from here.  He and his companion, a half-orc ranger, were agents of the Harpers, that self-appointed group of watchers who monitored the activities of evil organizations throughout much of Faerûn.  Some viewed them as heroes, others as meddlers expert at manipulation behind the scenes, but only fools dismissed them. 

Gorath watched them without bothering to hide the suspicion that marked his features.  He held his axes easily, not threatening but ready to spring into battle again without a moment’s warning.  They already knew him to be a man of few words, but the huge gashes in the beetle he’d slain testified to his combat prowess.  

“Yeah, real lucky, that you showed up just at that moment,” Benzan added.  If the two Harpers were nonplussed at his appearance, his still-invisible form just vaguely outlined by splashes of mud and gore, they gave no sign of it.  Of course, Harpers were known as much for their lore as for their other skills, and these two had already shown that they were at least as well traveled as the companions themselves.

For a moment the tension hung in the air between the two groups, then, finally, Lariel’s expression softened.  “Perhaps we should talk,” he said, gesturing a short distance down the road with his silver bow.  The six of them moved together in that direction, leaving fresh carcasses for the forest carrion to clean up in their wake.


----------



## Black Bard

*Part 14...*

A great post!! As always... 

Lazy, maybe you could provide us with the stats of Lariel and Gorath... Would you??


----------



## Lazybones

I will put Lariel and Gorath's stats in the Rogues' Gallery thread today or tomorrow.

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 15


“It would appear that our interests coincide, at least for the time being,” Lariel said.

The six huddled close under the sheltering limbs of a thick oak tree that leaned out over the road.  The adjacent forest closed in quickly beyond that narrow corridor of packed earth, thick underbrush forming a wall to either side.  The forest seemed brooding, dark, that impression reinforced by the fact that the clouds had thickened overhead once again, and a slightly drizzle that promised more to come had begun.  The site of the caravan ambush and their battle with the giant beetles was only a short distance away, still visible as vague ruined mounds littering the road where the forest gave way to the plains beyond. 

Cal nodded in response to the slender elf’s comment.  Their conversation had been brief, each side relating at least some of what they knew about the ills confronting the region.  The Harper agents readily admitted that they were here to investigate the same rumblings of dread coming from the Reaching Wood.  They had already scouted along the fringes of the forest, having come across the ruin of the caravan earlier that day, and had found a trail leading deeper into the wood when they’d heard the sounds of battle and come to find the companions hard-pressed by the swarm of giant vermin. 

But for all that it was evident that the pair was keeping something back, as well.  The four were familiar with the Harpers from personal experience; they’d traveled for a time with a halfling cleric of Tymora named Ruath.  She had kept her secrets close indeed; they’d only found out about her affiliation after her death, when they’d found her Harper pin on her body.  But Cal knew that whatever the unusual pair was hiding, their help would be useful in what they were about here. 

Benzan, however, wasn’t willing to let it go so easily, it seemed.  “There’s a saying common in the West,” he said.  “Be wary of a Harper offering a gift.  When you reach out to take it, you find a cord attached to your wrist.” 

Gorath snorted, his eyes as sharp as his axes, but Lariel only narrowed his eyes slightly.  “There’s another saying, ‘Only a fool refuses help offered at a time of need.’”

Benzan opened his mouth to respond, but Dana overrode him.  “This is useless,” she said.  “It’s clear that we’re on the same side here, and from what we have seen,” she nodded harshly back down the road, toward the wagons, “we’re going to need all the help we can get.  There’s still enough daylight left to cover a goodly distance on this trail, and we’d best be about it before the rain makes it that much harder.”

The others readily agreed, and without further discussion they prepared to set out again.  Their horses—those that were left; Benzan’s had been slain in the beetle attack, and Cal’s had broken free of its halter and fled—they had to leave behind; even the little they’d seen of the forest was enough to tell them that going mounted would be more difficulty than it was worth.  Dana and Lok unloaded the saddlebags from their mounts and removed saddles and bridles before walking them to the edge of the forest and slapping them into a run.  The horses needed little encouragement; they were quite happy to leave the site of the ambush.  

The gloom that had hung over the road deepened further as they moved into the wood, until they were walking through a world of perpetual twilight.  Once they were back from the road the undergrowth thinned enough for them to make faster progress, although there was still enough brush and tangled thickets to potentially conceal a thousand lurking foes.  Gorath’s eyes darted around without cease, and his battleaxe hung waiting in his hand.  Lariel held an arrow to his bowstring with one hand, and he walked lightly, as if he might have to spring into action at the slightest warning.  Lok, Cal, Benzan, and Dana were experienced enough to recognize their wariness, and share it.  

Gorath was able to find the trail again without much difficulty.  It wasn’t hard to mark it; at least two dozen creatures had come and gone this way.  The ranger showed them a track left clear in a muddy patch of ground; it was a big, clawed print, easily twice the size of even Gorath’s booted print beside it.  

“Big,” Benzan said.  “Lizardfolk?”

“Perhaps,” the half-orc rumbled, but it was clear in his voice that he didn’t quite believe it.  

“There are other signs as well,” Lariel told them.  “They took captives, took them with them into the forest.”

“We’d heard of slaving raids along the eastern edge of the wood, farther north,” Cal said.  “Sigils of Bane were found at some of the sites.”

“Yes, we’d heard that as well.  But the druids should not have allowed raiders to find sanctuary within the wood.  I fear a dark shadow has fallen over this place.”

With that gloomy statement, they pressed on.  The day was advancing rapidly, and soon they would have to make camp, a necessity none of them seemed comfortable with.  

They moved through the forest in silence, walking single-file with Gorath blazing the trail at their lead.  The six of them were like shadows themselves, their dark garments blending smoothly with the backdrop of the wood.  Gorath himself moved like a hunting cat, and sometimes disappeared from view even when he was just a few dozen paces ahead of them.  

They had walked for perhaps an hour before they saw that the half-orc had paused, staring out into the dark wood ahead.  The others approached warily, hands drifting to weapon hilts or pouches containing spell components.  

“What is it?” Lok whispered, even that sound too loud in the stillness of the forest around them.  A tiny patter of raindrops filtering down from the canopy above only enhanced the quiet, forming a muted backdrop that swallowed up the sounds of their movement. 

“I feel eyes,” the half-orc replied.  They all started out into the gloom, but even those with darkvision could not make out anything more than shadows.  Then Benzan moved toward the side, perpendicular to the trail they’d been following.  

“I think I see something,” he told the others, creeping quietly forward, his booted feet crunching as softly as a whisper on the carpet of damp leaves underfoot.  The others followed him, eyes sweeping back and forth as they scanned for any sign of danger. 

All of them—save perhaps Dana, whose lack of either low-light or darkvision had already led to a fair number of stumbles on her part—could see that he was leading them toward a cluster of a half-dozen trees that formed a tight circle, their branches intertwined and their trunks splayed outward slightly as they rose into the sky.  

“Wait,” Cal said, and they halted.  “An odor of death, from ahead.”

Gorath nodded.  “I smell it.  Someone or something met their end here, not long past, a day perhaps.”

“Stay here, I’ll check it out,” Benzan said.  Suddenly the shadows seemed to swallow him up, and he vanished from sight.  Cal glanced over at Lariel and Gorath; they were not surprised, even though they could not know about his _ring of shadows_.  

“Be careful,” Cal said.  

Benzan was already moving quickly ahead, toward what he’d glimpsed earlier.  His nose wasn’t as sensitive as Cal and Gorath’s, but their words had already confirmed his suspicion.  There, a lump lying at the base of one of the trees; it might have been just a protruding root, covered with dirt and leaves, or a moss-covered stone.  Except for the splayed hand that jutted from the heap, barely visible through a gap in the trunks.  He was still too far to identify the corpse, and he scanned the area warily as he silently crept closer, all but invisible in the poor light.  

He was almost to the ring of trunks before he could identify the body.  He sucked in a breath as he recognized the scaled texture of its mottled skin, the thin lines of claws jutting from its fingertips.  He turned to retreat to where the others were waiting...

He sensed rather than saw the movement from above, and reflex took over as he twisted and dodged aside.  Something hard glanced off his shoulder, adding impetus to his dive, but he quickly rolled to his feet and started running back toward his companions.  Only he’d barely planted his first step when something thick snapped heavily around his neck, drawing him roughly backward.  He managed only a single strangled cry before it jerked him off his feet, dragging him up into the air.


----------



## Black Bard

*Part 15...*

I think that from now on we can call this forest _The Reaching *Cliffhanger*  Wood_ ... 

I wonder what those scaly ones really are...or were...


----------



## Lazybones

I've added Lariel and Gorath's stats to the Rogues' Gallery thread (link in my sig).  

We already met the scaly guys in Part 2 of the current book; they, like a good many of the creatures who have turned up in books IV-VII, come from _Monsters of Faerun_.  Even the base examples of the race are pretty tough (as we'll see), but with class levels added in...

Soon, however, they'll face a threat that will make Draxaranthilus (the deep dragon from book V) seem like a 1st level kobold sapper.  *insert author's standard demonic cackle*


----------



## Maldur

> I think that from now on we can call this forest The Reaching Cliffhanger Wood




See Im not the only one 

LB, when your done with this book cant you set up a Play-by-post game?  I would love to play in one of your stories  And for some reason I couldn't get into NWN.


----------



## Black Bard

I forgot!!!  
Yeah!!! _Dragonkin_ Barbarians are on the way!!!!

I hope Tymora see to our heroes...


----------



## Black Bard

> LB, when your done with this book cant you set up a Play-by-post game? I would love to play in one of your stories



*Count me in!!!!*


----------



## wolff96

Play-by-Post or IM or even e-mail...

If you're willing to run one, I'll be there.


----------



## Lazybones

Maldur said:
			
		

> *
> LB, when your done with this book cant you set up a Play-by-post game?  I would love to play in one of your stories  And for some reason I couldn't get into NWN. *




Hmm... I did participate in a messsageboard game for a few months in early 2000; it was interesting but ultimately I drifted away from it.  I wasn't planning on doing it again, but perhaps once _Travels_ is finished I can whip something up (gotta have my distraction here at work.   Anyone who had the fortitude to wade through all of this story would have first dibs on playing, of course.   I'd set the game in the Realms, of course, and maybe we could even meet an NPC "guest star" from the _Travels_. 

Speaking of endings, I had a brainstorm this morning and sketched out the ultimate conclusion of the series over breakfast this morning.  _Travels_ will have a final end, and it will come at the end of Book VIII (at the pace I'm writing, we'll likely see it in early 2003).  There will be plot twists leading up to the final scene, frantic action, a huge confrontation, a terrible choice, and betrayal.

Nothing precludes our heroes coming back later for some _epic_ action, however...

Anyway, here is your Friday update:

* * * * *

Book VII, Part 16

Benzan fought for breath, struggled against the strength of the thing that had encircled his throat and continued to drag him higher into the air, almost to where the lowest of the trees’ branches formed a latticework of gnarled limbs.  He’d dropped his bow, but that would have availed him little.  With both hands he tried to loosen the grip around his neck, but the thick band there may as well have been made of iron for his efforts.  He held on with one hand while he tried to grasp his sword with the other, but his fingers fumbled on the hilt, as if the sword were trying to escape his grip. 

He was aware of sounds over the pounding of his blood in his ears.  Dana’s voice, shouting his name.  Something bright lanced past his head, striking something above with a meaty thunk.  The pressure on his neck did not loosen, and everything started to grow fuzzy around him.  

As soon as he’d been struck, Benzan’s companions had leapt to his aid against whatever it was that had attacked him.  They could see only a thick strand, like a cable, dangling down from the knot of branches a good fifteen feet above the forest turf.  In a blur Lariel drew and fired his bow, aiming for the origin point of that cord, but whether the arrows had an impact, they could not say.  

Gorath and Lok shared a quick look, then both were charging forward, axes flashing in the pale light.  But as they neared the ring of trees, the forest itself seemed to lash out at them.  Tangling vines and thorny bushes sprang up and entangled the two warriors in their grasp, hindering them and trying to hold them helpless.  They couldn’t quite do that, not against the strength of those two, but neither could either of them do anything at the moment to aid Benzan.  And to make matters worse, another tentacle shot down from the tree, seeking Gorath’s neck.  

“Look out!” Lok cried in warning, as the half-orc sliced through several of the vines wrapped around his legs with his axe.

Dana’s heart caught in her throat as she watched the vine drag Benzan up into the air, his legs kicking out helplessly beneath him.  She swallowed her fear and without further hesitation opened her mind to the voice of the Goddess, calling upon the power that filled her with divine magic.  As she completed the spell she shot up into the air like a dart, her spear before her as she headed toward Benzan.  Unfortunately, she could barely see in the half-light, even Benzan just a shadowy outline, the source of the attack invisible among the branches.  Benzan’s struggles guided her, though, and she flew up toward him.  Whatever had grabbed him had already dragged him up a good ten feet above the ground, and now he dangled, his struggles already growing weaker.  

Another silver arrow shot past her, gleaming with a bright radiance that shone like the light of a torch.  The arrow flew high, slamming into the trunk of one of the trees, dispelling the shadows with its light.  The glowing arrow revealed the thing that had grabbed Benzan, and Dana swallowed reflexively in horror. 

It was a huge, creeping vine, or rather a knot of vines, wrapped around a writhing central mass that twisted around several of the interlaced tree trunks and their assorted branches.  She recognized it, but only from stories—an assassin vine, they called it, an animate plant creature that fed upon the rotting corpses of the creatures that it slew.  She held her spear tightly, unsure of where to strike, how she could save Benzan, whose grip on the tendril holding him began to loosen even as she watched.  

A fat glob of acid streaked past her, striking the creature, burning into it, startling her into action.  Once again she stilled her thoughts, opened herself to the purity of Selûne.

At Lok’s warning, Gorath reached up and grabbed the vine even as it tried to latch onto his throat.  The tendril writhed in his hand, resisting his grasp, but the half-orc grunted with determination and dragged at it.  Even with his strength, the vine almost pulled free, but before it could Lok was there, grabbing onto it was well.  The two warriors shared another look, then together heaved at it with their combined strength.  

A snapping sound came down from above, and then a large mass connected to the vine came tumbling down from the branches above.  Even before it hit the ground, Lok and Gorath were lumbering forward at it, tearing through the still-clinging undergrowth around it.  A vine slapped up from the writhing mass and slammed Lok across the helmet, but for all the effect it had on the genasi, it may as well have hit a stone wall.  

Dana stuck out her palm and called forth a ray of _searing light_ that blasted into the body of the huge assassin vine still up in the tree.  The divine energies tore into its matter and ripped away the roots of the tentacle holding Benzan.  As its grip loosened, the tiefling fell to the forest floor below.  The distance was not great, and the damp vegetable matter softened his fall, but Dana was already diving after him, concern written on her features.  He had fallen limply, and she prayed silently that he was only unconscious, passed out from lack of air.  

Another vine snaked out from the remnants of the creature, but Lariel and Cal both continued their attacks.  Arrows lanced into its body, and while the dancing currents of electricity released by the missiles did not seem to harm it, the steel tips tore through its fibers quite effectively.  Cal’s _acid arrows_ were even more effective, dissolving its substance.  Before the creature could attack again the combined attacks overcame it, and what was left of it quivered and hung limply, no longer animated by life.  

Gorath and Lok, meanwhile, had hacked the smaller vine to pieces.  The animated brush fell silent, and they all quickly gathered around where Dana was bent over Benzan’s unmoving frame. 

“Is he...” Cal asked.

“He lives,” Dana said, with relief.  She had pulled the remnants of the vine from around his throat, where an ugly purple bruise surrounded his neck like a ring.  Tenderly touching the injury, she closed her eyes and channeled another potent healing spell into him.  As the blue light of healing poured into him, he opened his eyes and shot up with a start. 

“By the gods!” he cried, his hands shooting to his neck.

“It’s all right,” Dana said, soothing him.  He sat up and looked around, grimacing as he caught sight of the thing dangling lifelessly from the branches above.

“That was a close one,” Cal commented.  

“Yeah,” Benzan said, taking his bow as Lariel recovered it from a nearby bush and handed it to him.  With Dana’s help, he regained his feet, still a bit unsteady despite the healing.  

“Are you all right?” she asked, and he nodded.  

“Next time, I think I’ll let you scout ahead,” he said, gesturing with a nod to Gorath.  

“Looks like this... thing... ran afoul of the vines,” Lok said, prodding at the corpse that Benzan had seen earlier with his boot.  They could all see it clearly now.  It resembled a lizardfolk, only bigger; its thickly muscled frame made Gorath look slender by comparison.  It had wings, too, now folded back against its body, and wore a leather tunic now very much the worse for wear.  By the smell it had only been dead a day or so, as Gorath had said, but the damp and insects had already gone quite some way toward its decomposition, so much so that there was little more they could discern from it. 

“What is it?” Dana asked.

Benzan opened his mouth to reply, but a voice from behind them all interjected first.  “It is a dragonkin warrior.”   

They spun around—none of them had sensed anyone approach!—and more than one mouth dropped in surprise.  The speaker stood barely twenty feet away.  His frame was tall and lean, his shaggy head easily seven feet above his bare feet.  He wore a tunic fashioned from mismatched hides, decorated by lines of painted color and assorted fetishes.  He held a heavy spear with a haft as thick around as Dana’s wrist, its broad head a sharp slab of curving iron.  But most shockingly, his words came from a mouth that looked incapable of fashioning human speech, slavering jaws in a face that resembled the leering snout of a hyena.  The face of a gnoll.  

The gnoll regarded them with hard eyes that nonetheless shone with intelligence, but there was no fear in that look.  As they stared, a pair of creatures shuffled up beside it; badgers, if badgers could be the size of a pony.  They watched the companions the way that a cat might look at a mouse caught between its paws. 

“Welcome to the Reaching Wood,” the gnoll said to them.


----------



## Maldur

YEAH!!!

It would be really cool  if you would try that 
I said it before and Ill said it again: I would love to play in a game you run.

Great update as well, LB!


----------



## Black Bard

*Part 16...*



> “Welcome to the Reaching Wood,” the gnoll said to them.



A warm welcome, that`s for sure!!! But I have a feeling that hungry trees( and gnoll druids) are not the worst inhabitants of this idyllic place...
 



> I said it before and Ill said it again: I would love to play in a game you run.



You know, sometimes I have no option other than agree with Maldur...


----------



## Maldur

> You know, sometimes I have no option other than agree with Maldur...




*bow and tips his hat*

Well thank you


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 17

“Who are you?” Cal asked, the same time that Benzan asked, “What do you want?”  Despite having been healed, the tiefling’s throat was still raw, for the question came out more as a croak than a legible query.  

The gnoll did not respond to either, but then Lariel stepped forward—careful to keep his bow lowered and his other hand away from the hilt of his sword—and offered a slight bow to the creature.  “Salvete, custos silvae, ministrator Silvani,” he said, the words flowing off his tongue with a soft, lilting accent.  

Cal shot a glance at Dana, but the priestess shook her head. 

The gnoll nodded, as if weighing them anew.  “Ego vos video,” he said, somehow forming the same accent with that animal mouth.  “I am Zev Darok, druid of the Wood.”  While he kept the spear up, holding it like a walking stick, his wariness did not noticeably ease, and the badgers seemed like tensed coils waiting only for the slightest prod to leap to the attack.  

Lariel introduced himself and his companions, giving only their names.  The only evidence that the gnoll was paying heed was a shifting of his eyes with each name, but it was clear that he missed nothing.  

“I see you and your companions, Lariel arcane.  You come into the Wood armed with skill and spell and blade, but lacking in lore.”  He shot a meaningful glance at the copse behind them, and the remains of the assassin vines.  

“We seek the ones who raided the caravan,” Cal said.  “Our intent is not to trespass, or offer injury to the Wood.”

“Injury...” the gnoll said, shifting his jaws as if tasting the word.  It added a rather unsettling effect to his already harsh expression.  He barked, a bitter sound.  “Even if you did seek to injure the Wood, I doubt you could inflict worse damage than has already been suffered.  Evil stalks the Wood, a great and powerful Evil that corrupts the Wood by its very presence.”

“The dragonkin... they are part of this Evil?” Cal asked. 

The gnoll nodded.  “They are part, but they are only the arms, the eyes, of a presence most dark, most deep.  It has taken control of that place that is called Nar’dek’alok, the Weeping Stones.  A place of great power, once, deep within the core of the Wood.” 

The companions exchanged a look.  “Can you tell us more about this... presence?” Cal asked.  

Zev shook his head.  “I have not seen it, and none of the children of the Wood will go near.  Several of my order have confronted it, but it has slain them all.  I have watched from hiding, and listened to the dragonkin, and they speak only of the ‘Undying One’.  No ordinary creature now lives within a half-day’s trek of Nar’dek’alok, nothing but its minions.”

“The ‘Undying One,’” Benzan said, his voice now slightly stronger despite the bleak look on his face.  “No matter what that is, it can’t be good for us.”

“Dragon, maybe,” Gorath said, his voice as neutral as if he’d just said it was going to rain again.  Benzan looked at him with disbelief, and opened his mouth to retort, but Cal interrupted him, drawing their attention back to the druid.

“Well, we weren’t looking for this kind of trouble, but it always seems to find us nonetheless,” Cal said.  For a moment he looked tired, but then he straightened, and despite his small size he suddenly seemed to command the small clearing.  “I don’t know if this evil is connected to all the disasters that have tormented the West in recent months, but whatever it is, is cannot be allowed to continue attacking caravans and destroying the natural order of this forest.  If you can guide us to this place, Zev, this ‘Weeping Stones,’ then we will do our best to find out the nature of this threat, and, if it is within our power, deal with it.”

Lariel and Gorath exchanged a quick look, but after a moment, the elf nodded, adding his assent.  Lok and Dana wore stares of equal determination, and although Benzan shook his head and mumbled something inaudible, he did not offer further dissent. 

The druid masked his own feelings, fixing them all with an intense look that they returned unblinking.  Finally, he nodded.  

“I will take you there.”

Benzan groaned.


----------



## Black Bard

*Part 17...*

Lazy, you`re mean!!! Such a teasing short post is the ultimate cruelty!!! Grrr!!! 

But I would like my post to be accompanied with the most sincere _"Merry Christmas"_ votes for all of you!!


----------



## Maldur

Better short than not at all!

Let the man be, he now has to finish the story AND plan a campaign 

And yes Happy Holidays all, and may your pen flow in the new year.


----------



## Lazybones

Happy holidays to all my readers, and may peace be with you all.    

And since nothing says "Merry Christmas" better than summoning demons, here's another seasonal holiday update:

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 18

Guthan stood in the mouth of the opening that was bored into the face of the cliff, and looked out over the valley.  He thought of it as _his_ valley, had developed a sense of ownership over the long months since the dreams and messages had led him here.  The remains of the camps were still visible; the presence of that many creatures could not be removed quickly or easily from the land.  Now there were only a handful of hobgoblins left, the bulk of them having departed the day before along with the trolls and giants.  Guthan felt well rid of them, particularly those infuriating beasts who had the temerity to call themselves “clerics,” and think themselves his equal.  

Guthan snorted and turned away from the valley, toward the dark maw that penetrated some distance into the solid mass of the cliff.  He’d been tempted to disabuse them of that notion, to put them in their place, but he needed them, and so he’d had to accept the limited deference that his standing gave him.  

Soon, though, things would change, and all would grant him the respect that he deserved. 

His bootsteps echoed through the dark, empty space.  He needed no light to guide him, not in this place.  He felt a tingle as he passed through the protective wards—some his own, and some more ancient—and traversed the long stair that gave way to his destination.

Here he could see clearly, although there was no light to speak of, but rather a black haze that somehow outlined every tiny detail to his senses.  He didn’t bother to try to understand how it worked or why; asking too many questions here, even in the privacy of one’s own thoughts, could be dangerous.  

The chamber was spacious, and seemed even larger than it was.  Perhaps it was because it had a way of making _him_ feel small, insignificant, no matter how many times he came here.  Guthan had no idea if that was a magical effect or just a byproduct of what he knew about this place, but as always he merely steeled his thoughts and stepped forward toward what he sought.  

His eyes were drawn inevitably toward the thing that dominated the chamber, across from him near the wall opposite the entry.  The stone archway was freestanding, a good ten paces away from the wall, formed of stones piled one atop the other until they met in an uneven curve twenty paces above the ground.  There was no way that the arch should have remained standing, not with the way that the stones fit together so precariously, as if carelessly stacked by a child.  The arch was filled with a perfectly flat plane of what looked like gray stone, marbled with dark red striations that formed a web of interconnecting lines.  There was no pattern to that web, only a chaotic and twisting maze that seemed to draw in the eye, promising a headache if you stared too long.  Perhaps most disconcerting, if one walked around the arch one would find that the gray surface appeared identical from the far side,set deep within the arch, although that would mean that the surface could only be at best a finger’s thickness throughout.  Before the arch, easily missed unless one looked for it, a squat pedestal of plain black stone rose up out of the floor, at most a foot square and coming up to just above a man’s waist in height. 

Guthan tore his gaze away from the arch and looked down at the floor before him.  The black stone stretched before him in a smooth plane, but in the center of the chamber, glowing in the strange sight granted by this place, there was a circle cut into the floor.  Its purpose was immediately visible in the runes that outlined the circle in twin rings, in the lines that intersected to form a five-sided shape five paces across in its core. 

A summoning circle. 

The circle was perfect, burned into the stone itself, but Guthan still spent long minutes examining it carefully for the faintest blemish.  Finally, he returned to the place at the head of the circle—though there was no apparent way to distinguish one part of the ring from another, somehow he just _knew_ where he must stand—and began to incant.  The darkness around him began to pulse with his words, twisted syllables that seemed torn from his lips, words that no mere mortal man were ever meant to speak.  The ritual went on for long minutes that each stretched on endlessly, but Guthan, lost in the power that swelled through and around him at his call, was unaware of the passing of time until the final word had faded into silence.     

When the spell was complete, he stood there, panting, feeling as if he’d run a mile in armor.  Not that he could, not any more; he’d once been strong and hale, but his new... _calling_ had demanded a heavy physical price.  A worthwhile trade, for the power he now commanded.

The air within the circle began to coalesce, forming a blackness that seemed to pulse in harmony with the dark aura of the chamber.  Then it took on form, roiling in a fetid cloud that drew itself ever tighter until it solidified into something tangible.  

Guthan drew in a breath as he regarded the thing that stood there, facing him.  It loomed over him like the vulture that resembled, flexing its wings within the limited space enclosed within the summoning diagram.  A dark and alien intelligence shone within eyes that bored into Guthan the way that a bird might look at a worm it had uncovered in the dust.

A vrock.  He’d never summoned anything so powerful before, and the sense of it filled him both with excitement and fear that surged through him in an exhilarating rush. 

“Release me,” it said, its voice cutting through his head like a hot blade.

“A moment,” Guthan said, glad that he was able to speak despite the cascading emotions he felt within him.  “First, demon, we must confirm the bargain between us, the commands of He that we both serve...”

“I know who *I* serve, thrall, and I understand my purpose in being sent to this flyspeck of a plane.  Now, release me, before I grow impatient.”

Trying—and not succeeding—to remain calm, the priest stepped forward, placing his boot across one of the outer lines of the circle.  As soon as the leather touched the line etched into the stone, the demon surged forward and loomed over him, close enough so that its fetid breath poured over him like a wave.  To his credit, Guthan stood his ground, but it was more because he was paralyzed with fear than anything else. 

But the demon did not touch him; in fact, it laughed, a warped chuckle that sent tremors down his spine.  “Perhaps some day we can meet on *my* plane, manling,” it said, chuckling again before it turned toward the exit.  It had barely covered five paces, though, before it turned and regarded him once more.  

“I am charged to give you a message, thrall.  In three days’ time, you will conduct another summoning.  You will call upon the succubus G’hael, who will give you further instructions.”  For a moment, the demon shifted its gaze, to regard the silent stone arch, but it snapped its eyes back on Guthan before the priest could look away.  The demon laughed again, a soft chuckle, then turned and spread its wings, vanishing before it had even taken a single step.  

Guthan let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.  He trembled with the intensity of feeling unleashed by what he’d just experienced, and when he took a step toward the exit his legs gave out, dropping him unceremonially to the hard stone floor.   For a time, he just sat there, until a laugh broke his lips, a sound that grew into an uncontrolled torrent of laughter and tears that went on for a long time.  

Somehow, it sounded even worse than the demon’s otherworldly chuckling.


----------



## Maldur

I almost thought, Delem would step out

But maybe next summoning ?


----------



## Broccli_Head

I think that's the next summoning!


----------



## Horacio

Summonings are good for holydays, keep on, Lazybones...

BTW, I'm back 

Some people has asked me why I had left my beloved Story Hour forum. And I think you deserve an answer, specially authors like Wuld, who has given me lots of wonderful moments with their stories. So, for those interested, that's a brief explanation


[warning: this story maybe won't interest you, so feel free to skip it]
Well, let's say I just passed some bad moments, I had some painful decisions to take, and I was on the edge of a depression.

So I took a break. I was also postiong a lot in Meta forum, with a bunch of EN Worlders know as Hivemind. And in a way, they saved me from depression. Oh, it sounds like a film line, maybe, but it did. Because I met very special people, people that today I call friends, more close friends that most people I've met in real life. And Because... well, I'll never tell... but anyways, I took some resolutions, and I'm working to archieve them.

Life is still messy, and I have some strings to tie before beginning anew, but now I know I have to do it, and that I'm doing it.
[/end of story]


----------



## Lazybones

I hate mid-week Christmas; when you work the day before and the day after it hardly seems like a holiday at all.  And same thing next week, for New Year...

In any case, I hope you all had a happy holiday.  And welcome back, Horacio!  There'll always be a chair by the fire for the Story Hour Addict in the _Travels_ thread.

The story continues:

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 19


Idron Sahrek reined in his horse, casting a sharp gaze along the sharp edges of the ridges that rose up like walls to either side of him.  His tunic was plain wool covered by an unadorned steel breastplate, and he wore no emblem or sigil, but the red cloak that hung over his shoulders and down over the rump of his horse was identifier enough, to one who knew the Western Heartlands.  A flail, shortsword, and light crossbow hung with easy reach.  Behind him, another dozen men clad in similar fashion stretched out in a double line.  All veterans, seasoned warriors who were among the best in an already storied company.  The Riders in Red Cloaks had protected Asbravn for hundreds of years, and although they called themselves a “militia,” traditionally included mercenaries, adventurers, and retired soldiers within their ranks.  Sahrek was one of the latter, having served fifteen years in the Purple Dragons of Cormyr before he had come west, leaving the land of his birth following the death of his second wife in childbirth.  He hadn’t been young then, but now he truly felt the weight of his years on him.  Next year would be the twentieth since he’d arrived in Asbravn, and donned the Red Cloak. 

His men rode tall in the saddle, aware that they bore a special responsibility.  The patrol routes that led into the Far Hills east of the town were by far the most dangerous, for nasty things sometimes wandered down from the Sunset Mountains, looking for easier lowland prey.  Thus far, in the second day of their patrol sweep, things had been quiet, very quiet.  A storm had blown through in the last tenday, not wet enough to make their travel impossible but draping the sky in a thick gray sheet that had not broken since.  A darker line of gray lay along the western horizon, promising more wet before they completed their circuit, but that was not what gave Sahrek pause.  His hands tightened on his reins.  There was something in the air, besides the omnipresent wind.  

Trouble. 

Tordan, his second, prodded his horse forward.  “What is it, sir?”

Sahrek opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, they both caught sight of a mounted man who appeared from a break in the ridge ahead, riding hard.  One of the outriders—Jarem, Sahrek recognized as the man drew closer.  The man rode as if half the demons of the Abyss were chasing him, and the reason for his haste was revealed as soon as he was close enough to shout a warning.

“Trolls!  At least a dozen, moving fast through the defiles in this direction!”  At the final words he reined in, scattering small rocks as his horse’s hooves dug into the trail, the tired animal heaving from the exertion of its run.

“Did they see you?” Sahrek asked. 

“I’m not certain,” Jarem said.  “They were moving this way already, and I did not pause to see if they were following.”

Sahrek nodded.  Smoothly turning his mount to face the rest of the patrol, he said, “We’ll backtrack to Thunder’s Gap, and make our way back down the ridgeline to Asbravn.”  His men nodded calmly, though hands were tight on reins and weapon hilts.  The Far Hills were not an easy ride, even in the lower reaches, but they should be able to outpace the trolls.  If not...

“Ride!” he shouted, and the column launched itself back down the trail it had spent the morning riding.  Sahrek felt a twinge for Corel, the other outrider who had not yet returned, but his duty to the town was paramount.  Twelve trolls were a considerable threat.  Even if it was unlikely that they would actually assail the town, they could easily wreck havoc on the caravans that rode the eastern road through Sunset Vale.  

He was already thinking of oil, and mages, and how to use the mobility of horses, when a shout from ahead snapped his attention back on the present.  

The trail ran around the base of a steep hill that squatted like a drunken giant across their path.  To the right side of the hill the trail ran up along the length of a stony weir, unsuitable for horses, a watershed that would become a raging torrent with the coming of the spring thaw.  To the left the trail descended along the route they had come earlier, paralleling the ridgeline until it reached Thunder’s Gap and the best route back down to Sunset Vale and Asbravn.  

With vicious cries a wave of hobgoblin warriors crested the hill and came charging down the steep slope, waving a variety of weapons.  Sahrek quickly tallied their numbers in a single look, at least three score, with more still just cresting the hill.  Almost incidentally he noticed that all wore surcoats of faded blue cloth over their armor, showing the sign of a black fist in the center of their chests.  There was no time to ponder the significance of that, however.  

“Tordan, Maldek, ride for the Gap!” he cried.  “The rest of you, on me!  For the Vale!”

“The Vale!” came the cry, as the horsemen drew their weapons and spurred their horses into a full charge.  None wavered, knowing that the only chance was to buy the two riding for the gap a chance at escape.  One man cried out and fell from his saddle, a long arrow buried to the feathers in his throat, and several other missiles hissed through the air, narrowly missing or glancing off the Riders’ armor.  

Tordan and Maldek broke off from the rest and rode hard toward the trail.  The charging hobgoblins were nearly at the base of the hill, but Sahrek and his riders rode hard into them.  A swirling melee erupted.  For a moment the knot of horsemen remained intact, the momentum of their charge carrying them into the midst of the hobgoblins, and then Riders started to go down, their mounts crashing to the stones as blades tore into them.  

Sahrek smashed a hobgoblin’s face with his flail, and the creature crumpled.  He spun to swing at another coming up from his left, but suddenly he felt pain explode in his back as a spearhead stabbed deeply into his torso.  Staggered, he managed to bat away a hobgoblin’s sword before his flail slipped from his fingers.  All around him, men were dying; hobgoblins too, but they had numbers to spare.  The last thing he saw, as his horse collapsed from under him, was the two riders, vanishing around the side of the hill, riding hard. 

* * * * *

Tordan rode with determination, forcing himself not to listen to the cries that filled the trail behind him.  Maldek rode a few lengths back, clutching to his reins and swaying in his saddle.  A long arrow jutted from his side.  

The man would have to keep up, or not.  Tordan knew that it was too much to be a coincidence, those trolls and now the hobgoblins.  He’d seen the livery too, and had lived in the shadows of the Sunset Mountains long enough to know what it meant.  This was no mere raid, and his warning might be the only thing that stood between Asbravn and disaster.  

The hill fell behind them, but Tordan did not ease his pace.  He knew it was dangerous, riding so quickly over the uneven surface of the trail, but he balanced that danger with the need for speed.  It would be dark in just a few hours, making the already difficult route impossible.  

Suddenly a dark figure rose up out of a cluster of rocks along the side of the trail, a good hundred yards ahead.  A cloaked figure, drawing a bow...

Tordan bent low in his saddle, urging his mount forward, pushing for even more speed.  He drew his sword as an arrow flashed by him.  For a moment he felt relief, then he heard the impact as Maldek fell hard from his saddle to the packed earth of the trail.  He’d already covered half the distance to the archer, but the hobgoblin was already drawing a second arrow, aiming and releasing in one smooth motion.  

Tordan felt pain as the arrow caught him in the shoulder, but he held on, and the horse did not skip a pace as it hurtled forward.  The archer would not get another chance to shoot again.  Tordan nudged the horse to the side, toward the archer’s perch, switching his sword to his other hand.  The hobgoblin did not try to evade, only calmly drew another long arrow from the quiver at his hip.  

Tordan lunged, realizing even as he did that he’d misjudged the distance.  The blade cleaved empty air as the hobgoblin ducked back, and then he was past, clinging to his horse’s neck as the beast drove down the trail.  Ahead lay a turning that he recognized, and beyond, Thunder’s Gap.  

Pain exploded again, this time in his back.  He tried to hold on as the horse neared the turning, but his sword clattered from his hand, falling away in a spiraling arc that seemed to hang there in the air for a long moment.  The sound of it hitting the stones seemed to come to his ears from a great distance, and then it was he who was falling, falling into a vast darkness that swam up around him to engulf him.  

The archer watched as the rider fell, then stepped down from his rock to the trail.  Horses were too valuable to kill, if there was no need.  He glanced back down the trail, to make sure no other riders were forthcoming, then trotted after the second rider’s animal.  The mount had eased off its charge with the death of its rider, and he didn’t expect any trouble recovering it; he’d always had a way with animals. 

There would be no warning for Asbravn.


----------



## Maldur

He, the story didn't suffer from the midweek chistmas though.

Great update, LB.

Horacio, welcome back to storyhour.


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## Broccli_Head

Sad times for Asbravan....


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## Maldur

Yeah, I think the "we live in interesting times" proverb is very accurate for the travellers


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## wolff96

Eh...   Even when they stay home, trouble finds them.

At least this time they're all together and have a bit of help.

(Love the Gnoll Druid, by the way.)

Hope everyone enjoyed their holidays...  I know mine were brightened by finding updates here!


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## Black Bard

*Part 19...*

Great post, Lazy!!!
You really tricked me with that short post... The same way you tricked me in thinking that poor Tordan would save Asbravn in a heroic manner...


----------



## Lazybones

Ah, the fecal matter is going to strike the oscillating multibladed air-moving device shortly for the poor suffering folk of the West.  And, of course, our companions will be smack dab in the middle of it all.  

First, though, they've got a very difficult challenge looming ahead of them, as they draw nearer to the secret that lurks within the depths of the Reaching Woods...

* * * * *

Book VII, Part 20


“Step where I step, remain alert,” Zev told them.  The gnoll druid’s bare feet squished on the sodden underfoot, as he led them forward.  Ahead they could see that the forest gradually changed, the dense, clinging underbrush they’d been fighting for the last two days replaced by dense clusters of reeds jutting from stagnant pools of muck up to a few paces across.  The tall, majestic trees were still present, but interspersed with the mighty trunks were sprawling, twisted varieties that sent their branches dipping back down into the earth as often as they tried to reach up toward the sky high above.  The air was wet here, and heavy with the smell of decay.  Zev had named this region of the Wood only “the Mire,” the capital audible in the way he said the word, and they had to take it on his word that this route was their best chance of drawing near to the druidic shrine known as the Weeping Stones. 

They followed the druid in single file, the only sound the sucking of the muddy soil on their boots.  The somber atmosphere wasn’t conducive to talking, and they hadn’t felt much like idle chatter since their discovery that first morning after they’d met Zev.  

It had not been a pleasant experience.  The druid and his badger companions had marked the trail left by the dragonkin and their captives with ease, and they suspected that it was his presence that allowed them to mark a sheltered camp and avoid any further trouble from the denizens of the forest.  The next day they had set out again, but had barely spent an hour’s travel before the animals had begun to grow skittish, agitated.  The rest of them had felt it too, even before they followed the trail into a clearing ringed by an even dozen of massive trees.  

The place had the signs of a campsite, and the dragonkin had not bothered to clean up the marks they’d made on the Wood by their passage.  What had immediately drawn their attention, however, were the bodies.  Nearly a dozen, all roped to the trunks of the trees to that their arms and legs were spread wide, their bodies held immobile.  They had been stripped of clothes, and much of their flesh as well.  For some, it was impossible to tell what race they had been, from what was left.  While they cut them down, Gorath commented that it appeared that they had been alive, at least when the dragonkin had begun.  His voice was like iron drawn over a whetstone, and after burying the bodies they had hurried on, as if they could leave the memory of what they had seen behind them by the tread of their steps through the forest.  

The two badgers—Zev had not bothered to tell the companions their names, if they had any—remained close to the druid, trudging along through the mire, twisting their noses in every direction.  Occasionally one or the other would growl softly, the sound like a rumbling deep in the creature’s throat, and Zev would call a halt, holding still and testing the air with all his senses.  Other times a loud splash or sudden movement nearby would startle the companions, but neither the badgers nor the gnoll would pay it any heed.  Even Gorath, whose nature lore was superior to any of them save perhaps Dana, looked a little jumpy after a few hours’ travel through the Mire.  

But nothing emerged from the shadows to challenge them.  They pushed on steadily, delayed only when Zev directed them carefully around a wide bog or morass of mud and water that looked treacherous even to those without woodlore.  There were other places where no danger seemed to threaten, where the trail looked no different than any other, but which Zev cautiously bypassed.  Morning crept into afternoon, with only short breaks and lunch consumed walking, and the permanent twilight under the forest canopy began to deepen as evening gradually approached.  

“I hope we’re through this soon,” Dana said quietly.  “I wouldn’t want to spend the night in this place.”

“Assuming we can trust this guy not to lead us astray,” Benzan returned in a loud whisper.  “If he left us here, we’d be hard-pressed...”

“He’s steered us pretty well thus far,” Cal said, cutting him off.  “Quiet—there’s something up ahead.”

Soon they could all make out what the gnome’s sharp vision had detected.  Ahead of them stretched a broad pool, shaped like a crescent with its sides wrapping toward them.  Beyond the pool, they could see that the forest floor began to slope upward, promising a possible end to the marshy lowland.  To their left, at the edge of the pool, they saw what had alerted the gnome; a blocky shape that had the look of a man-made structure.  Zev led them closer, and they could see that it was just the ruin of a building, the remnants of walls laid out in heavy stone blocks as thick as a man’s arm was long.  What was left was barely the size of a hut, and only one angle of the walls was intact, but the shattered remnants of stone, some of which jutted from the surface of the pond, suggested that once it had been more substantial.  Glistening lichens covered most of the exposed stone surface, and dense growth protruded from every gap in the stone.    

“We’re going to camp here?” Lariel asked, glancing at the ruin dubiously.  

“Short rest,” Zev said.  He growled something to the badgers, who immediately started toward the ruin, sniffing around the edges of the stone blocks, and occasionally pausing to dig in the omnipresent mud.  The companions were familiar with this by now—the things seemed to have an inexhaustible appetite, and ate just about anything they could turn up.  Sometimes Zev produced something for them from a pouch, a rabbit or a giant earthworm, though he never seemed to hunt as far as any of them could see.  

“We can’t go on forever, Zev,” Cal said, sagging wearily against a nearby stone block that jutted up from the mud.  “We need rest.”

The druid looked over them all, weighing their bedraggled appearance, and nodded.  “Sleep then.  I will watch.  Not long—not safe, too close.  Tomorrow we reach Nar’dek’alok.”

Even Benzan was too worn out to complain.  Wearily they set up bedrolls and blankets, huddled in the lee of the ruined wall.  Zev vanished before they could even finish those limited preparations, and by the time they’d prepared a cold supper, the badgers had wandered off as well.  Benzan peered off into the deepening gloom with suspicion, but there was nothing to be done; they’d already decided to put their trust in the strange gnoll druid, and while they would be cautious it was too late to change their course.  To that end they elected to set their own watch, with Gorath standing first duty.  Despite his inherent fortitude, Cal was particularly weary, likely due to the fact that he’d had to hurry most of the day just to keep up with the others due to his size.  Dana was fresher, in turn because of her magic boots, but despite her offer to stand a watch it was clear as a human, her lack of nightvision would make her less that useless on watch.  When it came down to it, though, none of them resented the spellcasters for their sleep; they would likely need their spells, in the coming day. 

Despite the cold and discomfort of the mud and hard stone, and the noises that continued to whisper from the Mire, those not watching the night drifted off swiftly into an exhausted sleep.  Cal closed his eyes even as he tugged his blanket around him.  His _ring of warmth_ protected him from the night’s chill, but even though it did nothing against the discomfort of his hard stone bed, exhaustion carried him off and he was asleep within moments.  It seemed that he’d barely closed his eyes, however, before he felt someone above him, shaking him insistently.  He looked up and despite the darkness that had fallen over the camp like a heavy wool cloak, he could make out the outlines of Lariel’s features.  

“Enemies approach,” the elf hissed, then vanished.


----------



## Broccli_Head

thanks for the map!


----------



## Maldur

Nice, tension is rising!!

thx, LB!


----------



## wolff96

You know...  I think I recognize that map!  

Great post as usual, LB!


----------



## Horacio

Great update, as usual


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 21

His exhaustion temporarily forgotten, Cal sprang up from his bedroll, already clutching at the neat bundle of gear that he’d stashed under the blanket against his body.  He’d laid his components and wands where they would be within easy reach, but it took a few moments for him to fully shake off the web of sleep.  

He could only just make out shadows that would be his companions, barely distinguishable from the deeper shadow that was the wall.  He saw a dark form move around the edge of the wall and started, only to realize that it was Gorath, the ranger.  He did not know how late it was; the sky above was shrouded by the forest canopy, and likely overcast anyway.  

“Where is Zev?” he asked softly. 

“There’s no sign of the druid, or his pets,” a voice came from beside him.  Benzan’s voice.  Behind him, Cal heard a soft cough, recognizable as Dana.  She wouldn’t be able to see at all, he realized, but between Benzan, Lok, and Gorath’s darkvision, they would be able to detect any threat.

“What is it?” he asked.  Looking around, he saw that Lariel had truly gone, probably to scout whatever it is that they had detected.  

“Dragonkin,” Gorath said.  “At least a dozen.  They’ll be here in moments.”  

“I can turn the night into day,” Dana said.  “It should disorient them, but the sudden change will be startling to you, as well.”  

“Very well,” Gorath said.  “Await my signal, then hurl your magic.”

Cal was already spellcasting, summoning his protective _stoneskin_ once more.  Even as he finished, though, he could hear sound from beyond the wall, in the direction of the slope that led up out of the marsh.  The noises were faint, but clearly audible; the sound of bulky creatures making their way through the wood.

“Do they know we’re here?” Benzan asked, fitting an arrow to his bow.  The arrowhead glowed slightly, as if anticipating bursting into flame when drawn by the magical bow.  Lok, as well, had his heavy bow ready, although he had not had time to don his plate mail.  Cal silently cursed himself; he should have cast the _stoneskin_ on the genasi warrior.  He reached for his magical lute, intending at least to summon some _mage armor_. 

As his fingertips brushed the instrument, everything seemed to happen at once.  Lariel suddenly appeared, leaping around the uneven edge of the wall, his bow ready in his hand.  A harsh shout shattered the night’s quiet, and a loud hiss, and the steady noise turned into a rush that drew toward their position.  

Benzan leaned around his end of the wall and fired, even as Lariel did the same at the far end.  Gorath had his axes in his hands, but he held his ground for the moment, as did Lok, although the genasi shifted to a break in the wall, where he could fire his bow at the attackers.  Dana’s voice filled the confined space, calling upon the power of her goddess, and Cal closed his eyes, knowing what would come.  

Even with his eyes closed, the glow that erupted was almost painful in its contrast to the darkness that had been there a moment before.  Dana held up her spear, which now glowed with the brilliance of a hundred torches, transforming night into day for a sixty-foot radius around them.  Blinking to try and adjust his light-sensitive eyes to the sudden light, Cal dodged forward and crept around to the broken edge of the wall behind Benzan’s shoulder, giving him a glimpse of what lay beyond.  

The gentle slope running up from the ruin and its adjacent pond was brightly limned by the light of Dana’s spell, the thick trunks of the trees forming long shadows behind them.  There were a good dozen dragonkin warriors, all clad in armor and bearing a variety of large weapons.  Two of them stood apart, large even for the hulking dragonkin, and both carrying doubleaxes that Cal suspected he would not even be able to lift.  Leaders, then; just wielding those weapons without cutting yourself required no small amount of skill.  Accompanying those two was a pair of massive pony-sized giant lizards, plodding creatures that wore thick leather collars connected by leashes held by the two leaders.  

The light had caught the creatures off guard; several had stumbled and were shielding their eyes, and the general rush had paused momentarily as the warriors tried to adjust to the magical brightness.  But they adjusted quickly, the leaders hissing orders to the others in their own strange tongue, and releasing their leashed charges to trudge down the slope toward the ruin, their forked tongues tasting the air before them as they came.  

Holding off on the _mage armor_ for now, Cal quickly summoned the trigger words of another spell, feeling the familiar energies course through him as he called upon the arcane powers that he’d long since mastered.  At his call a dense field of magical webbing sprang up out of nowhere, a sticky latticework anchored between several of the tall tree trunks that spotted the slope.  The _web_ spell spread out in a circle roughly forty feet across, catching several of the enemy in their embrace.  One of the leaders managed to dodge free before the spell fully deployed, but the other found itself stuck, hissing as it tore at the strands with its considerable strength.   

Arrows tore into the other warriors even as they resumed their charge, but while many of the shots found their targets, the dragonkin were possessed of an incredible fortitude that allowed them to shrug off hurts that would have incapacitated a human warrior.  Even so, they could not ignore all of the damage that the companions could dish out; even as the webs appeared one staggered as Lariel shot a fourth arrow into it, electricity flaring around the edges of its metal breastplate as the magically enhanced arrow bit deep into its torso.  On the other flank Benzan shot a flaming arrow into another warrior’s chest, punching through its armor.  The dragonkin roared but seemed more angered than hurt, hefting its two-handed mace above its head as it charged forward toward their shelter.   

Gorath hurtled the wall in a single smooth leap, crouching for a second atop the slippery surface before he leapt, axes flashing, at one of the giant lizards.  The creature’s head rose just in time for the first blade to bite deeply into its snout, and it reared back, blood jetting from the vicious wound.  Its fellow did not hesitate, snapping its powerful jaws at the half-orc ranger, but Gorath tumbled forward with the momentum of his leap, narrowly dodging the attack, and came up with both axes slashing at scaled flesh.  

While Lariel and Benzan kept up their barrage, Lok dropped his bow and hefted his axe and shield, charging around the edge of the wall to meet the dragonkin charge.  Cal grimaced in frustration—he’d been prepared to cast his spell from the magical lute, but it required a touch to work—but switched instead to another enchantment.  This one would help Lok just as effectively, as well as helping him dish out more damage.  The syllables spilled out from his mouth, triggering his familiar _haste_ spell.  

Lost in the magic, he didn’t hear Dana’s shout of warning, nor did he see the shadow from above until it was too late.


----------



## Maldur

w00t cliffhanger 

thx, LB!


----------



## Broccli_Head

Great post (and the wonderful cliff-hanger) from Cal's point of view!


----------



## Lazybones

Happy new year, everyone!

* * * * * 


Book VII, Part 22


The magic coursed through him at his call, but as Cal looked up he saw a shadowy form fill his vision.  The shadow resolved into a dragonkin warrior as it entered the radius of light, swooping down from the trees above toward the ruin, a heavy longspear in its clawed hands.  With a heavy impact it landed on the broken top of the wall, its narrow eyes fixed on them like daggers.  

With an effort of will Cal maintained his concentration on his spell, fixing his attention on Lok and releasing the magic he’d summoned.  He knew he would pay a price for that effort, and even before he could see if his work had taken effect he paid it.  He was thrust backward roughly as the spearhead caught him in the shoulder.  Grateful for the protection of the _stoneskin_, he felt the impact nonetheless, as pain lanced out from the point of impact into his body.  At least he wasn’t run through, as he rolled back and tried to scrabble to his feet while the dragonkin raised his weapon to strike again.  Behind him, Cal could make out two more forms drifting down from above, and knew that soon their problems would be greatly compounded.  

Dana had not been idle since casting her _daylight_ spell.  While the battle began around her she cast her mind out in a net across the boundary between realities, using her connection to her goddess to begin a powerful summoning.  For a moment her thoughts brushed something... _different_, a place both alien and somehow familiar, and then she found herself drawn back into the present, bringing something with her at her call.  She saw the dragonkin warrior swooping down from above and had time to shout a warning, but then she had to battle the rush of power that she herself had called upon, to firm the link that she had opened briefly into another plane of existence.  

At her call, the air above her warped and twisted, and shifted until a small matrix of rushing air roared in place, a storm in microcosm.  She pointed and spoke a word of command—one of the few words she knew in the language of the thing she had summoned—and the air elemental attacked, covering the distance between it and the two descending dragonkin in a few heartbeats.  As it reached them it formed itself into a vortex, a whirlwind that caught up the two warriors.  They were too large for it to simply engulf them, but even so the two found themselves flung roughly aside, spinning out toward the Mire as the elemental drove them haplessly away from the battle.  

Meanwhile, Dana had raised her spear against the creature facing her atop the wall.  Her first thrust missed, and before she could withdraw and reset the dragonkin leapt at her, dropping its long weapon and lunging at her with simple claws and teeth.  

Just a few paces away, the rest of the companions were locked in battle with the remainder of the dragonkin force, save those still struggling to free themselves from Cal’s _web_.  Gorath had dropped one of the giant lizards, and the second was slowing as its blood drained from several deep gashes in its flanks.  The half-orc had not escaped unscathed, though, and he favored one leg where one of the lizards had caught him briefly with the crushing power of its jaws.

The archery of Lariel and Benzan had weakened several of the warriors, the arcane archer actually managing to finally drop his target with another well-placed arrow, immediately starting on a second foe.  The dragonkin warrior, however, ignoring the shaft that protruded from its hip, came on in a charge, and soon the elf was darting back, continuing to fire from point-blank range whenever he could open a little distance between himself and the pursuing dragonkin.  

On the far flank, Lok had rounded the wall to face a full-on assault coming down the hill.  Unarmored save for a leather vest and his shield, only the speed granted by Cal’s _haste_ kept him from being torn apart in the first chaotic moments as four dragonkin warriors laid into him with their weapons.  Even his protections could not fully save him from a glancing blow with an axe that tore a gash in his shieldarm, and a potent impact from a mace that clipped his helmet, sending stars flashing across his vision.  His own strikes were equally violent, catching one of the warriors solidly in the torso with his axe and following with a backstroke that nearly ripped its arm from its body.  The creature refused to go down, however, hefting its axe with its other hand while its companions pressed in from all directions. 

And then the first of the leaders joined the fray, swooshing its double axe before it an eager arc.  

As strong as they were, the dragonkin warriors could not be held long by the sticky strands of Cal’s _web_ spell.  Already one of those caught on the edge had struggled free and rushed now to join the developing melee, and the trapped leader had nearly emerged from the layered strands when a roaring pillar of fire blasted down from the sky, immolating them within its blazing stream.  The _flame strike_ only lasted a few moments, and when it cleared the dragonkin caught within the pillar were free, still standing despite the blackened char that marked their scaled bodies.  Despite their hurts, they hastened to grab their weapons and attack.  

Before they could, however, three figures entered the light from along the far edge of the pond at the base of the slope.  Zev hefted his spear and cried a guttural challenge while his two dire badger companions surged even more eagerly ahead, their claws digging into the turf as they rushed to attack. 

Seeing that Lok was hard-pressed, Benzan dropped his bow and drew his sword, rushing to his friend’s aid.  He’d had time to slip into his coat of mithral chainmail, giving him decent protection, although he’d already seen how hard the dragonkin could hit.  He did not hesitate, though, intercepting the leader wielding the double axe before it could join the bash-fest on his stout friend.  As he barely dodged an incredibly swift cut of one of the razor-sharp blades, and fell back trying not to slip on the wet leaves beneath his feet, he grimaced at the adversary that had to stand at least a foot and a half taller than even his considerable height.  

Of course.  He had to pick the one that was big _and_ fast. 

Dana’s opponent slashed at her with its claws, testing even her considerable agility and her magical protections as it tried to snare her in its grasp.  One swipe that she could not fully avoid tore through her tunic and drew lines of red across her side.  Too close now to use her spear, she dropped it and drew out her kama, but before she could use it the dragonkin flapped its wings and launched itself at her.  She tried to duck aside, but the creature adapted to her dodge, wrapping her in its arms as it landed atop her.  She struggled, but its grasp was like iron bands engulfing her, crushing her.    

Suddenly the dragonkin roared, and Dana could smell the acrid tang of burned flesh, felt her skin tingle with an almost painful jolt of energy.  She took advantage of the distraction to snap her foot down into the warrior’s knee joint.  It felt like she was striking stone, but the enfolding arms loosened their grip infinitesimally, and she dropped, twisting and rolling as she slipped from its grasp.  As she rolled back to her feet she saw Cal, standing behind the creature where he’d blasted it with his potent _shocking grasp_.  It turned to face the gnome, drawing a small sword with a slightly curving blade from its belt.  

A loud splash reached them as the two other diving dragonkin reached the ground, but instead of swooping to the attack, they landed hard on their backs in the muck, tossed aside by the roaring whirlwind of Dana’s summoned elemental.  The elemental continued to harass the two warriors as they rose unsteadily, pummeling them with blasts of concentrated air.  One of the pair got its bearings enough to start slashing at the invisible thing that was attacking it, while the other staggered off a few steps through the mud, water splashing at its ankles.  Finally the sound of battle cut through its confusion, and with an angry growl it rushed toward the melee still raging a stone’s throw distant. 

Lariel had drawn his attacker away from the battle, chasing after him with a growing rage twisting its features.  The arcane archer moved with incredible quickness, and the dragonkin could not know that _mage armor_ protected him as well, but it did see that all of its attacks managed to just barely miss the agile elf.  Lariel, in turn, managed to nock an arrow and fire each time he got a few paces back from the warrior, and more often than not the hastily shot missile bit deeply into the dragonkin’s flesh.  Finally the creature roared in agony and frustration and leapt at the elf, dropping its sword as it reached for him with its claws.  For a moment it looked as though Lariel had no place left to run, but then, somehow, he had twisted through a tiny gap between its right arm, its sweeping wing, and its body, and the warrior had staggered past him.  It recovered quickly, and spun to face the elf. 

Just in time to catch the arrow that slammed through its open jaws, ripping out the back of its throat while a discharge of electrical energy sizzled into its brain.  

Lok moved with blinding speed against his adversaries, but even the incredible damage that he was dishing out could not protect him from the inevitable counterattacks from the dragonkin that encircled him.  He’d slain the first one that he’d crippled in the initial rush, but another warrior rushing down from the web had been there almost immediately to take its place.  As Lok struck out with his magical axe one went down, blood gushing from the ruin of its chest, and another staggered as the follow-through sliced into its side, but Lok in turn reeled as the warrior behind him laid into his back with a mighty blow from his mace.  The genasi gritted his teeth as bone crunched under the impact, and spun around just in time to see the fourth warrior raise his axe to finish what his comrade had started.  Lok started to raise his shield, knowing that even with the _haste_, he would be too late. 

But the blow never came.  The dragonkin wobbled to the side as something heavy slammed hard into it from behind, twisting it around.  With that announcement Gorath leapt into the fray, slashing with his heavy battleaxe and the smaller blade in his other hand, forcing the warriors to split their attentions between him and Lok.  Now the flankers became the flanked, and while the dragonkin still had a lot of fight left in them, even they could not long withstand the combined attacks of the two warriors. 

Just a few yards away, Benzan continued to spar with the dragonkin leader.  The creature was expert with its deadly double weapon, spinning the two blades in a spinning arc that served for both attack and defense.  Benzan already had suffered a pair of glancing hits that would have been far worse had it not been for his armor.  He himself had only managed one effective counter, and the cut on the warrior’s arm was really little more than a scratch. 

_All right then, just buy a little time,_ he thought to himself, spitting a curse as he barely twisted out of the way of a high cut that might have sheared his temples, had he been an instant slower.  The other end of the double axe was already coming around, but he shifted and snapped his blade up in a quick thrust that he hoped would throw the veteran fighter off its rhythm.  

Except that as he turned, his foot caught in a dip in the ground hidden by a thin cover of wet leaves, and down he went, collapsing on his back and sliding a few feet down the slope almost to the edge of the pool behind him.  He felt a cold chill as his neck dipped into the water, but that was nothing compared to the feeling he got staring up at the huge axe blade that was slicing downward toward his face, the full weight of the dragonkin warrior behind it.


----------



## seasong

Huzzah! An update!


----------



## Maldur

End of the year and another cliffhanger.

You still have the nackLB, eventhough you also put in more characterisation.

Thx, For another great update!


----------



## Horacio

I love beginning the year with a cliffhanger...


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 23

Desperately Benzan kicked out with his foot at the same time that he tried to twist his head out of the inevitable course of the axe.  His boot glanced off something; though his kick wasn’t strong enough to actually topple the dragonkin, it threw the warrior off just enough so that the axe blade tore into the earth at his shoulder instead of crashing through his forehead.  Still he felt pain, a sharp lance through his shoulder as the axe blade crunched the links of his mithral coat against his flesh. 

He did not have time to get up; he barely had time to roll to the side before the axe came down again, and then again.  Something hard crashed into his side as he rolled, and he felt something snap inside his torso.  

This wasn’t good.  

Somehow, he’d held his grip on his sword as he fell, and even as he rolled.  Though he could not remember calling upon the power, it flowed into him now through the hilt, through the link that was so much a part of him that he no longer felt it unless he focused his mind upon it.  He stopped rolling even as the axe came around and the dragonkin lunged forward again, kicked out with another boot to catch the dragonkin hard in the shin.  

The blow itself had no obvious effect on the creature—apparently their bones were like iron—but as he connected Benzan shot up and away from the dragonkin, launching up into the air above the pond as if shot by a ballista.  He didn’t fly far, perhaps a dozen paces, before the force of the kick was expended, but even as he started to slow he eased off the _levitation_ power of his sword, and he landed in the center of the pool, in water up to his waist.  

The dragonkin hissed at him, but barely hesitated before it came charging after him, its movements raising huge splashes of water around him as it came. 

Benzan waited for it, his sword held ready above his head in both hands, like a spear.  

The dragonkin caught within the _flame strike_ formed up behind their leader and rushed down the hill toward the druid and his two companions.  Zev paused, calling upon the natural energies of the Wood once more to aid him, but the badgers did not hesitate, barreling into the leader with their powerful claws digging at his torso.  The dragonkin clipped the first with a vicious blow from his double axe that sliced a long gash in its back.  The badgers got theirs back as they tore into the warrior.  A human fighter would likely have been ripped to pieces by those claws, but the dragonkin held its ground, suffering gashes that got through the double protection of its armor and its thick hide.  

The fighter’s allies swarmed around it, giving the whirling double blades a wide berth, and things quickly looked grim for the stalwart badgers.  The one already wounded suffered a crushing blow to the head with a heavy mace that knocked it sprawling, stunned, while the second let out a sharp cry of pain as another warrior thrust its spear deep into the animal’s side.  

The druid all but shouted the final words of his incantation, fury clear in the gnoll’s raspy voice.  Even as the spell was completed Zev was rushing forward to the aid of his friends, his spear held level before him like a lance.  Immediately behind the rough line of dragonkin three puffs of wispy smoke erupted out of the ground, resolving in moments into an additional trio of dire badgers.  While not nearly the size of Zev’s pair, they were equally ferocious, and they immediately tore into the dragonkin warriors from behind.  

The injured warrior that had driven Dana back turned on Cal, his sword darting out in cuts that should have sliced the gnome to ribbons.  Would have, had he not been protected by the mantle of his magical _stoneskin_.  The dragonkin hissed in frustration as the gnome drew back, raising a wand and blasting the warrior with an _acid arrow_.  Dana picked up her kama and started to move to Cal’s aid, but before she could attack she was distracted by the sound of another enemy approaching from behind, from deeper in the mire.  Battered by the elemental, the dragonkin was covered in mud and looked eager for some payback.  

Even beaten up as it was, Dana wasn’t particularly keen on fighting it head-on.  Instead, she opened her mind to the power of the goddess once more, and at her call a shimmering weapon appeared, a heavy mace fashioned from lines of translucent blue energy.  The _spiritual weapon_ darted to attack at her command, striking the warrior hard on the shoulder.  The creature tried to fight it, but its counters passed harmlessly through its substance.  

Dana knew that the thing would quickly realize that it could not fight the spell, and continue its rush toward her.  She hastily grabbed her spear, setting the weapon just in time to meet the dragonkin’s charge. 

The battle was turning in the favor of the companions.  The dragonkin warriors had absorbed damage that would have slain five times their number of ordinary human armsmen, but even their incredible toughness could not keep them standing forever.  Lok and Gorath had hacked most of their foes down with powerful strokes of their axes; both bore grievous wounds but neither let up as they surrounded the last warrior that had been part of that initial rush, tearing into it from both sides.  The dragonkin, belatedly, tried to escape by flapping its wings to lift it into the air, but it barely managed a few halting strokes before it succumbed to the deadly assault. 

Zev leapt with equal fervor at the remaining dragonkin higher up the slope.  One of his badgers was down, the other bleeding from several serious wounds, and two of the warriors had turned to deal with the summoned badgers, dealing them powerful blows from their weapons.  The dragonkin were hurting too, though, blasted by Zev’s _flame strike_ and then suffering gashes from the iron-hard claws of the dire badgers.  The leader hefted his axe to finish off the second of Zev’s companions, but before he could strike the druid jammed his spear into the warrior’s gut, crunching through layered armor to savage the organs underneath.  The leader staggered, but did not fall, and he actually managed to lift his weapon once more before the badger embraced him in a vicious grasp that shredded his torso to ribbons.  

Then, at last, he went down.  

Without hesitation Zev was at the side of his fallen friend, pouring healing energy into the badger to stabilize it.  One of the other dragonkin had gone down, a badger continuing to tear at its legs with its claws, and the last was already fleeing back up the slope, a second badger trailing after it.  It looked like it would get away, outdistancing the animal, its wings beating to carry it faster, but then a silver streak lanced into the base of its skull, and it faltered in a thrashing heap that the badger quickly fell upon in a fury of tearing claws and teeth. 

Benzan, meanwhile, faced his charging foe across the width of the pond, the dragonkin throwing up a wall of water as it bullied toward him.  It would not have room to utilize its heavy weapon in the pond, but it did not seem to care as it casually tossed the double axe aside and drew a curving sword from its belt.  

“Mashkak varthak, hooman,” it hissed, its eyes promising death as it closed the distance between them.  

“I’m sure that means something dire for me,” Benzan replied.  “Which I’d expect, since I’ve seen how you fight.  Luckily for me, though, I know when it’s time to stop fighting fair.”

And with that, he called down a sphere of _darkness_ down around both of them. 

The sounds of splashing told him that the dragonkin hadn’t paused, and continued to come toward where it had last seen him.  By the time it reached him, however, he was no longer there, the power of his sword lifting him out of the muck and into the air, clearing the edge of the _darkness._  His lips twisted into a grim smile as he heard the dragonkin cursing, its mood clear even if the words were unintelligible.  The noise of its movements grew louder, unable to take flight with its body half-covered in the mud and water, and by the time it reached the edge of the _darkness_, heading back toward the edge of the pond, Benzan was ready. 

The dragonkin fighter barely noticed the first bite, and angrily flicked the fist-sized beetle from its arm.  But it could not ignore the small horde of insects, some flying, others swimming, that swarmed over it, each looking for a gap in its armor, some exposed flesh that it could sink its teeth into.  The dragonkin was a veteran combatant, skilled in arms and disciplined of mind, but it was frustrated by this foe whom it had beaten, driven down into the mud, only to escape and now strike at him from a distance.  Snarling, it staggered out of the swarm, reaching the edge of the pond quickly.  Spinning, it raised its blade at Benzan and began to beat its powerful wings. 

And that’s when Benzan struck it blind.


----------



## wolff96

Now THAT was a fight.

Love your work, Lazybones...


----------



## Maldur

Benzan waits before starting to fight dirty?

thx, Lb for an actionpacked update.

Im very interseted how the troubles in the woods relate to the mayor mayhem aflicting the realms.


----------



## Lazybones

wolff96 said:
			
		

> *Now THAT was a fight.
> *




Pshaw, that was just a warm-up for next week's main event, when the companions reach the center of the Wood.

Maldur: Benzan's a bright fellow, but like Cal is sometimes lacking in wisdom.  As for the "big picture," the companions will soon find themselves drawn into a locus of events that involves the Cult of the Dragon, the Zhentarim, the demon-worshipping humanoids that Guthan is involved with (and who just sacked Asbravn), the cabal of Cyricists, and ultimately, a rather worse-for-wear sorcerer...

Stay tuned!  Book VII is my most ambitious in terms of a sprawling plot, and I hope it all comes together the way I'm picturing it.  

Happy weekend to all.

* * * * *

Book VII, Part 24

“Damn, those things were tough,” Benzan lamented, gritting his teeth as Cal applied his healing wand to another of the several wounds that he’d suffered in the battle.  “Just that one alone took enough punishment to fell an ogre.  Two ogres, and not those weak ones that live down here; those barbarian ones we fought in the Ice Mountains.”

“Well, perhaps if you used your spells and magical abilities _first_, instead of rushing blindly off into battle, you wouldn’t take such a beating,” Cal said, checking to make sure that the wound had fully closed.  A short distance away, Dana was doing the same to Garnak and Lok, while Lariel kept a careful watch, an arrow fitted to the string of his bow.  

Benzan shot the gnome a hard glance.  “Lok needed help,” he said.  “After a few moments sparring with that guy and his weird two-fer axe, I wouldn’t have wished him on anyone.”  He pointedly avoided looking at the pile of corpses near the two warriors; between them they’d slain five of the dragonkin, plus the two giant lizards.  

“Well, you couldn’t have known he’d still be so quick, even after you’d _blinded_ him,” Cal said dryly.  Benzan’s eyes narrowed, as if weighing the comment to see if he was being mocked, but Cal only chuckled and turned away.  

Only one of the dragonkin had escaped; the one that Dana’s elemental had driven furthest out into the Mire had survived the conjured being’s assault and flown away deeper into the marsh once the summoning spell had expired.  They were all still tired, whatever rest they’d managed to grab lost in the violent clash against the dragonkin warriors, and they knew that they would have to move swiftly.  

As if summoned by that thought, Zev came striding down the slope toward them.  The two giant badgers trailed behind him, still looking battered despite the druid’s healing.  Benzan stepped forward to meet him, ignoring Cal’s tug of warning on his elbow.  

“And where were you, druid, when those things appeared?  I thought you were keeping watch?”  Zev fixed him with a hard stare, but the tiefling did not back down. 

“Give over, Benzan,” Lariel said.  “I was on watch, and long before I would have even sensed them coming, I heard a bluefinch’s warble—a variety not found within three hundred miles of here—coming from the direction that the lizards were coming.  That’s how I was able to get all of you up in time before they reached us.  He did warn us.”

Benzan’s expression shifted, but he did not quite yield.  “And what if another of us had been on watch, someone who can’t tell a blue-whatever from a giant roc?”

“We don’t have time for this,” Dana interjected.  “They’ll know we’re here, shortly, if they don’t already.”

“The woman is right.  The Evil is already stirring,” Zev said.  “We can delay no longer.  We must either go forward, without stopping, or turn and flee with all haste.  The time for half-choices is past.”

“Forward, then,” Cal said, wishing he could better keep the exhaustion he felt out of his voice.  Worse, he knew that his _stoneskin_ spell would soon fade, and there was no way to recover it again without a full night’s rest and study of his spellbook.  Well, if it came down to it, he still had a few tricks left. 

“Let’s to it then,” Lok said, simply, heading back to where he’d left his armor. 

Zev paused to speak to the badgers, communicating with them using some druidic lore.  The two animals grunted and started back toward the Mire.  

“They’re not coming with us?” Dana asked, as the badgers departed.  

“I cannot ask them to come farther,” the gnoll explained.  “Already, they have come closer than most animals.  This place is corrupted, and the taint deepens.”

The companions looked around, but none of them could see what the druid meant.  The place was dark, dreary with the cold and the dampness that seemed to hang in the air, but otherwise seemed like any other forest.  But Gorath nodded, as if seeing something for the first time, and Dana shuddered as she glanced at one of the hacked dragonkin bodies that littered the area.  

“I suggest you dim that light,” the druid said, indicating the brilliant glow that still shone from the end of Dana’s spear.  While Dana wrapped the spear in a strip of cloth torn from one of the dragonkin’s cloaks, the gnoll turned back up toward the slope.  

“Remain close, and do not wander.  Great danger lies ahead.”

Cal glanced at Benzan, but the tiefling seemed distracted, and no wry comment was forthcoming.  Silently, the seven of them continued deeper into the Wood.


----------



## Dungannon

Have I mentioned lately how much I enjoy your SH, lazybones?  Truly one of the best reads on ENWorld.


----------



## Lazybones

Dungannon said:
			
		

> *Have I mentioned lately how much I enjoy your SH, lazybones?  Truly one of the best reads on ENWorld. *




Thanks a lot!  I appreciate the kind words.  While I am getting a real kick out of writing this story, it feels good to know that others are reading it and enjoying it.  

It's been a slow week, with a lot of people out of the office due to the holiday.  Thus I've gotten a fair bit ahead in the story, so I think I'll post again this afternoon, an update that returns our eye to what the bad guys have been up to while our heroes trapaise through the Reaching Woods...


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 25


Guthan groaned as he stirred.  He was cold, and his body cried out in several places as he looked around.  It was dark; they must no longer be in the Portal Chamber.  No, not ‘they’; he was alone.  There was no way he would have mistaken _her_ presence.  He suspected he’d know even she was on the same plane, after what she’d done to him last night. 

_Now, now,_ a voice in his head chided him.  But as he stood, his groan deepening as his body resisted his commands, he couldn’t help but grin.  Despite the pain.  When he was standing he belatedly checked himself, to make sure he was still... _intact_.  He wouldn’t have been surprised to find certain components missing.  Normally he would have been more concerned about what was inside, his life essence, but he already knew that she would have left that undamaged.  He would not have been able to complete the charge she’d given him, the command of his Master, if she had drained him.  

He shuffled a few steps blindly through the darkness before he remembered his spells.  He called upon a minor magic through the Link and summoned a light spell that cast a bright glow from his hand.  Normally he would have cast the spell upon a small disposable object, but he was naked, and he had no idea where his clothes and items of power were located.  Hopefully she hadn’t taken too many of them when she returned to the Abyss; he would have given her anything she asked for freely, last night.

The room was barren, empty, with a single open doorway for an exit.  He trudged slowly into the adjacent corridor.  It didn’t take long for him to recognize his surroundings; he was still in the shrine, at least, in one of the empty wings that he’d only briefly scouted before finding the Portal.  He felt a chill as he walked through the dark tunnels, and it wasn’t from the cold. Although it was cold.  He hastened his pace slightly, turning down another passage toward the entry hall.  He’d left some gear there, and some spare garments in his saddlebags.  And food; it felt as though he hadn’t eaten in a week.  

Once he’d donned a clean robe and eaten, he walked up to the entrance and looked out over the valley.  The sun was still lost in an unbroken expanse of gray clouds that hung low over the mountains, and a steady drizzle was falling.  At least it wasn’t snow, he thought grimly.  He felt solemn standing there, alone in the world.  It was a feeling he was well familiar with, in those times that he allowed himself to touch the dark, empty core that lay deep inside of him.  That small part of him that still felt normal desires wanted a woman, and he laughed.  He was glad that he was so far from civilization; he suspected that G’hael had ruined normal women for him.  Even remembering it made him shudder.  

Even before his original patron, the shadowy god Mask, had turned from him, he had been a creature of sensual needs that made the carnal desires of the roughest mercenary raider seem tame by comparison.  Not that the sensations he sought—he craved—were merely sexual; he hunted pain as well as pleasure, savored the stabbing hurt of personal loss as much as the fulfillment of freely given love.  He was intelligent enough to recognize that the experiences he clamored for were just a way of filling, albeit temporarily, that cavernous emotional chasm inside of him; in fact, he sometimes forced himself to remember his own history as a way of tormenting himself, sucking the emotions from his own battered past.  Although strangely, his memories did not penetrate farther back than his early teens; beyond that point they vanished suddenly without even a faint hint of recollection to provide clues to what came before. 

Given who and what he was, though, it was perhaps inevitable that he had gravitated toward his current patron.  Even among his kind, that one was known for his sensuality, a blessing that extended to his servants.  Guthan suspected that he would be able to fill his need for many days just sorting through all of the things that G’hael had done to him, and she had been constrained by the need to avoid... damaging... him.  Not that he would have minded that, in other circumstances... 

With a shake of his head, he cleared his head of such thoughts.  He had no time for such retrospections now.  The words of the succubus were burned into his memory as indelibly as the rest of his experiences at her hands.  Her mandate, passed on from his new Master.  The succubus had commented on the irony of the situation, and he could not help but laugh at it, even though it was at his own expense.  Her words grated in his memory like a knife drawn across slate.  

_A delicious paradox, my kitten, wouldn’t you agree?  The final key needed to bridge the gap and open the Portal, and you once held it in your very hands... for a time.  And now you will get a chance to revenge yourself upon that one, who began your downward spiral not so long ago..._

Without thinking, his hands tightened into fists.  Yes, that would be a sweet opportunity indeed.

_But you will not be able to handle him alone, my pet.  No, don’t bristle; I do not impugn your precious powers.  Even with your newfound allies, you will find the tiefling and his friends a potent challenge.  But our Master will not leave you to struggle alone against this adversary.  I will instruct you on a new summoning you are to use, a calling to bring a new ally to your side, to recover the key._

_Another demon?_ He had asked her.  _Even with the power that... our Master has granted me, I could not draw anything more potent than that vrock, and they can only remain a short..._

She cut him off with a sudden movement that sent tendrils of delicious pain flowing through his body, followed by an equally powerful warmth that suffused his bones and seemed to melt him from within.  

_No, thrall, the aid that you will be sent will be more than that.  The Great Lord has something... _special_ in mind._ And with those words, she did something else to him, something that dragged a scream from deep down inside of him, down from that chasm where he had thought nothing lurked but the emptiness.  

The memory jerked him back roughly into the present.  Guthan realized that tears were running down his cheeks, and he was laughing—that new, unsteady, uncontrolled laugh—as he rushed heedlessly back into the darkness, back toward the Portal Chamber.  

There was much to do.


----------



## weiknarf

[burns]_Eeeeexcellent_[/burns]


----------



## Maldur

your one evil dude, lb.

thx for the great story.


----------



## Black Bard

Back from holidays and full of a good stuff to read...What blessed beginning for a new year!! By the way, I hope you all have a wonderful year, full of accomplishments and, of course, _Travels_ ... 

And, Lazy, as always- great story!!

Time to remember that little black statuette now lost in Benzan~s backpack,don`t you think??


----------



## Horacio

Another round of praises, Lazybones


----------



## Lazybones

Black Bard said:
			
		

> *Time to remember that little black statuette now lost in Benzan~s backpack,don`t you think?? *




Why, whatever do you mean? *whistles innocently* 

One thing I love to do when I write is to connect threads in the story that are hundreds of pages and years of story-time apart.  With Guthan and the black statuette, and the hobgoblin archer character, we now have two major links to Book 1, and I have an idea for another that might come up in Book 8.  I traditionally keep a list of "loose ends" that I can bring back into later plotlines; this makes it much easier for me to develop plots.  

But for now, the companions have reached the center of the Reaching Woods, and all hell is about to break loose. 

This Special Edition Monday Cliffhanger is dedicated to Maldur, for his many bumps to the story. 


* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 26


The companions moved warily forward through a blasted landscape of dead and dying trees, strangled twists of blackened brush, and sodden pools of fetid muck.  They’d left the twisted pathways of the Mire behind them, and the land continued to rise as they made their way ahead, but this place made even that desolate marsh seem verdant and alive by comparison.  An acrid smell hung in the air, growing stronger with each step forward, until it burned at their lungs with each breath.  

Gorath paused to bend at one of the pools, testing the water therein with a gloved finger, bringing it slowly to his flared nostrils.  

“Poisoned,” he reported to them, as if they could not smell it in the air.  “Bleaching-gas, what the southlanders call _chloros_.  It can blast the lungs if you take too deep a breath, will damage clothes too long exposed, and can burn the skin as well.  Be careful where you step.”

“What caused this?” Benzan asked.  Both Dana and Cal grimaced, suspecting the answer even before the ranger confirmed it.

“Green dragons can belch out a cloud of this sort of gas,” Gorath explained.  The druid nodded, his eyes dark.   

“The Greens are evil things, not uncommon in the forests of the West, but I have never heard of one unleashing such systematic destruction of a forest before.  I can give myself and one other some measure of protection against its breath,” Zev said.

“Dana,” Benzan said, even as she said, “Protect Cal.”  She met the tiefling’s gaze squarely, and said, “His magic will be critical, Benzan.  I have my own defenses, and am far more mobile to boot.”  She grinned suddenly, realizing the pun, as she lifted one leg and tapped the magical footwear.

Reluctantly, Benzan nodded, and the druid cast his enchantments, laying his protections.  Gorath had a spell of elemental resistance of his own, which he placed upon Lariel.  The elf did not protest; apparently the two had been in these sorts of situations before and had worked out the best distribution of their talents.  Dana and Cal added a few various ability-boosting spells that would last nearly the entire day, if it came to that, and thus prepared they set out again, wary of any threat.  At least with the devastation to the surrounding forest, it would be difficult for anything to come upon them unawares.   Not that it would necessarily help them, should a dragon appear out of the skies above.  As they delved deeper into the ruined wood, a light fog sprang up around them, limiting visibility and further interfering with both their movement and their breathing.  

Gorath and Zev moved out ahead, each moving like a shadow through the blasted landscape.  After a time, Benzan joined them, the power of his _ring of shadows_ covering him like a black cloak, making him all but invisible in the murky half-light.  The three spread out like a fan, working together without speaking, each covering an arc of the wood ahead, peering into the growing mists.  Behind came the others, moving as carefully as they could, the dull clank of Lok’s plate armor sounding overly loud in the hush.  

The morning moved fully into day, or at least the dark murk of the predawn brightened slightly into a gloomy gray that left the forest deep in shadows.  At least Dana could now see enough to make her way without following at Lok’s shoulder.  She still had the branch that burned with her _continual flame_, which she had cast almost a year prior in the mountains of the North, but she kept the brand carefully hidden within her pouch.  None of them wanted even a flickering candle to reveal them to whatever lurked within the fog.  

Time lost all meaning in that ghostly half-reality, but they were steadily covering ground despite the increasingly difficult terrain.  They sometimes found tracks, muddled signs now recognizable as belonging to the dragonkin and their lizard pets, and a few other larger prints that even Guthan could not make out clearly. 

Finally, Zev called a halt.  “We are nearing Nar’dek’alok,” he told them, and anger barely controlled underlay his words.  “Not so long ago, this was among the most beautiful places within the Wood.  Many gave their lives to keep it so.”  

“Hsst,” Benzan’s voice came from nearby, a shadow deeper than the rest.  “Something’s coming, from the right.”

They all looked in that direction, alert, but could see nothing but a barren field of cracked and ruined trees and knotted undergrowth that showed no living green among the tangled branches.  

“I’ll go check it out,” Benzan said.  “Stay alert.”

“Wait!” Cal hissed, but they could already hear the faint patter of Benzan’s departing feet. 

“Come, but stay far enough behind so that they do not see you,” Zev said.  The druid nodded to the half-orc, and the two headed off in the direction that the tiefling had gone, both moving like ghosts through the wood.  The others came behind, a muffled cough or a squish of muddy earth occasionally announcing their presence as they pulled their cloaks up around themselves against the chill that pressed down on them like the morning mist.  

They didn’t go very far when they heard it too, the sound of something coming through the wood toward them.  Gorath and Zev had taken cover behind two trees a good forty paces apart, and between them they could see a trio of approaching creatures, recognizable even at a distance as dragonkin warriors.  They had their weapons raised and were alert, scanning the forest as they moved swiftly closer.  

“Scouts,” Cal said.  “Conducting a perimeter search, looks like.”

“Even if we take them quickly, it will make a considerable din,” Lok noted.   

“Perhaps not,” Dana said.  “I can drop a globe of silence upon them... but we’d have to make sure we kill them quickly, because it is not very large.  I can try to fix it to one of them, but they might be able to resist the magic.”

“Cast it on one of my arrows,” Lariel said.  “I’ll make sure it doesn’t miss.”

“Do it, quickly,” Cal said.  “They’ll spot us any moment, or one of the others will attack.”

Dana nodded, and cast her spell, at the same time that Lariel summoned a quick enchantment of his own.  The arcane archer twisted a small wooden object between his fingers, a tiny replica of an archery target.  The quiet of the wood suddenly deepened into an absolute silence as Dana’s spell took effect, then Lariel drew and fired.  

The arrow knifed through the woods in a silver streak, catching the first warrior unawares as it sank without sound into the dragonkin’s chest.  The creature stared down in surprise, its jaws moving silently.  The other two didn’t even realize at first that something was wrong, then they noticed the sudden quiet and turned, their own jaws asking unheard questions. 

The others were already attacking.  Dana fired her crossbow, and as soon as the _silenced_ arrow left Lariel’s bow, Cal shot an _acid arrow_ from his wand that struck one of the dragonkin warriors in the shoulder.  Zev cast a spell that had the dead brush twisting and wrapping around the legs of the dragonkin warriors, while Gorath was already charging, his dark cloak wrapped around his form as he glided toward his foes, his axes ready.  

The dragonkin, finally realizing they were under attack, were belatedly responding.  The one that Lariel had shot was still trying shout orders, and it finally grabbed one of its fellows and shoved it to its right, in the direction that the companions had originally been traveling, toward the Weeping Stones.  It didn’t get to follow up on its command, however, as the second arrow from Lariel’s bow slammed through its eye and into its brain, only the feathered end jutting from its ruined socket as the creature crumpled.  The second, its shoulder smarting from Cal’s _acid arrow_, turned to face the charging Gorath, not even bothering to shake off the dead briars tangled around its legs.  It staggered as an arrow from Lok’s longbow slammed into its thigh, but it held its ground, awaiting its foe.

The final warrior tore through the entangling growth.  The fact that the brush was dead or dying weakened its grasp, and the powerful dragonkin quickly pushed out of the area of _silence_, moving toward the wider circle of Zev’s spell.  It staggered, however, as a flaming arrow flashed out of nowhere to sink deeply into its side.  It twisted toward that direction, snarling, and made out the indistinct form a bare ten paces away, a pinpoint of light erupted from it as Benzan fitted another arrow to his bowstring.  

The dragonkin tore free of the lashing brambles that had wrapped its ankles in its hesitation, and came charging forward, its axe coming up.  But a silver lance of light slammed hard into its back, digging deep, and a moment later another fiery missile caught it in the chest from ahead.  The dragonkin lurched, the axe falling to the ground, and a moment later it joined the weapon on the ground.  

Gorath, meanwhile, met his adversary with silence, their clash of weapons muffled by the aura of Dana’s spell.  The dragonkin managed a cut from his sword that crushed the mail links warding the half-orc’s shoulder, but it barely slowed the ranger as he tore into the dragonkin’s torso with powerful strokes of his own blades.  The creature’s jaws twisted in a final soundless cry, and then it fell backward into the waiting embrace of the still-grasping brush.  

The companions gathered at the edge of the _entangle_ spell.  All three of their foes had fallen quickly, and the soft quiet of the mist-shrouded forest returned.  

“Let us go, swiftly,” Zev told them, and they continued on their original course. 

Ahead of them the uneven ground leveled out, and they emerged on the flat edge of a rocky tor.  Dark shapes rose out of the murk, resolving as they drew nearer into huge slabs of stone, each standing a good ten feet high, and nearly fifteen paces around.  The stones seemed like undressed granite, but their surfaces were uneven with thick runnels that made the stones look like wax candles that had been lit for a goodly time.  The companions could see that additional stones stood to either side, stretching off in a ring with the each stone about fifty paces off from its neighbor to each side.  Inside the ring, ahead of them, the fog was denser, gathering together into a thick bank into which they could see nothing.  

“Who’s that?” Benzan hissed, his bow coming up, an arrowhead bursting into ready flame. 

Their eyes shifted at his gesture, but they caught only a glimpse of whom Benzan had seen, a man standing at the edge of the mists.  He was tall, dark-haired, clad in a fur cloak that concealed the lines of his form, but even as they saw him his outline wavered and he vanished from view.  

“He didn’t look happy to see us,” Benzan noted.  

“Something... there is a potent presence in this place,” Dana said.  “Waiting...”

“I feel it too,” Gorath said, hefting his blades.  

Softly, so that his voice would not carry, Cal said, “Perhaps we should...”

He was cut off as a single loud sound broke through the quiet, emanating from somewhere within the fog.  It was a thump, as if something heavy had slammed down into the ground with force enough to shake it under their feet.  

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Benzan said.  

“Selûne, shelter us with your blessing,” Dana said, calling upon a spell to fortify them.  

*“YOUR PUNY GODDESS WILL NOT SAVE YOU,”* came a voice from the cloud.  It was deep, powerful, a voice that dripped with power.  

A form materialized from the cloud, coming forward, each step an echo of the loud thump they had heard before.  As it took on a solid form out of the mists it was revealed as a dragon, huge, looming over all of them.

A dragon.  Except that this dragon was unlike any they had ever seen.  For no powerful muscles graced its form, no rippled scales covered its body.  It was a skeleton, an undead thing, with bright red orbs of light shining within the depths of a cavernous skull.  

“By the gods.  A dracolich.” Lariel’s voice was a skein stretched tightly over a barely contained self-control.  For the first time in many years, his arrow trembled against his bowstring, and none of the companions could fault him the fear that washed over them like a pounding wave, threatening to swallow them completely.

The dragon reared up to its full height, its skeletal jaws opening wide. 

“Scatter!” Cal screamed.


----------



## Maldur

A very special edition cliffhanger!!!!!!

thx LB.

(look at the sig)


----------



## wolff96

I wondered if the statuette would come back to haunt them...

Wow. A dracolich. As if there needed to be something even WORSE than a dragon...  

Great update, LB!


----------



## Dungannon

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *This Special Edition Monday Cliffhanger is dedicated to Maldur, for his many bumps to the story. *




Hey, we have someone (other than Piratecat ) to blame. hehehe

_beats Maldur with a stick_


----------



## Maldur

Dungannon said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Hey, we have someone (other than Piratecat ) to blame. hehehe
> 
> beats Maldur with a stick *




ahum blaming is for Pkitty and Hong is to be beaten with a stick.

Im to be dedicated to


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 27

Benzan could only watch in horror as the skeletal dragon came out of the fog.  He was dimly aware of his companions, of Lariel’s words, Cal’s shouted warning, but his perceptions were filled with the dracolich, and the glowing red orbs that seemed to hold him captive in their fell light.  That evil stare pierced him, and he could not move, could not act to save himself as the creature reared up, and unleashed its dire breath weapon upon the gathered companions. 

Benzan felt burning agony explode through his chest as a cloud of white death blasted over him from the dracolich’s gaping maw.  His natural agility was of no help, paralyzed as he was from the effects of the undead dragon’s terrible gaze.  His vision swam out of focus as the corrosive gas blasted across his face, the pain stabbing like needles into his skull, but that was nothing to the pain that filled his lungs as they took the toxic vapors inside him.  Some distant part of him was aware of the shouts of his friends.  He was still conscious, but could not even move enough to wipe his eyes. 

Then something hard crashed into him, and all he could see was the ground rushing up to meet him. 

The cloud of chlorine gas blasted into the companions, driving them backward, searing their lungs and scorching their exposed flesh.  Cal, following his own warning, was quick enough to dodge behind the stone slab, and that combined with the protection that Zev had placed on him earlier allowed him to escape most of the effects of the blast.  Dana, her speed augmented by her magical boots, was even quicker, darting to the side and escaping the area of effect entirely.  The other companions, however, could not escape, although Lariel and Zev, with their magical protections, suffered less than the others.  

Lok took the force of the blast with his incredible fortitude of his mixed outsider and dwarven bloodlines.  He’d felt the cold power of the dracolich’s gaze, but now that chill was replaced by a burning anger that flowed through his veins, blossoming as he hefted his axe with grim courage.  He glanced over at Gorath, intending to coordinate his attack with the half-orc, but the ranger stood frozen, gripped by the effects of the dracolich’s paralyzing stare, his face blasted by its corrosive breath.  The others had scattered, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Benzan, similarly affected. 

Lok knew that the best way to help his friends was to bring the fight directly to their enemy.  Raising his axe, he let out a grim cry and charged headlong into battle.  

Zev shrugged off the effects of the dracolich’s gaze, and his resistance spell helped him weather the effects of its poisonous cloud, but he saw that his companions had not all fared as well.  The tiefling archer looked ready to collapse, held in place by dark magic, completely vulnerable.  The gnoll felt the raging rush of battle fury begin to pound in his veins, but he could not leave an ally to die.  He halted in his rush to knock the man prone, and called upon his connection to the natural world around him.  He felt a sick taint as the corruption all around him threatened to break his link, but he fought through it and finished the enchantment.  A translucent hemisphere of force appeared over the prone warrior, a barrier shaped in the form of a giant turtle shell.  Zev grunted—he’d done what he could—and rushed toward the evil being that had claimed the soul of his home.  He knew that death awaited him, but he felt no fear.  

Things started happening quickly.  Lariel was plying his bow on the run, darting sideways to put distance between himself and the others.  The dragon’s skeletal body had the hardiness of steel plate, but one of his shots struck bone and blasted a small hole in its thick spine.  A small wound, but a beginning.  Cal, sheltered by the reassuring mass of the stone behind him, called upon his _haste_ spell to fortify himself, then launched into the remainder of his magical arsenal.  He knew that the dragon would be immune to any attacks of the mind, being undead, but hoped that he could bolster his allies enough to last against this terrible adversary.  He looked out over the battlefield and immediately saw both Benzan and Gorath, both just standing there in the open.  He watched Zev take steps to protect Benzan, and as the druid rushed to aid Lok against the dracolich he lifted his hand and called upon the power of his ring.  His telekinetic grip took hold of the paralyzed half-orc, and he quickly drew him back to his shelter in the lee of the thick stone.  His attempt to _dispel_ the paralysis holding him had no effect, however, and he bit his tongue in frustration while Gorath trembled with his effort to get his frozen body to obey his commands.  

Dana kept running, calling upon the power of Selûne as she did so.  After getting clear of the dragon’s breath she’d turned around, and what she’d seen had nearly frozen her the way that the undead creature’s dark gaze had threatened to.  The others had scattered as the dragon’s breath had scoured them, but Benzan, her Benzan, had just stood there, caught by its paralysis, helpless.  Indecision had gripped her with a paralysis more dangerous than that of the dracolich, until a voice had shouted inside her head. 

_“You have to act!  If that thing isn’t killed, none of us will leave this place alive!”_

The voice jolted her into action, and she ran.  He course took her on a tangent around the dracolich, and as the power of the goddess flowed into her, she lifted into the air, streaking above the battlefield.  She did not go far, however, and spun back to face the dragon once she had moved sixty feet or so off the ground, facing its flank with her spear held tightly in both hands.  

They would need help.  

Once again she opened her mind to the goddess, but even as she established the link for her summoning, pain blasted into her as a bolt of jagged electricity slammed into her from behind.  The spell vanished as she was flung forward, and she nearly lost her grip on her spear as she spun about, trying to reestablish control.  

The fur-clad sorcerer of the Cult of the Dragon nodded to himself in satisfaction, flying back to the mists as he called upon another _invisibility_ spell to cloak him from sight.  This battle belonged to Utharax, but he was not above striking from the shadows, whenever the opportunity presented itself.  

Lok charged the dracolich, and the contest seemed laughable as the diminutive genasi neared the huge outline of the undead dragon.  As he entered its reach the dracolich’s iron jaws lashed down at him, its powerful bite glancing off his shoulder.  Lok staggered as the icy cold of its touch cut him to the bone, but he shrugged its paralysis off with a roar and leapt at the creature’s nearest leg.  His axe came down in a powerful arc, crushing one of its leg bones, causing the massive creature to lurch under the impact.  For a moment its glowing eyes flickered, but when its stare fixed upon the fighter once more, they burned with an unabated hatred.  

Lok ducked under its leg as the dracolich shifted in response to his attack and reset its claws on the hard ground.  He raised his axe to strike at the thick bones of its ribs rising up like a cage above him, but before he could connect with his first attack the creature suddenly reared back on its hind legs and unleashed a full assault upon him.  Its jaws clasped with crushing force on his shoulder, lifting him even as claws as sharp and as strong as daggers tore through his magical plate into his sides.  Then he was flying, his axe gone from his hands, the cold that seeped into his body from his wounds stealing his energy like a nimble thief.  Mercifully, he could barely feel anything when he slammed hard into the ground ten paces away, barely clinging to consciousness.  

All he could do was stare impotently up at the gray sky as the desperate battle raged on around him, awaiting his turn to die. 

With only four of the seven who’d come to Nar’dek’alok still able to act, and all of those injured, it seemed that perhaps he would not have too long to wait.


----------



## Horacio

Another wonderful Lazybones' cliffhanger, cool


----------



## Maldur

Awesome fight!!

thx, LB!


----------



## Elemental

Given high peripheral character attrition in fights like this before, what do you reckon the odds of the gnoll, half-orc and elf surviving are?


----------



## Lazybones

Elemental said:
			
		

> *Given high peripheral character attrition in fights like this before, what do you reckon the odds of the gnoll, half-orc and elf surviving are? *




Four percent.



Welcome aboard, Elemental; thanks for the post.  

More tomorrow!  Cliffhangers for everybody!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 28


Lariel glanced down at his quiver, at the six arrows that he had remaining.  Too few, but nothing to be done for it now, as he drew and fired, and then again.  Half his shots were passing through the dracolich’s skeletal frame, or glancing off of steel-tough bone without causing harm, but already a second crack showed where an arrow had told, and now a third as his most recent shot caromed off its thick skull.  His jaw clenched as he tried to fight through the fear that continued to make his hands shake, but he was an arcane archer, bred to the bow, and he would not let up his assault until his bow was pried from his dead hands. 

Unfortunately, the dracolich seemed to hear his thoughts, for it turned from where it had just devastated Lok—and if it could crush the durable genasi so swiftly, the elf had no illusions about his own chances—and turned toward him.  It looked almost fragile, a framework of bones that hung together only through the power of ancient lore and dark magic, but it shook the ground as it charged toward him.  It barely paused as it almost casually flicked aside the attacking gnoll druid with a powerful swipe of his tail that laid Zev out flat on the ground, then continued its charge, gathering momentum as it came.  

Lariel nodded to himself, then drew his arrow—the last he would ever shoot?—to his cheek.  He did not waver as the dragon drew nearer.  

Cal stepped out behind the stone column, a good fifty paces to his right.  “Lariel, run!” he shouted. 

The elf did not hesitate; he’d spent enough time with these new friends to trust them, and their tactics.  He sprinted, knowing it would never be fast enough to outrun the dracolich.  Not without a spell, and there was no time to cast his _expeditious retreat_.  But even as he started he saw images of himself appear, and he spared himself a smile as he continued, the images fanning out around him, all with arrows nocked to silver bows.  With a dozen illusionary archers to deal with, perhaps he might buy some time for his companions before the dragon caught up with him. 

Except his momentary reprieve vanished as the illusions suddenly wavered, and disappeared.  Lariel felt a familiar touch as the _dispel magic_ cut through his own defenses, undoing the resistance that Gorath had earlier given him to the dracolich’s fell breath.  

Perhaps it was time for that _expeditious retreat_ after all.  

Once again, the dark sorcerer laughed as he flew back, tucking the now-blank scroll into his belt while he renewed his _invisibility_ spell.  

Cal spat a very uncharacteristic curse as his spell was ruined.  He caught a glimpse of the enemy wizard—the same one they’d briefly spotted at the beginning of the battle—but there was nothing he could do about him at the moment; his full attention was on the deadly creature that dominated the battlefield.  His spells weren’t doing much good, he had to admit, despite his ability to churn them out rapidly under his _haste_.  The dracolich had resisted his _polymorph,_ and an acid arrow from his wand had failed to even grab its attention.  He now considered another illusion, but even as he started to call upon the magic he heard a sound from behind that turned him around.  It was Gorath, his acid-blasted features slick with sweat from his efforts to fight off the dragon’s paralysis.  He was starting to move, hard grunts coming from deep inside of him as he fought through the effect through sheer force of will.  Staggering against the stone pillar, he started forward.  

“We don’t have much time,” Cal said, moving with magically-enhanced speed as he came to the half-orc.  “Let me give you something to help protect you...”  He considered _invisibility_, but dismissed it—it was too likely that the dracolich would penetrate it.  Instead, he quickly cast _displacement_ on the ranger.  

Their gazes met as the image of the half-orc began to distort, shifting.  “It might give you a few moments,” Cal said grimly.  Both understood; they knew what they were facing.  

With a mighty roar, the half-orc Harper rounded the stone and charged into battle.  

A few hundred paces away, Lariel fell against another of the stone pillars with a loud crack.  He fell, fumbling for the hilt of his sword even as unconsciousness claimed him.  He’d bought his allies a few precious moments, but this enemy had been too much for him.  He did not see the undead dragon as it reared over him, ready to finish it...

Dana streaked down past the dracolich’s head, darting past it so swiftly that she had already gotten clear by the time that it lashed out with a skeletal wing at her.  She landed at Lariel’s side, calling upon divine power to aid her.  The dracolich let out a roar and opened its jaws to blast her and the elf with another dose of its deadly breath, but even as it did so a slash of light appeared, widening into a portal that Dana hurled herself through, Lariel slung under one arm.  The portal closed even as the cone of corrosive gas seared the stone.

The dracolich turned, enraged at being cheated of its kill, seeking out another foe.  It saw Gorath emerge from beyond the stone, and spread its huge wings.  They could no longer serve to carry it aloft, but with its new form provided by the Cult of the Dragon, it no longer needed them.  It leapt into the air, carrying itself up and forward with powerful magic.  Remembering the habits of its past existence, it dove at the lone warrior, ready to grab it off the ground with a single snap of its jaws.  The warrior stood his ground, and laughed—laughed!—as if taunting the great drake.  

Utharax had not been an old dragon, by the standards of its kind, when the Cult of the Dragon had transformed it into what it now was.  In fact, it had been pride, and envy of its more powerful brethren, that had drive the dragon to accept the bargain that the Cult had offered, stripping away its life and its flesh in exchange for the power offered by this new, undying form.  It found that while it could no longer feel, at least as it once had, it could still hate, and hate was what drove it now as it lashed out at its foe.  At the last moment, it realized its mistake, recognizing the spell that protected the half-orc as its jaws snapped around a figment that wasn’t there.  The gnome, it had to be, with his troublesome little spells.  No matter.  The dracolich spread its mighty wings—it no longer had to, but it was still used to the motions of its living life—and swiveled into a solid landing.  Immediately it spun to face the half-orc.  

And found itself facing twenty identical warriors, all charging toward it.  

Keeping a close eye out for the enemy wizard, Cal watched as his second illusion seemed to be holding, at least for now.  This one would remain for a time even after he shifted his attention from it, so he turned to where he’d seen Dana and Lariel emerge from the cleric’s _dimension door_ a few hundred paces back along the trail they’d traveled earlier.  Dana was already lifting back into the air, while Lariel remained.  Either he too was under the effects of the dracolich’s paralysis, or—

He didn’t finish the thought, trying to think of what else he could do against this implacable adversary.  

Zev slowly rose, fighting the cold that threatened to pull him back down again.  He found his spear and used that to prop himself up, gathering his strength as he turned toward the demon-dragon.  His jaws twisted in a grim snarl.  One hit.  One hit had taken him out of the battle, had defeated him while these others these strangers to the Wood fought on.  He saw the dragon land and turn toward the half-orc warrior.  That one, at least, had some woods-craft, but even he would not stand long against such an adversary.  Grimly, the druid turned once more toward the fray.  

He paused as he heard a groan to his left.  He turned aside to see the genasi warrior lying there, his metal armor pierced in several places, his stony face pale.  He too had fallen, but his eyes were still open, and they shone with pain.  

“You fought bravely, companion,” the druid said.  “I cannot aid you further, but once the cold touch passes, you will be needed once more in the fray.”  He bent to touch the genasi, calling upon a spell to pass healing into the battered warrior, then he took up his spear, and started running once more toward the death that awaited him. 

Gorath growled in rage, leaping once more at the dracolich as the images of himself darted around him, each offering its own feint at the creature.  His battleaxe clove bone, slamming hard into the creature’s neck as he leapt, and as he came back down he rolled to the side, bringing both weapons up as he regained his footing.  

But the dracolich was a cunning adversary.  As soon as it felt the touch of a genuine attack it had shifted and was charging, and as Gorath landed it struck.  Claws tore at him—one passed through empty air, fooled by the _displacement_, but the second tore into armor and flesh, and drew back dripping blood.   The dracolich kept up its attack, buffeting the half-orc with a wing, knocking him back.  Gorath fought the effects of its touch through sheer fortitude, and as the jaws came down again he lashed out, chipping a fist-sized piece of its skull away with a powerful stroke of his axe.  He roared defiance, lost in the fury of his rage.  

Unfortunately, his luck had run out.  

The dracolich came in again, its head darting down with incredible speed, snatching up the half-orc and lifting its head high with Gorath’s struggling form pinned in its jaws.  Even trapped, even with teeth stabbing into his body like daggers, the Harper continued to attack, bashing his handaxe into the side of its skull.  The dracolich reared, tightening its grip on the half-orc...

....and breathed.


----------



## Horacio

Lazybones said:
			
		

> * The dracolich reared, tightening its grip on the half-orc...
> 
> ....and breathed. *




Another EVIL cliffhanger...

GOOD!


----------



## Maldur

Very intense fight!

It doesn't look weel for our heroes.

Thx for the story LB.


----------



## Rugger

Hehe..the old bite the NPC and breath on him trick...

I did that in RtToEE against an NPC that the PC's were just barely beginning to like.

Wasn't even a charred smudge of her left.

Great stuff LB...seems like just yeaterday they were fighting little old hobgoblins and such... 

-Rugger
"I Lurk!"


----------



## Broccli_Head

That's a rough way for Gorath to go...

action-packed as always, LB. 

looking forward to the outcome.


----------



## Black Bard

Lazy, you are evil... I know you aren`t DMing, but the "bite and breath" move would perfect fit a DM angered by some player that is bashing "too much" in his beloved monster... Excellent!! 

By the way, I`m not interested in being a boring poster, but I noticed something funny back on Part 26...


> Guthan, meanwhile, met his adversary with silence, their clash of weapons muffled by the aura of Dana’s spell.



And...


> “I feel it too,” Guthan said, hefting his blades.




Guthan left his dark patron and joined the heroes!!! I knew he would never be happy living so far from Benzan... 

Anyway, Lazy... Your story is the best I ever read on ENworld, and if not being the one that first caught my attention ( BTW, it was _Out of the frying pan_ , another wonderful story...), it was the one story that "de-lurked" me...
And I thank you for that!!!


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks for the heads-up, Black Bard; I try to avoid similar-sounding names for just this reason but when I created the Harper agents way back in Book IV, I had no idea that Gorath and the shifty Guthan would end up in the same plotline together!

And now we have Guthan, Gorath, and Goran, all mucking around in the same plotline!  No more "G" characters from here on out!

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 29

The dracolich breathed, searing Gorath with a cloud of poison gas that he could not hope to escape.  The half-orc screamed in agony, a sound that was broken off by the gurgle of failing breath and the crunch of snapping bones as the creature bit down once more before tossing his jerking body aside.  The brave Harper agent fell in a limp heap upon the hard ground nearby.  

The dracolich added its own roar, a grim sound that was both mocking and triumphant.  But it soon found itself facing new adversaries, as Zev charged toward it, spear at the ready, while from the sky above Dana streaked down, glowing with the aura of Selûne’s _divine power_. 

*“EACH OF YOU WILL SHARE HIS FATE,”* the dracolich said, its voice sounding like a disembodied chorus within its skull.  Ignoring the druid, it leapt into the air to meet Dana, its wings spreading out as if to engulf the woman.  

They met in a collision twenty feet off the ground, the woman thrusting her spear into the undead dragon’s chest even as its sinuous neck snapped its vicious jaws at her.  She screamed as the jaws tore her side, locking on her hip and jerking her roughly aside before she could pull free, trailing blood.  Its deadly chill settled on her, but the power of her goddess flowed through her, granting her the power to resist the fell effects of its touch.  She dove low to gain distance from it, moving close to the ground, but the dracolich caught her with a swipe of its tail before she could win fully clear, slamming her painfully into the earth.  

The dracolich spun and descended atop her, its rear claws opened to crush her.  

“Get away from her, you monster.”

Benzan, still half-covered by the _tortoise shell,_ his face a ruin from the effects of the dracolich’s first breath attack, released an arrow that flew in a fiery streak to strike the creature on the side of its armored skull.  The missile penetrated, scorching its essence with eager flame.  The dracolich roared and turned toward him, its fiery eyes blazing.  

*“AH, THE LITTLE SPAWN HAS FINALLY CONQUERED HIS FEAR.  COME, COWARD, EMBRACE THE TERROR ONCE MORE...”*

Benzan’s hands fumbled as he grabbed another arrow and fitted it to his bow.  He looked up, and his eyes were filled with the dracolich coming toward him, closing the gap that separated him.  Already, it seemed to loom over him, those eyes swallowing him up into their depths once again.

Frozen, bow and arrow fell from nerveless fingers to land at his feet.  The dracolich’s laughter shook the world around him, and he could not look away from the death that came for him.

As the draconic monstrosity moved toward Benzan, Cal stepped out from behind the shelter of the stone pillar once more.  Every magical protection he could yet muster lay about him, from a cascade of _mirror images_ to the glowing outline of a magical _shield_, and finally a protective ward against evil from his wand.  He had not turned himself _invisible,_ however; his current plan depended on the dragon being able to see him. 

He shouted at the passing dracolich, and his voice, amplified by a spell to several times its normal timbre, boomed throughout the area. 

“Dragon!  If we speak of cowards, what cowardice is it to give up one’s own life, for a pathetic non-existence as one of the undead!”

The dracolich shifted, its head coming around toward the gnome, and as it did Cal summoned his final illusion.  An image shimmered and took form in the air, resolving into the three-dimensional form of a flying dragon.  Even in simulation the creature appeared impressive, sunlight glinting off of its green scales, its muscular wings beating through the air as it flew in a tight spiral.  

Cal knotted his brows as he concentrated on his _silent image_.  He had never seen a green dragon in the flesh, but he’d seen enough depicted in books that he hoped his version was realistic enough to attain his goal.  

*“YOU ARE A FOOL, IF YOU THINK TO TAUNT ME WITH WHAT I ONCE WAS.  YOU CANNOT UNDERSTAND THE POWER I NOW COMMAND... BUT I WILL INSTRUCT YOU.  YOU WILL ALL BEG FOR DEATH...”*

“The death you yourself embraced?” Cal shouted.  He focused again on his illusion, and the scene shifted.  The dragon was still there, but now it was eagerly tearing into a giant mastodon, then engaged in furious battle with a smaller bronze, and then again diving in a sinuous, violence dance with another green...

“A poor bargain, if you ask me,” the gnome said.  “Never again to feel, knowing that you will exist forever, but only as a lifeless husk, stripped of all of life’s most basic joys...”

The dracolich roared, and its terrible visage appeared as it thrust through the hovering illusion, its jaws snapping as it came toward Cal.  

Suddenly a streak of light cut through the sky, glancing off of the dracolich’s armored skull.  Lariel, healed earlier by Dana, had finally shaken off the paralysis of the undead dragon’s touch, and the few hundred paces that separated him from his target did not trouble his expert aim.  And a few moments later another arrow clattered against its spine from the right, as Lok rejoined the fray with a missile of his own, his incredible strength used to great effect by his mighty bow.  Meanwhile, behind the creature Dana had gotten back up and recovered her spear, and was already lifting back into the air, gaining altitude for another charge.  Zev was also there, but the gnoll druid had fallen to his knees, his eyes vacant.  Perhaps he too had fallen prey once more to the dracolich’s foul touch, although he did not seem to have taken another hit.  

Utharax hesitated.  Already his skeletal frame had suffered damage that likely would have slain him, had he still been of the living flesh that the gnome illusionist had tried to depict.  His undead form could absorb a good deal more punishment, especially of the sort of slashing and piercing weapons used by his adversaries, but collectively the tiny hits he had suffered added up to considerable damage.  He _knew_ that he was invulnerable, that even physical destruction would not end him, but he remembered feeling the cold chill of approaching death from another time long ago, and doubted.  The dracolich turned its gaze back toward the fog bank, seeking out his ally, the one that bore his phylactery, the Cult sorcerer who had grown suddenly quiet in the recent moments of the battle. 

He had empowered himself to see invisible creatures earlier, but there was nothing there, only the fog.  He had been abandoned. 

Another arrow glanced off his skull, doing no damage but drawing his attention back to the battle.  He looked down at the gnome, who was moving his hands, conjuring yet another pathetic spell in an attempt to distract him.    

Lariel ran toward the battle, his already long strides enhanced by the potency of his magic, doubling his speed.  His quiver was empty, but he’d managed to score at least one more telling hit with his final shots.  Despite the healing from the cleric of Selûne and the potion he’d drunk on recovering from the paralysis, he was still gravely injured, the marks of the dracolich’s claws forming harsh red scars across his torso.  But he could not retreat, realizing like the others that their only chance for survival lay in defeat of this terrible adversary.  He cried in dismay as the dracolich dove at the gnome—a brave comrade, despite his small stature—slashing through _mirror images_ with his claws, driving the gnome back against the pillar.  Cal—the real one, now shorn of his sheltering images—fell back and crawled desperately around the edge of the stone column, trying to escape a foe that would not be denied its kill.  

Dana dove down from above, her spear glowing with flashes of electrical energy along the length of its foot-long steel head.  The _divine power_ that she had called upon earlier still filled her, added strength to her thrust as she plunged the spear into a gap in the thick vertebrae of the dragon’s neck.  The thrust would have severed the spine of a living creature, but the dracolich only reared and snapped around, catching the woman solidly across the torso with a thick wing-bone, knocking her roughly aside with the force of the impact.  

*“YOU MORTALS ARE TENACIOUS,”* it said, anger beginning to cloud the cold tones of its voice.  *“I WILL TEAR YOU ALL TO PIECES...”*

The dracolich’s rant was interrupted as several more images appeared in the air, rough outlines of man-sized forms hovering in a ring around it, ten paces off the ground.  

*“ANOTHER ILLUSION?  NOW YOU DISAPPOINT ME...”*

The shadowy shapes began to resolve, taking on recognizable forms.  Their ranks included a elderly human, his face wrinkled with age.  A tall elf, his features wild, his hair falling in a chaotic flow over his shoulders and down his back.  An orc shamaness, her muscular frame wrapped in a fur pelt, scars crossing her face, a totem drawn across the bald pate of her skull.  Others that remained indistinct, vague outlines.

“Not an illusion, foul thing, corruption of the darkness,” the human spoke.  The elf added, “It is you who are the shadow, dragon.”  And the orc snarled, “Thine presence is an abomination upon the Land.”

The dracolich snarled.  *“I DESTROYED ALL OF YOU.  YOU CANNOT THREATEN ME HERE—THIS IS MY PLACE, NOW, YOUR PRECIOUS NATURE TORN UP BY THE ROOTS AND BLASTED INTO DEATH.”*

“Our roots lie deeper than you think,” the shade of the old human said.  

Dana hovered in the air, having recovered from the powerful blow she’d taken from the dracolich.  Lariel had reached the battle with his quickened strides, and came around the far side of the stele to where Benzan still stood, paralyzed.  “I hope you don’t mind if I borrow this for a moment,” he said quietly to the helpless tiefling, taking his bow and a handful of arrows from his quiver.  Lok, as well, had closed, still hefting his mighty bow, though his axe was close at hand at his belt.  All of them waited, however, caught up in the confrontation between the dracolich and the former guardians of the Wood. 

*“BAH, GHOSTS CANNOT HARM ME,”* the dracolich said.  As if to emphasize its claim, it spread its wings in a broad arc, slashing through the empty outlines of the spectral forms hovering around it.   

The shades drew back, but instead of retreating from the undead dragon’s anger, they drifted together to where Zev still knelt alone in a patch of blasted ground.  One by one the ghostly forms drifted into the body of their still-living brethren, vanishing inside of him.  Finally the last, the old human, disappeared into him, and the gnoll’s head came up, his eyes shining with a glow of iron determination.  

The dracolich lifted into the air with a powerful sweep of its skeletal wings, issuing a loud cry that shook the area like a dirge sounded by a hundred bells.  Arrows tore at it, fiery missiles shot by Lariel and powerful arrows from Lok’s bow, but the dracolich ignored those that were able to pierce its defenses.  Its attention was on the druid, on the foes it had defeated once before and would now do so again, even if it had to tear down the entire forest to complete the task.  

Zev raised a hand, and the clouds high above parted, revealing the cold orb of the distant sun, shedding its pale radiance into the Wood.  

*“I DO NOT FEAR THE LIGHT OF THE SUN,”* the dracolich intoned.  *“BUT I WILL SCOUR YOU WITH THE COLD PAIN OF DEATH.”*

The dracolich hovered directly above the druid, its skeletal form framing the sun, its jaws opening to unleash its deadly breath once more. 

The sun flared, a light that shone in the sky and seemed to stretch out toward earth.  A pillar of liquid fire streamed down from the heavens, engulfing the dracolich in a storm of flames.  The _flame strike_, empowered by the combined essences of the slain druids, tore through the defenses of the undead creature, driving it down, into the waiting embrace of the earth.  Zev made no effort to escape, only stood there drawing more of nature’s power into him as the burning carcass of the dracolich came crashing down onto him.  

Silence returned once more to the forest clearing, broken only by the cackle of flames as they consumed the form of the undead dragon.


----------



## Maldur

Wow what an image. the undead dragon blasted by A SUNSPEAR.

THX, LB


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## Broccli_Head

Very cool ending to the battle!

too bad his phylactery is still intact. I guess we still need to hunt down that pesky Cult wizard.


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## wolff96

Woah. 

Nice imagery. Especially the dragon being crushed to the earth by the power of the spell...

Of course, they'd better find the cowardly Cult of the Dragon spellcaster or it's all going to be for nothing...


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## Horacio

That was epic, Lazybones, epic...


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## Black Bard

What a majestic end for a battle...Simply wonderful!!


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## Lazybones

Thanks guys!  I've been working on the plot for the end of Book VII (it's going to be my longest to date, with about 50 chapters), and I think I can promise an ending even more dramatic than the just-concluded battle...

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 30

Benzan sagged as the paralysis holding him faded, and he would have fallen but for the fact that Dana was there almost immediately, holding him up with a look of concern clear on her face. 

“Benzan... are you all right?”  Without waiting for a reply, she cast a healing spell, channeling positive energy into him.

But for the tiefling, it wasn’t physical injury that troubled him, but rather the memory of cold terror that had twice claimed him, making him worse than useless—forcing his friends to break off their attacks to save him.  

Lariel, meanwhile, had crossed to where Gorath’s body lay.  The half-orc’s features were blasted by the effects of the dracolich’s breath weapon, and his eyes were glazed and bleeding, his body twisted unnaturally by the force of the creature’s bite. 

His face solemn, the elf knelt and rearranged his friend to lie more naturally, resting at peace. 

Cal strode forward, meeting Lok.  The genasi was grievously injured, and the gnome had a serious gash in his side that he pressed against with the palm of his hand.  As he met the warrior, he drew out his wand of healing, and activated its power first on himself, and then on Lok.  They would both need more healing, possibly more than the wand possessed, but for now they had more immediate concerns.  The two started toward the ruined corpse of the dracolich, still alert.

“There was a mage, as well,” Cal explained.  “He had the power of invisibility, and was flying.”

Lok nodded, his face grim.  Despite Cal’s healing, he still limped a little, though he could keep up with the shorter-legged gnome.

“And I’m sure there’s more of those dragonkin about,” the gnome went on.  “Though if any were close by, I’m sure they would have made their way here by now.”

They reached the dracolich, or at least as close as they could get with the flames still roaring around its body.  The way it burned, its bones might have been aged pine.  

“Zev fought bravely,” Lok said.  “I do not think we could have killed that thing, without... without that help.”

Cal did not reply, staring intently into the pyre.  Abruptly something shifted within the flaming heap of bones, and Cal jumped back.  Lok already had his axe up, seeking an enemy.

A form crawled out of the pyre, stood.  The two adventurers watched in amazement as Zev strode out of the flames, surrounded by a greenish glow that clung to him like a second skin.  As he cleared the edge of the fire, the glow faded, and he was there before them, whole and substantial. 

“What... what happened?” Cal asked. 

“My brothers and my sisters of the Wood protected me,” the druid said.  He looked tired, spent, but held his head high as he walked with the pair back to where the others were gathered.  

“So the dragon, the dracolich, is truly destroyed then?” Lok asked.

Cal frowned, and Zev shook his head.  “Its spirit survived.  The magic that spawned this thing is potent, and even now I can sense its life force, moving swiftly away from here, to the north.”

“The wizard,” Cal explained.  “I imagine he carries the thing’s phylactery.”  At Lok’s questioning look, he went on, “My lore on such things only comprises a few scattered references, but I know that liches—including these monstrosities created by the Cult of the Dragon—store their life-essences in a specially prepared item, like a gem.  When their physical bodies are destroyed, their spirits return to the phylactery, and can later enter into another body.”

“So this thing may soon live again,” Lok said, his tone grim. 

“It will not soon return here,” Lariel said, overhearing them as they drew near.  “I will send word to Twilight Hall of this, and to others who fight against the mad plots of the Cult.  It was a bold plan, to strike so blatantly at the core of the Heartlands.  It seems that the time has come to teach the Cult another lesson.”  The elf’s normally pleasant features were hard, and his eyes promised that the lesson would not be a mild one.

“What now, of the Wood?” Dana asked, still holding onto Benzan.  Cal noticed that the tiefling’s face wore a stricken expression, and he made a mental note to speak to his friend later.  

“The dragonkin still lurk along the forest paths,” Zev explained, “but from what I have seen, those remaining are scattered, positioned to molest those that still travel upon the roads that pass through and around the Wood.  My brethren have already departed to rouse the Wood, to finish the task that they failed at in life, and their souls will not find rest until the task is complete.” 

Cal shuddered, remembering the grim power of the druidic ghosts.  “I almost pity them,” he said.  

“We need rest—we survived,” Dana broke off for a moment, shooting an apologetic glance at Lariel, and the body behind him, “but we cannot handle another fight, not in our current condition.”

“Now that the Undying One has been driven forth, no evil will penetrate this circle,” Zev said.  “Death lurks the forest trails this night, for those who sought to bring darkness upon the Wood.  Rest, and regain your strength.”

Before any of them could respond, the druid’s form shifted and blurred, until a large eagle stood there, wings outspread.  With a powerful beat of its wings the bird leapt into the air, and within moments had vanished into the sky above them.  

“Not my idea of a great campsite,” Cal said.  The fog had lifted, and some stray lines of sunshine still drifted down from the rents in the clouds above, but the acrid smell of death still hung over the place, and the remnants of the dracolich made a grim decoration.  “But I think we’d better trust Zev, and remain here within the circle of stones.”

The others agreed, but even so they moved to the edge of the circle, and set their camp right up against one of the stone pillars.  Cal and Dana used their healing wands to treat some of their most serious injuries, Cal depleting his device before the work was complete.  That task done, they set a careful watch and passed into an uneasy rest.


----------



## Maldur

Wow I forgot to bump 

thanks for the story LB!


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## Horacio

A wonderful update, as usual


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## Black Bard

I was really saddened by the passing of Gorath, I was thinking that maybe he and Lariel would share some of the information they gathered on Ascore ( which may involve some _shades_ , I wonder...  ) ,but now I don't know how Lariel will react to the death of his friend... On the brighter side, now there's one less "*G* " character to worry about...


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## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 31

The following morning, things continued to happen quickly for the now-five companions.  They rested throughout the remainder of the day and the night that followed, sleeping in shifts and preparing a hot but sparse evening meal from their stores.  Even going outside the circle of stones briefly to recover some of the plentiful deadwood from the scarred and blackened trees was unnerving, and Lariel and Lok returned speaking of shadows moving through the dead forest, and unseen eyes that seemed to track their progress.  With that grim news, they ate their meal silently and quickly, and returned to their bedrolls as the night fell around them.  

Nothing emerged out of the dark to threaten them, however, and the morning dawned with a welcome brightness, as the grim clouds above finally broken enough to reveal a clear sky high above.  The clear dawn did not banish the sharp chill of morning in the forest, but at least it cheered their spirits somewhat after the darkness through which they had all passed.  For some of them, that darkness would linger for a time, but they all took solace in their friendship and shared purpose.  

While the spellcasters attended to their prayers or spellbooks, Lariel sat with Lok by their fire.  They’d laid in an extra supply the previous night, so they did not have to venture out to secure more fuel.  The elf opened his cloak and withdrew a small silver pin attached to his shirt, laying it on a flat stone between them.  

“While I have kept this hidden before now, I feel that there is no need for secrets between us now, given what we have shared.  The pins we Harpers wear carry an enchantment that protects us from detection by those with prying magical eyes.  Every fifth morning, as the sun rises, I remove it for an hour, so that my superiors may make contact, to make a report and learn if there is important news to be related.”

Lok nodded, seeing the advantage of such a system.  

Suddenly Lariel straightened.  Cal, apparently, felt it too, for he looked up from his spellbook, scanning the area around them.  Lok shook his head—he felt nothing.

But all of them could hear the voice, the whisper that sounded as if someone were at their shoulders speaking into their ear.  A woman’s voice, soft and gentle.

_“Greetings, Lariel.  It is good to see you once more, for my thoughts have often visited you of late, with great concern.  I see you have found new companions, and I have included them in my spell, for their faces are known to me, the faces of friends who have already done great deeds in the struggles against Evil in the West.  I fear I must bring sad tidings of events, but first, speak quickly of what you have found, for time grows short for all of us.”

“I must share my own tale of woe, Cylyria,”_ Lariel replied.  His mouth barely moved, forming a soundless whisper, but they could hear the words over the connection that the Harper leader had created through her scrying.  _“We reached the core of the Reaching Woods, and found that the source of the evil here was nothing less than a foul dracolich, a transformed green, a fairly young specimen but deadly nonetheless.”_ A few of the companions exchanged a look—if their adversary had been “fairly young,” what might an older version have done?  Even Lok paled a bit at the thought.  

Lariel continued, his face drawing tight with emotion, sadness and anger mixing in his words.  _“Gorath fell in battle with the creature, and I fear his body is too ravaged for a _raise dead_ to be effective.”_  Dana had tried, praying for the intervention of Selûne with the coming of the new day, but the half-orc ranger had been too far gone, his body too ravaged by the dragon’s deadly breath and rending teeth to restore his spirit to it.  

_“We made contact with one of the surviving druids of the Woods, and through him the spirits of those that were slain by the dracolich.  The Woods will be cleansed of the evil that has infested it, but I fear that our old foe, the Cult of the Dragon, have done a great deal of damage that cannot soon be mended.”_  At those words the elf’s normally smooth features twisted briefly into a mask of rage, and his grip on the bow at his side tightened noticeably.  

There was a pause, and then Cylyria’s voice came to them once more through the link.  _“You have all done well, all of you, and my sorrow joins with yours at the loss you have suffered.  But I am afraid that the Cult will have to wait, for darker days have settled upon us in your absence.”_

The companions exchanged another look, guessing at what foul news now awaited.  Cylyria did not leave them waiting long, and with a tired sigh told them.  

_“Three days ago, a potent force of hobgoblins, trolls, and hill giants wearing the symbol of Bane descended from the Far Hills into Sunset Vale.  With them came a dark monstrosity brought from the Abyss, a powerful demon.  These forces fell upon Asbravn in the night, and razed the town, putting to the sword those not lucky enough to flee the carnage.”_

The crackling of the fire was the only sound, as the companions stared at each other in stunned silence.  

“So now what do we do?” Benzan finally asked.


----------



## Broccli_Head

Wow! Asbravan gone! Is Irieabor next? or Berdusk?


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## Horacio

Another superb update!


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## Lazybones

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> *Wow! Asbravan gone! Is Irieabor next? or Berdusk? *




Well, either of those cities would be too large and powerful for an army the size of the humanoid force to assault, and really the attack on Asbravn only worked because of surprise and the added effect of the vrock on their side.  I figured that the town had maybe 100 more regular Guard (the famed Riders in Red Cloaks), of which around 20 were >2nd level, and around 500 militia (which had not been called up on account of the lack of warning).  Figure in maybe 50 assorted low-to-mid-level folks in the town for one reason or another (residents, travelers, or adventurers).  On the other side we had about 200 hobgoblins, most of which were 2nd-3rd level warriors (with a few higher-level leaders, like our archer friend), with 7 shamans (3rd-8th level, adept and/or cleric levels mostly), 12 trolls, 3 hill giants, and the demon.  We'll learn more about the details of the attacks later through flashbacks from some of the participants.  

I hadn't realized it before, but vrocks are the perfect siege weapons.  With unlimited use of _darkness_ and _mass charm_, they can wreck havoc on a typical defense (especially if unalerted).  And they are accessible through a mere _lesser planar ally_ spell... 

Still, we shall be seeing the ripples that this action has had upon the West, starting, oh... now.

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 32


“So now what do we do?” asked one of the robed men gathered in the marble-floored chamber, richly adorned with decorative hangings and gilded furnishings, with tall windows that looked out over the tops of many-towered Irieabor.  

The circular chamber was dominated by a ring of well-crafted high-backed chairs, two dozen in number, all facing inward under a dome of stone so polished it reflected the light from the half-dozen lamps in sconces around the chamber’s perimeter.  The speaker sat in one of those chairs, nearly all of which were currently occupied by similar men and a pair of women, a diverse collection of individuals linked by the aura of wealth and power that hung about them like the expensive cloaks that hung from their shoulders.  Behind the ring of chairs sat portable desks for scribes and assistants, but at the moment, the room was empty save for those gathered in the central circle.  This was a private meeting, of great import for one of the most important trading cities of the West. 

At the robed man’s question more than one set of eyes turned to the tall figure standing within the circle, the only one who did not have a chair of his own.  That individual was also the only one clad for war, dressed in an ornamental breastplate chased with detail in silver.  He bore no weapon, but even so he looked dangerous, a wolf holding himself at bay in a gathering of sheep.  If he was affected by the attention of the powerful men and women fixed upon him, he gave no sign of it. 

“I have told you all that I know of this foul attack, most learned from the few refugees that have managed to reach the city.” he intoned, his voice filling the chamber.  His hands tightened into fists as he continued.  “And I share your sentiments at this dire news.  This time, the Zhents have gone too far!”  At his words, a few of the gathered lords—for lords they were, even though the leaders of the Guild Council of Iriaebor eschewed the title—shouted harsh cries of encouragement, dire pronouncements upon the perpetrators of this disaster.  

Once the tumult had died down, one of the robed men, an aged figure whose eyes still burned with a potent light, leaned forward and spoke.  “General Goran, I am sure many of us are grateful that you are here to aid in the defense of our city, at this time.  What advice can you offer this council?”

The man in armor took in all of those gathered in a sweeping gaze.  “I am sure we will learn more as more survivors make it to the city, but the basic fact remains.  One of the major towns of the Sunset Vale lies in ruins, more than half its population dead or taken, like as not destined for the slave blocks of Zhentil Keep.  No doubt the leaders of the Black Network are laughing at our impotence right now, their forces retreating unscathed back into their mountain hideaways.  The Lords’ Alliance will no doubt talk of sanctions, of counter-raids, of dealing the Zhents punishment for this ‘setback’, but I do not need to remind you that they have proven reluctant to take direct action against Darkhold in the past.  Meanwhile we will cower within the security of our walls, safe for the moment, but afraid of venturing out on the roads that carry the lifeblood of Iriaebor, its trade.”

Some of the faces around the circle darkened further, but they waited for him to finish. 

“With great foresight, you approved my plans to expand the city guard and increase training for the militia, but I have barely begun to implement those designs.  I have, however, not been idle since word of this disaster reached us.  The entire Guard, reinforced by the mercenary companies that I have just recently engaged at your direction, is at high alert, ready to ride at an hour’s notice, a force four hundred strong in total.  Just hours before this meeting I received confirmation from several of my riders.  Easting stands with Iriaebor, if she will act, with a company of armored dwarves ready to march, and six-score prime mounts offered by her breeders.  I have already sent the order to the outlying villages to raise the alert, and between their able manhood and what we can rally here in the city, can reliably count on two thousand militia to call to the banners, if they are raised.  Scornubel is hard-pressed enough with the raids coming out of the Reaching Woods, once thought secure due to the watchful eyes of its ‘druids’; I would not be surprised to learn, however, that the Zhents are behind those attacks as well, and thus cannot count on reinforcements from the north.  I have not heard yet from Berdusk or the cities further west; perhaps the Harpers will send aid, perhaps not; as you well know they keep their own counsel and pursue their own agenda.  In any case, by the time that the Lords’ Alliance intervenes, the Sunset Vale may very well be a scorched graveyard.”

Scattered voices arose, forming a verbal clutter that Goran simply ignored, standing alone in the center of the swirling conversations.  There was anger here, an anger like a hot fury, but also fear, and uncertainty.  It was, in all, a tumult.  None at first noticed the door that opened in the side of the chamber, admitting a nervous-looking page in the livery of the Guild Council.  He crossed swiftly to the aged man who had spoken earlier, whispering a message in his ear.  The commotion quickly eased as the other councilors realized that news was being delivered, and when the page departed as quickly as he had come, silence had fallen again over the chamber.  Goran simply watched with the same grim impassivity that he’d carried throughout, though his eyes were those of a hawk.  He’d had to manage the timing quite carefully, with a subtle touch, and the outcome was still not certain.

The old man sat there a moment, his shoulders sagging as if under a great weight.  “Magical detection has revealed a Zhentarim army moving south with great haste through the Far Hills, in the shadow of the Sunset Mountains.  They have already bypassed Hluthvar, and according to the wizard that scried them, number at least five hundred, and they have at least one skymage with them.”

A general gasp of dismay greeted the news.  A few clear statements penetrated the grim whispers between the councilors.  “Do they seek to seize the entire Vale?”  “If they join with the raiders, they could march on the city itself...” “How long until they reach us?” “No time for the Lords’ Alliance to intervene...”

The old man simply leaned back in his overly large chair, his dark eyes fixed on the soldier.  Finally, he raised his hand again, drawing the attention of his peers back to himself.  

“It would seem that we have no choice, now,” he said.  Still looking at Goran, he said, “I advance the motion, that this Council empower General Goran with the powers of the First Consul for a duration of six months, or until the current crisis is resolved.  Furthermore, I grant that he be given full powers to levy additional troops and coordinate the defenses of the city as needed, and full command in the field over whatever forces we and our allies are able to muster.  I call the question on this issue immediately, before any other matters are discussed.”

Another of the lords rose, a powerful half-elf with a square jaw and fiery red hair that fell across his shoulders and the fur lining of his cloak.  “I agree that the need is great, fellow councilors,” he began.  “But we must not act without caution.  The charter of our city grants the First Consul virtually the powers of a king, if appointed in a time of war.  We can invest Goran with the powers he needs to lead our armies, but retain overall executive authority in this body.  Let us not, in our haste, raise up another Bron.”

Even as he sat, another man rose to speak.  “While I share Councilor Macros’s general sentiment, I believe that the situation has advanced past the time of half-measures.  I second your motion, sir Chair.”

The old man nodded.  “I thank you, Councilor Ilgarten.  General Goran, if you would remove yourself while the Council votes on this action... I, for one, encourage you to begin making your preparations.  As you have said, the time for planning and deliberation has passed—it is now time for bold action.”

Goran nodded, and with a bow left the chamber.  Twenty pairs of eyes watched him go, and then reluctantly turned back inward, to a decision that was as foreordained as it was uncomfortable to make.


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## Horacio

Another wonderful update by Lazybones... Cool


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## weiknarf

Ooooooh, Dana's dad screwed up!


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## wolff96

Bad intelligence leads to poor decisions...

A good view into the politics of your version of the FR, Lazybones. What goes on in the world around the PCs is too often ignored, I think.


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## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 33    


Despite a sense of urgency fostered by Cylyria’s message, the companions had no choice but to spend another idle day within the depths of the Reaching Woods.  While Dana had her _teleport_ spell ready, Cal needed to clear his mind of his customary enchantments and rest once more before he could prepare the combination of _polymorph_ and _dispel_ spells that they used to travel long distances rapidly.  Benzan grumbled about the prospect of once more being turned into a cat, but he subsided when Cal started cataloguing the alternate forms that he might use when he cast his spell.  

Still, they used the time to good advantage, recovering fully from the battering they’d taken at the hands of the dracolich and its reptilian servant.  At Lariel’s request they cremated Gorath, and the arcane archer brought the ashes with him in an oilskin pouch in case a resurrection could be later arranged.  Lariel let drop that he owned the half-orc such an intervention, but he did not elaborate.  The companions were all too aware of the rarity of such potent magic, even in a wonder-filled place such as Faerûn, but the set of the Harper’s jaw as they went about their tasks did not leave room to doubt his resolve. 

They also examined the collection of treasures that they’d taken from the dragonkin and from the dracolich’s “hoard.”  The latter was a cache half-buried under a muck-filled hollow beneath several massive, tilted slabs of stone near the center of the great circle of the Weeping Stones.  Some of the items were quite obviously pillaged from the druids slain by the evil undead dragon and his minions, while others appeared to have been gathered from raided caravans like the one they’d encountered on the eastern edge of the Woods.  Benzan, of course, was the one who uncovered the find.  Those items that Cal identified as specifically druidic in nature they laid aside for Zev, but they found a number of useful items among the remainder.  A battered leather quiver revealed a potent aura to Cal’s _detect magic_, and Lariel quickly recognized it as a prized item for archers, a magical quiver that could hold far more arrows than a mundane container.  None of them begrudged the elf such a boon, although they would have to wait for their return to civilization before he could fill it with new arrows.  Also magical was a black gemstone attached to a fine silver neckchain, though Cal could not identify it beyond saying it bore some sort of protective magic.  He held onto it for the moment, until they could expose it to a more detailed magical investigation.  Most unusual was a strange weapon, a masterfully crafted length of chain links that Lok immediately recognized as mithral, with each end bearing a oblong disk of the same silvery metal.  By their weight, Lok suggested that it was likely that the disks contained a core of some heavier metal, surrounded by a smooth mithral outer skin.  At first it wasn’t clear what the item was for, until Dana held it and started whirling it in rapid arcs around her head.  

“It’s an eastern weapon,” she said, “an exotic from Kara-Tur, or some other far off land.  We learned about similar weapons in our martial studies in the monastery of the Sun Soul.  I believe it is called a _manriki-gusari_, if my recollection is correct.”

“It doesn’t look like much,” Benzan said.  “I mean, it’d hurt if one of those lumps cracked you in the skull, but not as much as a sword thrust through the vitals.”

Dana didn’t respond, but stopped spinning the weapon and looked it over carefully.  It too radiated magic, but Cal could not identify the nature of the spell.  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see what I can do with it,” she told the others.  No one objected, so she added the mithral chain to her arsenal.  

Leaving aside the magic items, that left a considerable amount of loose coinage, miscellaneous items of value left jumbled in the muck, and some trade goods now rotted or spoiled, useless.  Apparently the undead dragon had been more careless of its treasure than its living counterparts were wont to be.  Even so, there was a small fortune worth of stolen wealth, and predictably Benzan lamented that larger portion which they could not fit into their purses or into Cal’s magical backpack.  

“There’s a good three, four thousand’s worth left here, in coin and goods,” the tiefling said, tossing a sack heavy with mixed coins back into the cache.  Copper and silver, mostly; he’d spent a fair portion of the day picking out the gold and platinum and distributing among those who had space to spare.  His own pouches were already bulging, and he grunted when he picked up his backpack.  

“Give over, already,” Dana said, irritated.  “It’s not like we have any great need for money, now.  We have greater concerns at hand than some gold and silver, and your incessant scavenging for loot.”

“Do you like those new magical boots?” he shot back.  “How about Cal’s wands?  Lok’s armor, and his magical axe?  Those things aren’t free, and my ‘scavenging for loot’ has helped finance many of the fancy items that keep us alive.”

Dana stormed off in anger, and the two spent the rest of the day avoiding each other, a development that didn’t help ease the air of grim anticipation that hung over their camp.  

Zev returned as the sun was setting once more, and spoke briefly with them.  With the death of the dracolich, the surviving denizens of the forest had rallied to drive out the last of the dragonkin intruders, and the restless spirits of his companions had already begun restoring the natural order that had been disrupted here.  It would take time, but the gnoll promised that one day even this ruined place would again be a place of beauty and peace.  

“We must depart on the morrow,” Cal told him.  “But we are glad to have had to have had the chance to help set things right.”

“Go with peace,” the gnoll said.  He took up one of the items from the cache that they had left for him, a carved wooden totem of an oak tree set within a ring of twining thorny bushes, the whole attached to a torn leather throng.  “Take this small token in thanks for what you have done here.  It bears an enchantment that provides its wearer considerable protection from fire, and once per day can call be used to call upon the additional protection of a _barkskin_ spell.  Wear it as a friend of the Wood, and may it serve as a reminder of what you have done here.”

Cal nodded, taking the offered gift.  “Go with peace, Zev, and good luck.”  The gnoll nodded, and turning, transformed himself back into an eagle, disappearing swiftly among the lengthening shadows between the tall pillars of surrounding trees.

They kept a vigilant watch, but nothing emerged from the night to trouble them.  The next morning, after Cal studied his spells, they _teleported_ back to Iriaebor.


----------



## Broccli_Head

> Lariel quickly recognized it as a prized item for archers, a quiver of Elhonna




You mean a _quiver of Mielikki_ or Nobanion or Gwareron Windstrom or the elven ranger god/goddess?

who's Elhonna?


----------



## Lazybones

LOL Can't slip anything past you guys.


----------



## Horacio

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> *
> 
> You mean a quiver of Mielikki or Nobanion or Gwareron Windstrom or the elven ranger god/goddess?
> 
> who's Elhonna?  *




LOL

Lazybones, your audience it's only faithful, it's exigent too 

Great update...


----------



## Maldur

Great stuff as always, LB.

( I wasn't at home yesterday so didn't get notified of the update, so the bump comes now!)


----------



## Black Bard

> You mean a quiver of Mielikki or Nobanion or Gwareron Windstrom or the elven ranger god/goddess?




It seems that I'm not alone in harassing you, Lazy... 

By the way, a great update!!!
And just to state something that came to me... This Goran, it smells a little fishy, hmm?? I wonder if he's someone else...


----------



## wolff96

Horacio said:
			
		

> *it's exigent too*




Is it a bad sign when the guy from France has a better English vocabulary than I do?  I had to look up "exigent".  Good word, Horacio.  

---------------------------

Another good update, LB.

You know, Dana and Benzan are this fractious NOW.  What in the world are they going to be like when they find out that Delem was still alive (and being tortured) all this time??


----------



## Lazybones

wolff96 said:
			
		

> *
> You know, Dana and Benzan are this fractious NOW.  What in the world are they going to be like when they find out that Delem was still alive (and being tortured) all this time?? *




Oh.  You'll see.  

[insane laughter]muwahahahahahaha[/insane laughter]

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 34


On the dawning of the second day following his encounter with the succubus G’hael, Gorath rose bleary-eyed from a troubled rest that had done little to restore him.  His preparations had taken him deep into the night, and when the time had come to conduct his customary rites, offering dark prayers in the blackest depths of the night, he’d barely managed by rote.  He would not dare missing that obligation, however, that confirmation of the dark contract into which he’d willingly entered, and in any case he needed the power that flowed from that ritual.  

There was still much to do to prepare the summoning chamber according to G’hael’s specifications, but first there was something that he needed to attend to immediately.  He started toward the surface, back toward the valley, but paused.  He didn’t really need fresh air and sunlight to work the spell, and in any case he felt too weary to make even the brief trudge up to the entrance and back.  Instead, he simply knelt on the hard floor where he was currently standing, and opened his mind to the black arts of his demon-granted lore.  

The spell was arduous, and his exhaustion almost cost him the effort when he stumbled over the final incantation.  A sudden rush of energy born of anxiety restored him just in time, and he felt a surge of power as the magic poured into him.  

Establishing the connection was simple.  He sent the message that he’d composed last night.  His mouth twisted slightly as he received the response; he’d expected as much from the hobgoblin priest, but the shaman served the same master Guthan did, and he knew that his command would be obeyed.  

It took an effort of will to stand again, but Guthan only laughed.  Perhaps later he would venture down into the valley.  Fresh provisions might be just the thing.  

Stumbling slightly, he returned to the Portal Chamber.  With luck, in a few days he would have the final thing needed for the ritual, have it in quantities that even he had never before contemplated.

* * * * * 

The archer grimaced as he looked over his shoulder, over the ridgeline where the broad scope of Sunset Vale spread out before him in a dramatic panorama.  His eyes scanned that horizon, looking for telltale signs of pursuit.  There were none, but of more concern was the gathering line of clouds to the west, promising an end to the brief reprieve in the weather that had greatly eased their travels over the last few days.  

A scuffle and a clatter of rock returned him to his current duty.  With another dark frown he ran forward to see what had happened.  One of the prisoners had fallen again, dragging down several of the others attached to him by the long rope that ran through the halter at his and every other captive’s throat.  He clucked his tongue in frustration—the man had been beaten, that much was obvious instantly.  While he spared no concern for any of the captives—mercy just wasn’t a part of what he was—he wished the fools who’d been assigned this duty with him would realize that battered slaves would only serve to slow them down further.  

He understood the frustration of his colleagues.  He himself resented this duty fiercely, the more so in that it clearly ran counter to his own talents.  He was a scout, a sniper, and would be far better used marking the trail ahead, or warding the route behind them.  But one didn’t question the shamans, especially not in the mood they’d been in of late.

He had certainly done nothing to earn their ire, not that he was aware of.  The raid had been a complete success, and his own role had been significant in preventing the town from gaining any advance warning of the attack.  The humans had put up a fierce defense, even with such little notice of the raid, but the appearance of the demon had broken their morale.  Even he had been appalled at the carnage wrought by that denizen of the lower planes, at the corpses that had been... _shredded_ in its wake.  Even so, a quarter of the hobgoblins that had marched from the hidden valley in the mountains had been left behind for the carrion along with the slain defenders, and more would have joined them had it not been for the healing arts of the shamans.  The Riders in Red Cloaks had fought with particular determination, buying enough time with their lives for many of the townsfolk to escape the closing ring of humanoid invaders.  

What had followed was a debauch of looting and destruction.  Perhaps it was that which had riled the shamans, the chaos that it had taken them three days to finally force back into a semblance of order.  The sack of Asbravn was a coup that would be told around the fires of the clans for many years, and the victors had known it.  But finally the survivors were gathered up and force-marched back into the mountains, slowed now by loot and slaves.  The trolls had been unleashed to cause further havoc in the Vale, and the archer fully supported that decision; now that the raid was over, the unpredictable brutes were more trouble than they were worth.  They still had two hill giants for muscle, the stupid thugs easily manipulated by the canny shamans even without magical compulsion, and nearly three full companies of fifty warriors each, even leaving aside the shamans and their hangers-on in the tally.  

And four strings of fifty slaves each, the source of his current troubles.  It seemed his entire days since Asbravn had been taken up in driving the slaves to move faster, to keep up with the column.  The humans were broken, numb with fear and shock, and he suspected that a goodly number would not survive the journey through the mountains.  He had a good idea where they were headed; the other evening he’d inadvertently overheard a pair of shamans discussing their course.  He knew a little of their immediate destination.  Kolova Gorge stabbed like a knife into the Sunset Mountains, with a difficult trail navigating its twists and turns until it gave way to a treacherous route up into a tight but workable pass through the mountains to the far side.  Its existence wasn’t exactly common knowledge, partly due to the fact that a considerable red dragon had made its lair in the canyon for several decades, making travel through the pass a risky prospect indeed.  Now that the beast was gone, the Gorge offered a route of escape to less tumultuous lands.  

The archer nearly laughed to himself in a grim humor.  Normally, the prospect of crossing the mountains, which would take them into territories nominally part of Cormyr, would be troubling.  But fortune played strange tricks on both individuals and nations, and shortly the western side of the mountains was going to get uncomfortably active, while the once-great nation of Cormyr was barely able to maintain order in its core, let alone on the frontier marches.  

His mood quickly changed as he caught sight of one of the shamans moving swiftly back down the trail in his direction.  He quickly realized that the priest wasn’t just moving in his direction; rather, he was moving right for him.  The archer quickly made the proper gestures of deference, finally lifting his head to meet the flat stare from the shaman.  

“What can I do for you, exalted one?” the archer asked. 

The hobgoblin—a scarred old veteran, with eyes that burned like coals—looked over the captives with an air of utter contempt.  “Two strings of slaves will be detached and taken south, back to the hidden valley.  Select twenty warriors as an escort.  Pak’norak will be in command, and you will depart at once.”

The archer betrayed his surprise.  “Back to the valley?  But I thought that the whole point of this march was to draw pursuit away from there.”

The cleric fixed him with a hard look, and the archer realized that he’d betrayed too much with his words.  But it was too late to back down, so he met the shaman’s stare squarely.  Finally, the priest replied, “It is enough that you do what you are told.  Situations change, and we have access to information that you warriors do not have.”

The archer nodded, realizing that he’d been given an out.  “Then I obey instantly, exalted one,” he said, slapping his fist to his chest in salute, while he dipped his head in a quick bow.  The priest was already heading back up the line, ignoring the prisoners who huddled away from him as much as the line allowed.  

Keeping the curse that came to his lips within his thoughts, he turned and started issuing orders to the nearest warriors.  Their compliance was grudging, but they’d seen him speaking with the shaman, and only a fool would cross them.   

Within a few minutes, twenty hobgoblin warriors and a hundred human captives broke off from the main column, charting a course back to the south through the rough hills.  The main column continued to the northeast, where the Sunset Mountains loomed up like great sentinels before them.


----------



## Maldur

All these lifes just to get Delem into Faerun. your one evil dude.

Thx for te story LB!


----------



## Horacio

Maldur said:
			
		

> *All these lifes just to get Delem into Faerun. your one evil dude.
> 
> Thx for te story LB! *




yup, he is, an evil writer...

MORE! I want MORE!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 35

The army of the Zhentarim made an impressive spectacle as it wound its way through the Far Hills like an armored serpent.  The men and women who bore arms for the Black Network were disciplined and skilled, and they bore the best equipment that its coffers and its craftsmen could provide.  They marched through cold sunshine and driving rain with equal indifference, or at least appeared to, and the fortified camps that they created each night when the column stopped were always orderly and efficient.  Hard-eyed officers were quick to pounce on a soldier with a rusted buckle or a dragging step, and any grumbles that might have been heard were kept carefully confined to the insides of camp tents.  

The bulk of the column consisted of light foot, clad in shirts of scale mail with large shields and heavy spears that formed a wall of shafts above as they marched.  They numbered over three hundred, and represented the main strength of Darkhold, men who had been drilled by the Pereghost into a mobile, effective fighting force.  They were accompanied by a good hundred auxiliaries, men and women of mixed background and quality, armed with a variety of weapons that included bows of varying size, stout flat-bladed swords, axes and maces and just about anything else that could be used to wreck havoc upon another living being.  

The foot soldiers were the arms and legs of this fighting force, but its brain, the intellect that guided their use, rode at the head of the column.  There twenty bulky figures clad in plate rode horses equally massive, with wicked-headed flails at their saddles and long-bladed swords slung across their backs.  And in the midst of those impressive warriors, surrounded by them like an aura, rode the fell cleric Pelara Dolorim, a rising star within the Zhentarim, clad in full plate, flanked by two similarly garbed underpriests of Bane.  The three wore faces that seemed the same bleak mask of forbidding, and even the most grizzled campaigner among the regular troops was quick to lower their eyes when a stray glance from those three fell over them.  

The column trudged on southward, following a track blazed by the army’s scouts.  For a long tenday they had already been on the march, forcing their way through incredibly difficult terrain on short rations, making a long detour around the city of Hluthvar to avoid detection.  Although few of the veterans, at least, were under any illusion that a force this large could avoid notice as they made their way further south.  That thought, at least, added some speed to their tired steps.  That and the looks fired by the clerics whenever the column did not move quite to their satisfaction.  

A shadow briefly fell over the column.  Pelara looked up, frowning at the dark shape that wheeled through the sky over them, twisting into a sharply banking turn before coming to land on a hill up ahead to their left.  

“Lead the column onward, Celenth,” she said to one of her underlings.  “Melgrane, come with me.”  Without waiting for acknowledgement she spurred her mount ahead.  The cavalry ahead barely had time to get out of her way before her mount cantered up the trail and then up a steep rise toward the summit where the skyrider scout was already dismounting from his saddle.  

The skyrider bowed deeply and saluted her as she approached.  Her horse shied somewhat as the hippogriff shifted, but she controlled it with an effort.  At least it wasn’t Gratz himself come to report; the skymage’s griffon was well trained, but no horse would willingly approach within fifty yards of the creature.  Gratz himself bore something of his mount’s feral air himself; while his airs did not impress Pelara, her need of the wizard’s skills required that she at least remain civil in the face of the man’s insufferable attitude of smug superiority.  

The scout had remained frozen in his bow, holding the reins of his mount in one hand while keeping the other pressed up against his chest.  “Report,” Pelara said. 

“The enemy force has shifted slightly again, Great Lady, moving now almost directly northeast.  Their numbers seem to have depleted slightly as well, with about half the slaves and a small number of warriors missing since yesterday.  We have not yet detected what happened to this portion of the force, since your directive that our scouts remain unseen.”

Pelara nodded, though her mouth tightened at the scout’s attempt to shift blame for their failure to her.  In truth, she cared little for the fate of the slaves—perhaps they had killed and eaten them, she thought—but the disposition of even a small number of warriors could be quite significant.  The scout’s comment was a good reminder, however, that the wizard’s power was limited—while he could cloak a skyrider and his mount in magical invisibility, the effect only lasted a short while. 

Perhaps unsettled by her silence, the scout went on unbidden.  “Lord Gratz has sent two riders on broad sweeps to the south and east, Great Lady, to verify that no other threats lurk along our route.  They have strict orders to avoid detection, and will report back by the end of tomorrow’s march.”

Pelara waved a hand dismissively.  “Is your estimation still that the enemy is heading for Kolova Gorge?”  

“Yes, Great Lady,” the scout replied.  

The priestess shifted her gaze to look over the column that was now passing her vantage.  They were still not moving as quickly as she would have liked, but they would get the job done, would complete this mission that would win her further attention from the leaders of the Network.  Fzoul himself watched the west, monitoring the fate of whoever these fools were who would despoil the name of the Zhentarim.  

“Tell Gratz that I will have him attend me in my tent in council this evening,” she told the scout.  “It is time to make plans.”

The scout nodded, but he hesitated, and Pelara immediately recognized it.  “What more?” she said.  

“Lord Gratz—he would have me repeat his earlier suggestion, Great Lady.  From studying the column, he believes that—” 

“Tell Gratz that I have made my decision,” Pelara cut him off, regretting the anger that cut into her tone.  She would not tolerate such open dissention—sending an underling to question her orders!  Tonight, he would have to be taught a lesson in the rules of hierarchy and command.  

She reined in her mount carefully, to avoid spooking it further as the scout hurriedly bowed again and leapt into his saddle.  With a furious beating of its wings, the hippogriff leapt down the hill and lifted into the sky.  Within a few minutes it had vanished among the hills to the south.  

She spared a glance for her companion.  Melgrane was older than she, weaker in her power of Bane, but grim and ruthless in her own way.  A garish scar ruined what was already a plain face, the effect accentuated by the green and blue pigments she wore.  

Melgrane met her gaze with a face like stone.  She would throw herself into a battle with a thousand orc battleragers at a command from Pelara, and would expect like obedience from one under her command.  The clergy of Bane ran a tight ship, as the saying went, a quality that set them apart from the chaotic rabble that followed rivals like Cyric or Talos.  

“Gratz’s lust for glory clouds his judgment,” she told Melgrane.  “He would assault the enemy force with just himself, we three, and the handful of soldiers that the flying mounts could bring.”  He’d first made the proposal shortly after they’d detected the enemy force, even before they’d clearly identified the group’s numbers and composition.  

“Only a fool underestimates her enemy,” the elder cleric said, her voice as cold as her expression.

Pelara nodded and kicked her mount ahead, returning down the hill back toward the head of the column.  Gratz had power, but she did not share his optimistic evaluation of the enemy.  These hobgoblins had power of their own, power beyond the physical might of the two hill giants in their company.  While she did not fully credit the tales of summoned demons that her scouts had brought her, she did not dismiss the humanoid shamans as “untrained adepts” the way that Gratz did.  She anticipated a brutal battle ahead. 

Her face tightened.  That would not stop them from completing her mission.  Even lagging as they were, they would reach Kolova Gorge a full day before the hobgoblins.  

An example would be made that would remind the West of the power of the Zhentarim.


----------



## Maldur

Evil fights Evil,    Nice!!


btw did the skymage ride a hippogrif or an griphon?

thx for the story LB!


----------



## djrdjmsqrd

*Thanks!*

Hey LB,

the lurker guy is back...thank you for the continuing (sp?) of the story hour.  Could we have the stats for the 'archer'? in rg?

djordje


----------



## Lazybones

Maldur: the Zhents have three "skyriders," warrior scouts riding hippogriffs.  The skymage (Gratz) rides a griffon, and is based on the prestige class in _Lords of Darkness_.  

Djordje: thanks, glad to see you back!  I haven't statted out the archer yet, but I'll put something together and put him up in the Rogues' Gallery next week.  As you might expect he's a bow specialist (fighter/ranger, I'm currently leaning, since hobs have fighter as a favored class), and a bit smarter than the average hobgoblin.  

Of course, as you might imagine, he's got some hard feelings toward a certain mixed-blood ne'er-do-well of our acquaintance...

The story goes on, next week!


----------



## Broccli_Head

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *
> Djordje: thanks, glad to see you back!  I haven't statted out the archer yet, but I'll put something together and put him up in the Rogues' Gallery next week.  As you might expect he's a bow specialist (fighter/ranger, I'm currently leaning, since hobs have fighter as a favored class), and a bit smarter than the average hobgoblin.
> 
> *




I would recommened the Peerless Archer prestige class from the Silver Marches Book as well.


----------



## Dungannon

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Of course, as you might imagine, he's got some hard feelings toward a certain mixed-blood ne'er-do-well of our acquaintance...*



You think if Benzan offered him a new puppy as a peace offering he'd be forgiven?


----------



## Lazybones

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> *
> I would recommened the Peerless Archer prestige class from the Silver Marches Book as well. *




A cool class, but it would require him to be at least 8th level, and I'm not sure I'm willing to make him that powerful (since he'd be incredibly stronger than even most of the shamans, who are only 4-6th level adepts).  



> _Originally posted by Dungannon_
> *
> You think if Benzan offered him a new puppy as a peace offering he'd be forgiven?*




Only if it was a particularly delicious puppy.  

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 36

The companions arrived at the Ilgarten estate to find themselves in the midst of a tumult.  Artemos Ilgarten was not present, still engaged at the Tower of Justice where the Guild Council sat in ongoing meetings to debate the fate of the city.  But they were able to learn a fair amount just talking to the staff at the manor house.

The first thing on everyone’s tongue, of course, was the destruction of Asbravn.  Refugees continued to stream into the city, although most now were from the outlying farms and other communities of the Sunset Vale rather than from the ruined town itself.  It was difficult to get a clear idea of what was responsible, since rumor wove a thousand different tales, but what they did hear was not good.  There was a lot of fear, and a lot of uncertainty.  The Council had taken the decisive action of naming General Goran to the position of First Consul, a move that gave him more or less complete authority to lead the city’s military forces into war.  

Apparently Goran had not been one to hesitate when it came time for action.  The Council had made their decision on the afternoon of the day before yesterday, and the following morning—even as the companions had learned of the disaster at Asbravn from Cylyria—he’d led a force of cavalry out of the city on the north road, riding hard for Asbravn.  

The five of them agreed that it would be foolish to rush off without more information, and so decided to split up.  Cal and Dana headed off to the Tower of Justice, to meet with Dana’s father and if possible consult with the leaders of the Council on what they had discovered in the Reaching Woods.  Dana would also visit the Moontower and report their information there as well.  Benzan and Lok were also heading into the city, to restore their depleted stores and acquire new equipment to replace that lost or damaged in their encounters in the Woods.  Lariel departed on his own errand, his manner asking that they not press him for details.  His friends—and they were that, now, after the shared troubles they had faced together—understood, respecting his privacy and that of the Harpers.  He promised to rejoin them that evening, and they chose a familiar inn in the core of the city as their meeting place. 

The day passed quickly, and was deceptively pleasant although dark clouds drew nearer to the north and west as the afternoon deepened into evening.  The anxiety within the city was palpable, however, almost like a living thing that grew on the apprehensions of its citizens.  The city was crowded with strangers, many worn and battered and bearing the vacant looks of people who had lost everything.  Still, the folk of Iriaebor moved with a purpose, and the faces of grim despair were countered by other expressions of hard determination in the face of adversity.  

As night fell over the city, a warm glow lit the common room of the popular inn entitled “The Laughing Maiden.”  There was little laughter here this night, only gloomy faces and tired expressions.  The common room was packed with people, and the private booths along the back wall were all occupied.  One such booth contained four persons who spoke in low voices, though there was little chance of being overheard against the backdrop of the general din that surrounded them.  

“Where is Lariel?  He said he would be here,” Dana said.

“He will come,” Cal replied.  He turned toward Lok and Benzan.  “Did you two learn anything of note today?”

“Just the same rumors and guesses,” Benzan said.  “We heard a lot about a Zhent army that supposed to be heading south from Darkhold, to bolster the raiders that sacked Asbravn.”

Cal grimaced.  “That’s a rumor the Council would rather have not taken hold among the general population.  But it is true—they learned of through magical means just before Goran’s promotion.”

Benzan nodded.  “The consensus in the street is that Goran is leading his army against the Zhents, although there’s a lot of talk about summoned demons and other things too weird even for us to believe.”

“It would seem that the Zhentarim are directly involved in the troubles plaguing the West, or at least wish to take advantage of them,” Lok added.  “I spoke to several people who said that the raiders that attacked Asbravn wore the Black Hand.  There are a number of people now in the city who witnessed the attack and fled the carnage.  Perhaps a thousand people escaped; it is difficult to be certain.”

Cal nodded.  “That fits with what we learned.”

“Prices have skyrocketed, but we managed to lay hands on some new equipment, and supplies for your magical backpack,” Benzan said.  He indicated a pair of bulging sacks that lay beside his feet next to their booth.  “I assume we’ll be leaving in a hurry tomorrow?”

Cal nodded, and Dana took up the report.  “I spoke to my father and two other members of the Council, as well as several clerics of Selûne and Chauntea.  Goran had evidently been making preparations even before the Council acted to grant him emergency powers."

“What kind of force was he able to muster?” Benzan asked.  “And do we know anything more about what we’re up against?”

Cal stood in his seat and took a tightly rolled parchment from his pouch.  Spreading it across the table, he revealed a map of the Sunset Vale, with the Sunset Mountains running along one edge and the Reaching Woods covering the other, with Iriaebor at the bottom and Darkhold inked in within the mountains at the top.  The gnome stabbed his finger at a point deep within the Far Hills, southeast of the town of Hluthvar.  

“As of a few days ago, the Zhent army was somewhere around here,” he said.  “They have about five hundred men, mostly foot, and a skymage.”  At Lok and Benzan’s confused looks, he added, “Skymages are potent wizards that ride trained flying mounts, like hippogriffs or griffons—or even younger dragons, in a few cases.”

“Oh, that’s just great,” Benzan drawled.  “Haven’t we had enough dragons already?”

Cal ignored him, and continued his report, drawing his finger down to where Iriaebor sat at the bottom of the map.  “Goran’s advance force is entirely mounted, and from what we’ve heard of the man it’s likely he’ll push them hard.  He has upwards of three hundred City Guard, about half of which are mercenaries that have been recently hired with the blessing of the Council.  The core of the Guard is a company of fifty heavy cavalry, hand-picked by Goran, most of whom came into city service along with the general—then a captain—several years ago.  From all reports they’re good, with experience against the organized bandit gangs and humanoid tribes that haunt the western roads, but we know that the Zhents are good, too.”

“In addition to the guardsmen, Goran’s picking up mounted militia from the villages as he goes north, and from the best information I was able to muster he should have about five hundred of them by the time he reaches the foothills.  They’re of mixed quality, of course, and with little if any training, but most should have at least some skill with a bow or a hunting spear.  He also has with him a half-dozen clerics from the city’s churches, priests of Selûne, Chauntea, and Eldath.” 

“The current high priest of the Moontower, Avril Lessalon, is one of those,” Dana pointed out, “and I assume that the others possess considerable power between them.”

“They’ll need it, if even half of what we heard about that summoned demon turns out to be true,” Benzan noted.

Cal slid his finger along the bottom of the map from Iriaebor to Easting.  “Goran will rendezvous with a smaller column coming up from Easting,” he said, drawing his finger up along a route that ran around the southern edge of the Far Hills to Asbravn.  “Fifty dwarves and a column of remounts provided by that city’s famous horse traders.  Once reinforced, Goran will probably head north along the edge of the foothills until he can engage the Zhent army on favorable terms.  Or at least that’s the best guess; in campaigns against bandit raiders in past years he earned a reputation for being unpredictable.”

“What about the raiders that attacked Asbravn?” Lok asked.  

“According to the best information held by the Council, they disappeared back into the Far Hills, heading north according to the last reports.  They could be moving to join the Zhent army coming down from Darkhold.”

“So we’re going to join Goran’s army then?” Lok asked.

Cal and Dana shared a look.  “That seems like the best bet,” Cal said.  “There’s another column riding north tomorrow with reinforcements, but they’ll be accompanying supply wagons and likely won’t be able to move very fast.  Dana and I agree that we’ll cover a lot more ground on our own, and the Council has agreed to provide us with mounts and spares to speed our way.”

“Goran might want to move fast, but with that many men, and their horses, he’ll have to pause for forage,” Benzan pointed out.  “And the skies have been promising more bad weather for the coming tenday.”

“The army won’t have a supply problem, at least not immediately,” Dana explained.  “One of the items that the Council had access to was a _portable hole,_ which Goran took with him when he departed, along with a cache of magical potions and a goodly bundle of enchanted arrows.”

Benzan raised an eyebrow.  “I don’t suppose the Council could be persuaded to equip us in like manner?”

“Sorry.” 

“Ah, well, I guess we’ll have to make do then, like we always do.”  He looked up as a familiar figure entered the inn, looking around briefly before walking in the direction of their booth.

“Greetings, Lariel,” Cal said.

The elf still looked rather worn, although he’d changed into a new tunic and his cloak had been cleaned of the clinging mud and toxic stink that had lingered from their battles with the dracolich and its minions.  His eyes were alert and determined, though.  

“Greetings.  I trust your deliberations with the Council were fruitful?”

“Indeed,” Cal said.  “We will be riding north with the dawn tomorrow, to join the army that is riding against the Zhentarim.  Will you be able to join us for another mission?”

“I will,” Lariel said.  Lok made a space for him in the booth, and the elf gratefully sat down.  “I have passed on the details of what we learned, and made arrangements for Gorath’s remains to be transported to Twilight Hall.  Word has spread of the black clouds gathering over the Sunset Vale.  Reinforcements are on their way to Iriaebor from the western cities, but the nearest of those will not arrive for at least three more days, and we cannot delay further.”

“Agreed.”    

“Well, if we’re going to spend the next tenday slogging through mud and rain, the least we can do is stuff ourselves with hot food and cold beer tonight,” Benzan said.  He tossed a fat pouch on the table that clinked as it landed.  “Tonight, the Cult of the Dragon treats.”


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 37

Two days later found the companions riding north along the Vale Road in a persistent downpour that had already churned the route into a sea of clinging mud.  While they possessed magic to protect themselves against the effects of the cold and wet, they could not ease the discomfort of traveling in such conditions.  The army ahead had to be suffering at least as much difficulty, but despite pushing themselves and their mounts, as well as the spares provided by the Guild Council, they had not yet caught up with the General and his men.  Of course, with a two-day lead, and Goran pushing his soldiers hard, they might not catch him before Asbravn, if then.  The town was only about sixty miles distant from Iriaebor; a pleasant two-day ride in good weather, but in conditions like this is may as well have been three hundred miles away for all the distance they seemed able to cover. 

At least there was shelter, such as it was, along the way.  They were still close enough to the city for villages and farmsteads to dot the well-traveled road, although the farm they had stopped at last night had been recently abandoned by its owners in the face of the threat from the mountains.  That obstacle loomed ever larger as they made progress along the road, until it formed a great gray mass that dominated the horizon.   

There was nothing to be done but to ride on.  Back in Iriaebor, Benzan had suggested _teleporting_ ahead to Asbravn, where they could wait for Goran’s arrival, but as none of them had traveled there before, the best they could get for Dana was a second-hand description—not enough to risk magical transportation unless they were truly desperate.  

They were riding down a desolate stretch of road, bordered by irregular copses of trees to their left and softly rolling hills to their right, when Cal suddenly felt a tingle as something light brushed against his perceptions.  

_“Greetings, Balander Calloran...”_ came a whisper at the edges of his mind.  

“Hold!” he said, loud enough for his companions to hear him over the sound of the rain.  They hesitated, reining in their mounts. 

“What is it?” Dana asked.  

“I think someone’s trying to contact us,” he said.  A moment later, the return of the voice confirmed his suspicions. 

_“Yes, it is I, Cylyria.  Please tell Lariel to remove his pin for a moment, so that I may include him in the conversation.  It is... harder... to contact one with whom I am not closely familiar...”_

Cal passed on the Harper’s instructions, and soon they could all hear her whispered voice, traveling across the long miles between Twilight Hall in Berdusk and their current location.  

_“Hello once again, adventurers, and my old friend.”_

“What news, Cylyria?” Lariel asked.

_“Help is on the way, Lariel—I have personally petitioned the Lords’ Alliance on behalf of the citizens of Sunset Vale, and even as we speak the armies of the West prepare to march.”_

“By the time they get here, it’s likely the war will already be over, one way or another,” Benzan said.

_“Your view is cynical, Benzan, but I cannot disagree with the assessment.  Which makes your mission that much more critical.”_

“We seek to join with the army commanded by General Goran of Iriaebor,” Cal said.  “We will help, I’m sure, but we are just a few of many who will fight.”

_“Do not be quick to minimize your role,”_ came the voice.  _“But I fear that your test will lie in a different direction than on the battlefield you seek.”_

“What do you mean?” the gnome asked.

_“As I said, at Twilight Hall we have been using our powers—myself, some of the other Harpers, and the servants of Deneir—in an effort to penetrate the veil of secrecy that our foes have draped around them.  They are skilled, and have power of their own to foil us, but what little we have learned we have forwarded to those servants of Good that accompany the army riding north.  But we have also detected something else, a task which demands help that the army cannot provide.”

“A column has detached from the main body of raiders that flees the destruction of Asbravn.  They primarily count among their number almost a hundred slaves, captives taken from the sack of the city, along with an escort of hobgoblin warriors.  They are heading south, not north with the others, straight into the fastness of the mountains.”_

“South?  But that takes them closer to us.  Where are they headed?” Lariel asked.

_“The same question occurred to us,”_ Cylyria replied.  _“When we attempted to use our magic to seek an answer, though, we were foiled.  There is an evil in those mountains, a black presence that hangs like a bubble of pestilence within our perceptions.  The priest Perambrath, lost in a divination-trance, collapsed as if hit with a seizure, and it was hours before we could revive him.  When he woke, he told us the little that I have now passed on to you.”_

The companions shared a long look over the lowered heads of their gathered steeds.  Rain continued to slough off of their cloaks, pattering on the saturated mud below.

“Well, I guess we’re the only ones who can do anything,” Cal finally said.  

“If we can find the head that directs these foul plots, better to strike at it directly,” Lariel added.

“Anything that’ll get us out of this rain,” Benzan said. 

Cylyria’s voice came to them once more, fading as the spell ended.  _“Good luck, adventurers...”_

“We’re going to have to find some way to travel faster,” Dana said.  “Even with clear skies, it would be a hard road up into the mountains, at least another tenday just to make it through the foothills.”

“We don’t have a tenday,” Cal said. 

“We’ve taken on demons and dragons and just about every other thing with claws and teeth in these Realms,” Benzan said.  “Surely you spellweavers can figure out a way to magic us up there...”

“A moment,” Cal said.  “I’m thinking...  Teleportation won’t do, we’ve already explored that... Dana, I don’t suppose your spell of flight...”

She shook her head.  “I have pushed the duration to an hour and a half, at best.  And I could carry one of you, maybe, but any more...”

“If you prayed for only that spell, could you use it more?”

“No, I’m sorry.  Some of my spells—the flight, the teleport, a few others—they are a special dispensation from the goddess, unlike the other spells that I am granted.  I can only use them once per day, no more.”

But there were other options.  Cal considered Lok; the genasi was the logical choice for what he had in mind, given the weight of his armor and weapons, but he recalled that the doughty fighter had a fear of heights.  He’d proven that he could conquer that fear, Cal thought, thinking back to a dark shaft in a distant place far to the north, but the gnome knew that the spell he had in mind was difficult and disorienting enough for the user without such concerns to hinder it.  

So his gaze shifted to Benzan.  The tiefling took a step back, recognizing the considering look in his friend’s eyes, and his hand came up as if to hold the diminutive gnome at bay.

“Now, wait a minute, let’s not be hasty here...”


----------



## Broccli_Head

Yah! Turn Benzan into some nasty flying beastie!


----------



## Maldur

The boards died when I tried to reply yesterday so:

Thx LB. They are not really cliffhangers, but I still wanna know more!!!


----------



## Horacio

I want MORE!


----------



## Black Bard

Great Story, Lazy!!!

I really like the way Cal deals with Benzan... 

It seems that our heroes detour from the big fight, too bad... But something tells me that a black sun will rise on this battle... 
Poor Goran...


----------



## Lazybones

Maldur said:
			
		

> *They are not really cliffhangers, but I still wanna know more!!! *




Heh heh... I was noting where the future posts for the rest of Book Seven would fall, and I think I can promise several Friday cliffhangers in a row that will be *quite* satisfying...

And hopefully the events between won't be dull either, as we move toward the culmination of several confrontations that have been brewing for some time.

But first, a lighter update, before we get back into the dark and serious stuff: 

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 38


Cal felt a surge of exhilaration as the rolling landscape passed quickly beneath him.  As high up as they were, the ground was just an undulating expanse of hills and ridges, the colors muted in the gray of the fading afternoon.  At least the rain had eased to a drizzle, although fat droplets still drove at his face, forcing him to close his eyes, and wind tore at his cloak, threatening to rip it from his body.  

Dana, holding him by an arm wrapped around his body, helped shield him from the worst of it.  At first he’d clung to her tightly, as the sight of the ground falling away rapidly had been disconcerting even with the reassurance offered by his _feather fall_ spell.  Now, though, even with the poor weather, he was amazed at the sensation of flying.  

This was one spell he would have to add to his repertoire.  

He glanced back over his shoulder, and caught sight of Benzan and the others.  Benzan was clearly having to exert some effort, with both Lok and Lariel perched on his back, even though they’d tried to place as much of their miscellaneous gear as would fit within the extradimensional pockets of Cal’s magical backpack before he’d implemented his plan.  

He had to admit, there was a certain graceful beauty in the tiefling’s new form, granted by the power of Cal’s _polymorph_ spell.  He’d gotten the idea from Dana, who was quite familiar with that magical horse known as the _pegasus_ through her use of her divine summoning spells.  Admittedly, it had taken a while for Benzan to get used to flying, but now he seemed to have the knack of it down. 

The pegasus/tiefling flapped its wings in powerful strokes that carried it and its passengers over the rolling hills.  Lariel seemed to be enjoying the ride, laughing and waving at Cal as he saw the gnome looking back, but Lok, holding on behind the slender elf, appeared to have his eyes closed, his body rigid.  Cal, feeling a slight tinge of vertigo as he glanced down at the hills below, understood. 

He’d suggested that they fly above the clouds, to leave the rain below them, but Dana had vetoed that idea.  Not only did it get colder the higher one went, she explained, at a certain distance it became difficult to breathe, and furthermore they would have to be careful of the duration of her spell, lest it fail without leaving sufficient time for them to descend to the ground.  Cal knew his _feather fall_ would avail them in such a circumstance, but he deferred to her experience in the matter.  

So they pressed onward flying just a few hundred feet above the ground, bypassing terrain that would have been very difficult had they remained bound to the earth.  Their only regret was that they’d had to leave their mounts behind, but Lariel reminded them that frequent caravans of troops and supplies would be traveling the Vale Road in pursuit of General Goran’s force, and that the horses would be quickly found and put to use by their allies.  

Finally Dana gestured and started a rapid descent.  As far as Cal could tell they’d covered at least a dozen miles since they’d left the road, several times what they would have managed on horses, and they’d only been aloft a little more than an hour.  

Dana directed them toward a likely campsite, on a protruding ridge not easily accessible from below.  She landed smoothly on a stone outcropping, followed a few moments later by a clatter of rocks as Benzan bounced to a rather more awkward landing behind her.  

“I saw a sheltered spot over there,” Cal said, pointing toward a cluster of huge boulders that jutted out from the ridge.  “I doubt we’ll find anything to burn, but I have plenty of oil for my portable stove in my pack, so we’ll have hot tea, at least.”

Lok and Lariel started in that direction, but Benzan-the-pegasus interrupted with a snort and a not-so-subtle headbutt that knocked Cal forward a step.  

The gnome turned around.  “Um, well, you see, Benzan... I’ve been thinking over our course of action during the trip here, and I’m afraid you’ll need to keep that form for another day.  Dana’s spell doesn’t last long enough to carry us as far as we need to go, but tomorrow, I can _polymorph_ Lariel into a pegasus as well, and the two of you can carry us all the way up into the mountains, until we find those prisoners...”

Benzan neighed loudly, and reared, shaking his head.  

“Oh, I don’t think it’s all that bad,” the elf commented.  “I am looking forward to the experience, actually—flying as a passenger was a unique experience, and to have the powerful form of such a noble...”

Benzan interrupted again, neighing and slamming his hooves hard on the stone.  He drew back his equine lips to reveal his teeth in an angry grin. 

“Benzan,” Cal said.  “Honestly, I can transform you back now, but we’ll just have to use two spells tomorrow to get the job done, and it’ll mean one less _invisibility_, or _stoneskin_, if it comes to a confrontation.  And I don’t think those hobgoblins are just going to let those captives go.  Remember the slaves we freed back in the Wood of Sharp Teeth?”

The gnome and the pegasus fixed each other with a hard stare, neither flinching.  Finally, Dana came up, and wrapped her arms around the horse’s neck.  “Please, Benzan.  It’s just another day, and it’s not like you’re a monster—this form, it’s so beautiful...  Please, I promise, once this is over, I’ll make it worth it...”  The last was really just a whisper, not intended for anyone but his ears, but Cal, with his sharp gnomish senses, heard it.  

With a final desultory snort at the gnome, Benzan let himself be led over to the campsite, with Dana stroking his mane.

Cal shot a glance at Lok, who shrugged.  “Is it absolutely necessary that we change him back at all?”

The gnome smiled, and the two turned to join their companions in preparing their campsite.


----------



## Maldur

hahaha, Benzan should realize that horses and girls go together 
Thx LB!


----------



## Black Bard

> hahaha, Benzan should realize that horses and girls go together



Are you talking about "Handle Animal"??  

And, Lazy, Great update!!! As always...


----------



## Horacio

LOL!


----------



## Elemental

Maldur said:
			
		

> *hahaha, Benzan should realize that horses and girls go together
> Thx LB! *




You're thinking of unicorns there.


----------



## Lazybones

Readers: for those who still play Neverwinter Nights, I will be starting up a new mid-to-high level campaign around the beginning of February, called "Drums of War."  Visit www.neverwinterconnections.com for more information--I should have the game postings up in a few days, but for now, check out the Realm Announcements topic in the forums there for details.  I'm Lazybones there also.  I will be running two groups through this module, on Tuesday nights and Sunday mornings (Pacific Standard Time), and at the moment there are a few slots still available in both games. 

And now for your regularly scheduled update...

* * * * * 


Book VII, Part 39

The crack of a whip broke the tired monotony of the day, the sound punctuated an instant later by a sharp cry of pain that hung in the wind before fading.  The hobgoblin archer shifted from his position at the head of the line, and turned to look back over the column that stretched out behind him.  He instantly spotted the altercation, the line of prisoners halted with one of their number lying prone along the side of the trail, holding his arms up in a desperate effort to hold off the hobgoblin warrior that was hurling shouted invective upon him, his whip raised threateningly in his hand.  

Wearily the archer turned and trotted back down the line.  They had set a grueling pace, and if he was tired, the slaves had to be near the point of breaking.  But Pak’norak would not let up, even when it meant that slaves had to be cut from the line and dumped into a ditch to twitch out the last moments of their lives.  

A scan of the prisoners as he made his way down the line confirmed his suspicions.  They had taken advantage of the pause to slump to the ground, too weary even to beg for food or water.  Getting them back up would likely take the whip.  Or perhaps not, he thought, as he saw Pak’norak approaching from the opposite direction.  

The archer held the command he’d been about to issue as the apprentice adept fixed him, the guard with the whip, and the slave with the same desultory stare.  The archer was familiar enough with the ways of the priests to know that the sinister tightening of his mouth meant death for the hapless slave, but before the command came, his gaze happened to travel upward, to a flicker of motion in the sky back downslope in the direction from which they’d come.  A pair of birds, flying closer...

No, not birds.

“Alarm!” he shouted, stringing his bow with a reflexive motion and drawing a long arrow from the quiver at his belt.  “Enemies from above!”

The hobgoblins stirred into action even as the prisoners cowered in the muddy dirt, covering themselves with their arms and the tattered remains of their clothing as if that could hide them from notice.    

Two winged horses, bearing multiple humanoid creatures on their backs, knifed down from the gray skies to the attack.  The shamans had given the archer the power to choose his companions for this mission, and while none of the warriors he’d selected could be considered his friends, they were all competent and all well-armed.  Arrows sped upward into the sky to greet the intruders, including his own, but at this range most flew harmlessly past their targets.  The archer thought he’d scored a hit on the first one, but he was already loading a second arrow to his bow, and looking around to see that his forces were properly positioned to repel the attack.  There was good cover here, along the trail, but the fact that their foes were flying meant that they could attack wherever they chose.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the adept was casting a spell, and a moment later he vanished from sight.  

The archer snorted.  The shaman might be using his invisibility to gain position on the enemy, but he doubted it.  

The first flying horse jerked suddenly as an arrow struck it in the breast.  One of its riders—a human woman, the archer’s sharp eyes noted—slipped and tumbled from its back, falling like a stone toward the ground several hundred feet below.  The archer smiled grimly, while a few of the warriors shouted in triumph—one fewer foe to deal with—when suddenly she twisted in the air and arced around into a controlled dive, a longspear held in her hands like a lance.  

“Spellcaster!” the archer shouted, just in case any of his troops had missed the obvious.  A few arrows were already headed her way, but she managed to avoid them all easily.  

The winged horse that had dropped the woman flew overhead, and the archer could see another rider, a gnome or halfling by his size, on its back.  Suddenly a thick net of magical webs sprung up along a goodly length of the trail, anchored by the massive stones to either side, trapping warrior and slave alike in their confines.  Cursing, even though he had not been caught in the spell, the archer darted clear of the trail and fired an arrow in the direction of the second spellcaster.  His shot appeared to be true, but at the last minute it glanced aside as if it struck some sort of invisible armor.  

Spellcasters.  Having traveled more than many of his kin, the archer knew all too well that despite the apparently favorable odds, the situation was looking increasingly grim for his company.  

Still the hobgoblins fought back, or at least most of them did.  One fool near the head of the column actually started killing prisoners, hacking down two slaves that were only trying to get away, their halters keeping them from escaping.  The second flying horse dove like a dart in that direction, a stout, heavily armored figure riding on its back.  The horse caromed into the warrior, its momentum driving its hoof into the hobgoblin’s back with a audible crack.  The warrior fell into a twitching heap, while the armored fighter fell free and landed hard in a clatter of metal.  Two warriors were there in an instant with flashing swords, but the enemy was up with a speed that surprised the archer, and met their charge with a powerful swing of his axe.  

The hobgoblins not trapped either moved toward the head of the column to join the battle there, or continued their fire at the woman or the still-flying horse and its wizardly rider.  The archer scored another hit on said mount, an easier target than its protected passenger.  The beast’s cry of pain was rewarding, but his next shot, only a few moments later, bounced off of the creature’s hide.  Apparently the magic-user had belatedly decided to protect his mount as well.  

The woman flew down into the ranks of the column’s rearguard, where half a dozen warriors gathered to meet her.  She seemed to shine with an inner light that filled her with an aura of power, and drove her spear with great force into the first defender.  The hobgoblin cried out and collapsed, electrical energy dancing around the wound in its chest.  The other warriors could not reach her, hovering above them at the full length of her weapon, but they fired their bows at her point blank, snarling challenges.  Somehow she was able to dodge even those shots despite the short distance, although two dug angry red gashes along her sides as they narrowly edged past.  She was already stabbing again as they reached for more arrows, and wounded a second warrior with a thrust that glanced off its helmet, opening a bloody gash along the side of its head.   

The archer leapt back as the orbiting mage pointed a wand in his direction and fired a glob that splattered onto the stones where he’d been standing.  He didn’t need to hear the sizzling hiss as it struck to know that he didn’t want to get hit by one of those missiles.  He fired another arrow, barely waiting to see that the shot was, like the one before, ineffective, before turning again and dashing deeper into the rocks.  He already knew that the battle was lost.  The armored dwarf had already slain the first two warriors to face him, and now met a charge from another three without hesitation, crushing the breastplate of the first and cleaving deep into his chest with a powerful overhead strike.  The flying horse, too, had joined in the action, dropping another warrior with a pair of crushing slams from its hooves.  The archer was not a coward, but he was not going to seek out his death when there was a more important mission at hand.  The main column needed to be alerted of the fate of this group, and the presence of these dangerous enemies in the mountains.  

If they even yet lived.  

The archer nimbly leapt down into a narrow defile, darting in and around a screen of heavy boulders as he left the sounds of battle behind him.  Finally he emerged from cover at the base of an uneven slope, his boots finding sure purchase on the damp and rocky ground as he ran quickly to the north.  

He sensed the shadow that fell over him a moment before the attack came.  Instinct saved him as he threw himself aside, just in time to avoid the assault of the flying horse as it slammed into the ground where he’d been running a moment before.  The magic-user—a gnome, he now saw—was still mounted on its back, and its wand came up toward his face as the mount turned to face him.  

“Surrender,” the gnome said in the common tongue.  The archer knew that speech, but even if he had not, there was no mistaking the grim intent in his features.  The horse, too, stamped angrily, looking eager to attack.  

The archer nodded, and tossed down his bow.


----------



## Horacio

Another great update!


----------



## Maldur

Yeah, thx LB!


----------



## Broccli_Head

Great skirmish! 

I liked the prose from the bad guy's point of view....


----------



## Dungannon

I wonder how long it will take the Archer to figure out who has captured him.  And, more interestingly, if the heroes will figure out who the Archer is.


----------



## Lazybones

Dungannon said:
			
		

> *I wonder how long it will take the Archer to figure out who has captured him.  And, more interestingly, if the heroes will figure out who the Archer is. *




Well, remember, the Archer really only got a good look at one of them, and while that particular individiual is with the group right now, he's not really... himself. 

But when Cal _dispels_ the polymorph...

Time for a Friday cliffhanger:

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 40

In the darkness, Guthan paced impatiently.  Inside, his emotions were a tangled knot of anxiety and anger with a good portion of fear added in for flavor.  

He heard the footsteps even before he saw the light of the torch approaching.  He knew that they did not need the light, but he supposed he could understand the desire to avoid traveling these halls in the dark.  Even if their presence here had not been expressly forbidden before, the very nature of this place could send a chill down the spine of the most stalwart warrior.  

The torch became visible through the arch, its radiance outlining the forms of a dozen hobgoblins.  All that was left of the force that had traveled down into the valley half a tenday past, they were a sorry lot to Guthan’s eyes, old veterans too aged to travel far or untested younglings who had yet to earn a kill in battle.  Hobgoblins detested weakness, and it was clear that the only reason these examples were left as the guardians of the valley was because they would not be missed.  

They started as he materialized out of the darkness.  Of course, the light of the torch would interfere with their darkvision.  Had he possessed a looking-glass right then, he would have better understood their reaction.  His features were gaunt and hollow, and something burned in his eyes, a fire of madness that made the terrors of this place seem pale by comparison.  True to their nature, however, the hobgoblins stood their ground.  Their leader, an aged warrior missing several fingers on each hand, stepped forward. 

“We were summoned.”

Guthan coughed, but his stare did not waver.  “Yes.  I have need of you as witnesses for an important ritual.  You will not be harmed, but you must do exactly as I command.”

They nodded, and followed him deeper into the complex.  He knew that the hobgoblins had always viewed him with suspicion, even the shamans who served the same master.  But they had their orders, and they would follow them.  Guthan appreciated the situation.  Had they been orcs, he probably would have had to kill one or two to compel obedience. 

He led them to the Portal Chamber.  For a few moments the hobgoblins forgot his presence, overwhelmed by the wonders of the place, the strange black not-light, the stone archway.  But their gaze was drawn inevitably to the summoning circle set into the stone, where Guthan waited.  

“Stand where I tell you, but do not disturb the circle in any way,” he said, pointing each to a specific place around the ring.  Reluctantly, they took their positions, and finally he took his own place.  This time he was in the opposite of his usual position, standing with his back to the great stone portal.  

He had been drawn to this course by the inexorable press of time, against his will.  The shamans had failed to deliver on their promise to deliver the prisoners to him, and their leader failed to respond to his magical sendings.  He could not wait any longer.  G’hael had repeatedly emphasized the time window for this summoning, in such a manner that there was no possible way that he could forget the information.  Now he had no captives, no sacrifices for the ritual, but he had no choice but to proceed with what he had.  Or accept failure.  

No, he would not.  Even if he did not fear the consequences, and he did, he would not fail again, not deny a second master.  Already once-forsaken, he doubted that a third sponsor would shelter him now, not with two major powers seeking his very soul.  

He began the ritual.  Dark syllables erupted from his lips, drawing upon the inherent power present in this place and coalescing the flows of energy that linked this chamber with places beyond the physical realities of Abeir-Toril.  The ritual used the divine power of his usual summoning spell, but added... _more_, altering reality in ways that he could only dimly comprehend.  Some of the things he did he did not even realize that he had known until they were done, imparted to his subconscious through the fell talents of the succubus or her demonic master.  His mind screamed as he drove it down unfamiliar corridors through which no mortal being was meant to tread.  

But something was happening.  The hobgoblins stiffened in terror, unable to move or cry out as the magic caught them up in its weaving.  Guthan felt a thrill of exultation as his altered perceptions recognized the pulsating black threads that trailed from each of them into the center of the summoning circle, the distillation of pure life energy that was being leeched into the matrix of the ritual.  Those threads met at a point in space within the circle, a black sphere that pulsed with a regular beat.  Like the beating of his heart, Guthan realized absently.

The forsaken priest continued with the ritual, drawing more of the power, eager to see what would happen next.  The black sphere didn’t seem to do anything, although it was clear that the hobgoblins were growing weaker, and there was no distortion that he was used to seeing when he opened a gateway to the Lower Planes through his summoning spell.      

The next part of the ritual was something he was familiar with from earlier experience with demonic magic.  Drawing a small blade from his belt, he extended his arm and slashed his bicep, drawing a line of blood that fell in fat drops upon the ground—carefully shy of the border of the summoning circle.  

The wound was minor, but he lurched as a sudden disequilibrium swept over him.  He did not have time to wonder what was happening as the black sphere suddenly distended and flowed like a rushing wave over him, drawing the trailing tendrils of life energy after it.  As soon as it touched him, he realized what was happening.  

He’d been tricked.  The price was higher than he’d thought.  

His head snapped back and his mouth opened in a soundless scream as the energies he’d called tore through him, and a column of black night wove a line between the center of the summoning circle and the silent archway behind him.  The stream of energy splayed out over the strange stone wall within the arch, spilling into it like water poured out onto a pond.  The stone shifted and stirred like a thing alive, the lattice of red striations in the rock pulsing as if blood flowed through those veins.  

Guthan, caught by the web of his own mistaken choices, realized that his own death was imminent.  Unable to escape, he did the only thing he could do.  

He gave himself to the experience.  When his life fled his body, moments later, tears streamed down his face, his features twisted into a fixed rictus of an emotion that could not quite be identified. 

The black threads dissipated, leaving only the pulsating wall within the arch.  Suddenly a bulge appeared in the stone, writhing like a living thing, pressing reluctantly against the bonds that held it in place within the arch.  It heaved outward with a great effort, stretching the stone like a skein that jutted five feet out into the room, ten...

Then with a terrible sound the stone surface tore, releasing a gout of putrescent blackness that seemed to pour out into the chamber.  From that darker than dark three humanoid forms could just be distinguished, staggering forward into this place from someplace... _other_.  With their issue the stretched wall fell back in upon itself, snapping back into place within the archway, and in an eyeblink it was whole and smooth once again, as solid as it had been.  

The blackness faded to more fully reveal the three newcomers.  The first was wreathed in a nimbus of eager red flames that bespoke its otherworldly origin.  Wrapped within the halo of fire was a gaunt, almost skeletal man-sized figure, with vestigial, skinless wings like struts of bone jutting awkwardly from its back.  Its face was sinister, almost feral, but a hard glint of warped intelligence shone within the pinpricks of light that were its eyes.  

The second creature seemed inconsequential adjacent to the first, at least at first glance.  At casual examination it looked like a slightly pudgy gnome, standing barely four feet in height, with skin the color of ink.  It shambled forward, clever eyes scanning the dark, and it clicked the foot-long claws that tipped its three-fingered hands.  

The final figure of the triad was slow to rise, lifting himself up off of the hard stone floor using the short pedestal before the arch as a brace.  Unlike the others he did not seem alien or remarkable, by the looks of him a bare-torsoed human, his sleek flesh marred by hundreds of lines of scars both old and new.  When he scanned the chamber his eyes did not shine with the arrogant contempt of the fiery creature, or the visceral cunning of the stout one.  Instead, that gaze was cold, like the harsh north wind that came down off the Spine of the World.  While he may have been or more common appearance than his two companions, one look at those eyes would make it clear that there was little that could be called human left in this one.  

Delem had returned to Faerûn.


* * * * * 

A few quick notes:

a) the name of my succubus is an _homage_ to the heroine of Sepulchrave's ultimate story hour (can we make it iconic?).  

b) Delem's friends are from the MMII.  

c) I tweaked Delem a bit in the Rogues' Gallery.


----------



## Maldur

I so hope to see you at gencon!!

(better bring an icepack for that swollen eye)

LB, your a FIEND!


----------



## wolff96

I think the excrement just hit the bladed device for moving air.

It's good to see Delem back.

And even more interesting to think about what's going to happen with an Acolyte of the Skin running around...


----------



## Black Bard

It seems that Guthan is gone for good... I may be wrong, but I have the impression that all the " G" characters are dying... Strange... 

The story is just great, Lazy!! And I'm eager to see how Dana will react when she meets Delem...


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 41

The Battle of Kolova Gorge began on a miserable, blustery morning.  Spring had arrived across much of Faerûn, but here in the mountains, it felt as though winter’s lingering claw sought to maintain its hold upon the land.  The rains had given over for a time, leaving a dull gray sky above, but mud and damp were everywhere, and the mountain streams that flowed down from the range were gorged and overflowing in their rush toward the lowlands.  

In different circumstances the Gorge might have been beautiful, but on a day like this one it just seemed dreary and cold.  Certainly the hobgoblin warriors who marched into the gorge by a little-used trail from the south paid little heed to the natural splendors around them, noting only the obstacles that they would have to traverse as they viewed the difficult trail that wound down into the gorge ahead of them.  The canyon wound a twisting course for several miles ahead of them, its far end lost in a clinging mist born of the several waterfalls that thundered into its depths from streams that poured over its edge.  

The hobgoblins moved with efficiency, chivvying their remaining prisoners to hasten their steps.  Already a good score had perished on the journey, and of the fourscore that remained it looked as though a further score would not long hold up to the strains of the hard march.  It was either walk or die, however, so the captives continued as best they could, under the watchful eyes of their drivers.  

At the head of the column, behind the advance screen of scouts and a vanguard of ten hulking elite fighters, the hobgoblin shamans walked in a tight knot.  There were six of them remaining in the column, now that one had been detailed to escort the prisoners sent to Guthan.  All were garishly accoutered in a medley of hides, totems, and fetishes, their faces decorated with streaks of pigments, tattoos, and piercings.  Their leader was a bulging bear of a hobgoblin, by the name of Bir’achkek, whose face was creased with wrinkles and old scars; age had not been kind to him, but it would have been an obvious falsehood to call him weak.  Behind the adepts came a pair of hill giants, massive, lumbering creatures that barely fit on the narrow trail, and behind them came the remainder of the warriors and the two strings of weary slaves.

The old adept’s eyes missed nothing, so they were quick to spot the warleader as he hurried through the column toward the knot of spellcasters.  The hobgoblin fighter was competent if unimaginative, and his name was Turg.  He saluted the shamans and offered a sharp bow. 

“The scouts that we sent ahead into the gorge have not returned, Exalted Ones,” he said.  

The shamans exchanged a few glances before their eyes settled on their leader.  The old adept seemed nonplussed, but his hands tightened slightly on the length of his warstaff. 

“Push the column forward, warleader,” the shaman commanded.  “Find a defensible spot, and establish a perimeter.”

The warleader saluted once more, and hurried off to pass on the shaman’s orders.  The other adepts did not question his command, recognizing the situation as quickly as he had.  They could turn back, retrace their steps to the mouth of the trail that led down into the gorge, but that way led back to a narrow gap that could be defended by ten good warriors against a hundred—a perfect place for an ambush.  The trail through the gorge held many similar dangers, and limited their room to maneuver, but at least they would be able to pick the ground for their stand.  

The leader gestured toward another adept, a hobgoblin with half his face a mess of old burns.  He had a familiar perched on his shoulder, a vulture whose eyes glimmered with the same feral intelligence as its master.  The adept nodded and launched the bird into the air, and soon it was flying out away from the column in a widening spiral, just a speck high in the distance.  

They pressed on, hastening their pace, the prisoners catching some of the mood that passed through the column and hurrying along without resistance.  They had barely covered a few hundred yards, however, when a cry from behind drew everyone’s attention back along the trail.  

With the trail back rising above them, it was easy to spot the warrior among the rearguard as he lurched and fell, a long black arrow stuck in his back.  His companions had their bows out and strung, looking for targets as the column continued to move ahead in good order.  A few more arrows lanced out of the sheltering rocks higher along the slope, but no enemies yet presented themselves to view. 

“Shield us from view,” the shaman commanded, and two of his adepts moved out of formation into the rocks.  A few moments later thick clouds of _obscuring mist_ rose up along the sides of the trail, blanketing it as the hobgoblins and their prisoners moved quickly ahead.  Soon it might become expedient to leave the captives behind, but the hobgoblins would not give up valuable slaves unless it was clearly necessary. 

The vanguard had already chosen their bastion, as the trail ahead curved around the base of a rocky tor that rose up fifty feet above the floor of the gorge in a knot of jagged boulders and uneven stone.  The warleader was already up amidst the boulders atop the strongpoint, giving orders to the warriors that were taking up positions around the summit.  To their left rose the cliffs of the gorge, while to their right the trail followed the edge of an adjacent ravine.  The ravine was filled almost to the brink with a rapidly rushing mountain stream, its waters lashed into white froth by the violence of their course.  The air here was heavy with damp, and the sounds of rushing water echoed off the steep cliffs to either side.  

_As good a place to die as any,_ the shaman thought, moving to join the others as they took up positions atop the tor.  The prisoners they shoved into any convenient place, not particularly concerned if they were shielded against attack from either direction.  

Suddenly the adept who had launched the vulture staggered and nearly fell, pain crossing his features in a rictus of sharp pain.  One of the other adepts moved quickly to his aid, but they all knew what the spasm signified.  That was why the shaman leader did not take a familiar for himself; they left you vulnerable.  

“What manner of things are those,” one of the other adepts commented, drawing their combined attention skyward.  There, high above them, set against the backdrop of the flat gray expanse of unbroken cloud, they could see a handful of specks in the distance, swirling in a wide circle. 

The high shaman’s eyes narrowed.  “Zhent skyriders,” he said.  Even as he spoke, a cry from back down the trail behind them drew their attention back, to the high slopes that fronted their route into the gorge.  Dark forms were visible moving along the trail they had just traversed, their purpose clear even before the watchers caught sight of the long black shafts that lanced down toward their position.  At the same time, a warning shout from the opposite side of the knoll indicated that enemies lurked on that front as well, approaching from deeper within the gorge.  

They were trapped.  

But the hobgoblins were no strangers to battle, even caught outnumbered in an unfavorable tactical position, and they were quick to respond.  Their own sturdy horn bows launched a steady return fire up the trail, where a line of Zhent spearmen had emerged from the cover of the rocks, slowly advancing upon the hobgoblin position.  On the far side of the battlefield, along the ravine, another cluster of spearmen had taken up defensive positions along the trail, although they seemed content to block any escape rather than to advance any closer. 

The head shaman looked up and saw that the flying creatures they had seen earlier had descended into the gorge, his earlier suspicions proven as they resolved into the forms of winged beasts bearing human mounts.  A few arrows lanced up at them from the defenders, but the skyriders remained hundreds of feet above them and none of the shots hit.  Small objects flew down from them as they passed over the hobgoblin position, exploding into hot flames when they hit.  One of the adepts fell back into the rocks as one of the flasks hit nearby, flames licking his arm and burning his cloak, and on the other side of the tor a pair of warriors were struck by the full force of a blast and fell screaming, covered in flames, while their companions tried with great difficulty to smother the tenacious alchemist’s fire with their cloaks.   

The old adept held a wand at the ready, but the flyers were too far distant, flying back up along the route of the canyon before wheeling back in a wide sweep to return for another run.  He took a moment to cast a protective ward against fire upon himself, and saw that another flying beast, this one significantly larger than the others, was swooping down, its rider a bearded man wearing a familiar sigil upon the breast of his robe.  A few more archers fired missiles at the Zhent skymage as he drew nearer, but those few that came close were turned by an invisible defense.  

The wizard pointed, and a pellet of fire sprouted from his fingertips and streaked toward the hobgoblin position.  The shaman recognized it and ducked behind the cover of a boulder, but it was too late for a warning as the _fireball_ erupted into a blast of fiery death.  One of the lesser adepts that had not had the foresight to shield himself screamed as he clutched at his blackened face, and around him twenty seasoned warriors had been reduced to mere heaps of smoldering char.  The shaman’s ward had absorbed most of the impact of the flames, but all he could do was snarl a curse as the wizard flew away, too far away for their own spells or missiles to impact him. 

The Zhents had meanwhile moved forward to within several hundred yards of the hobgoblin position, forced by the narrowness of the trail into a compact formation of spearmen three across and many rows deep.  Archers in cover in the rocks that flanked the trail continued to fire upon the hobgoblins atop the hill, although at that range the missiles on both sides only infrequently found targets.  The hill giants had joined the barrage by taking up boulders the size of an ogre’s skull and were hurling them at the Zhent formation.  The soldiers of the Black Network were disciplined, holding their line even when a boulder crashed into it, crushing one soldier’s chest and knocking another four men sprawling with the impact.   

The skyriders had turned and now came in again, once more remaining high above the effective range of the hobgoblin archers.  This time they targeted the giants, bombing them with more heavy flasks of alchemist’s fire.  The first giant hefted another boulder and hurled it at the fliers, scoring a lucky hit that crushed the wing of one of the hippogriffs.  Mount and rider fell in a spiraling streak that hit the whitewater and quickly vanished from view, carried off by the raging torrent.  

The giant did not have long to enjoy its victory, however, as a pair of flasks struck it, one in the shoulder and a second in the leg.  Liquid flames spread over it as it staggered about, roaring in pain.  

Once more the skymage followed the other riders in, and he targeted the second giant.  This time he flew lower, and bolts of energy blasted in sequence from his fingertips, scorching the giant’s chest as they scored consecutive hits across its body.  Once more arrows darted out from the hobgoblins, and once more they were turned by his arcane defenses.  But the shaman, observing the course of his flight with a careful eye, hefted his wand and uttered a command word as the magician started to wheel his griffon back up into the air. 

A jagged streak of lightning cut through the sky, slamming hard into the belly of the griffon.  The creature squawked in pain and cut hard to the right, losing altitude before its powerful wings could carry it and its disgruntled rider back into the relative safety of the open sky.  

The hobgoblins cheered as the enemy wizard retreated, but there was no time for more celebration as the enemy line came on in a steady rush.  As the spearmen neared the tor they spread out into a heavy wedge forty men across and up to five deep, a forest of deadly points that charged into the face of the hobgoblin defense.  Behind them came a squad of heavy cavalry, among them the distinctive figures of three plate-armored clerics, wearing the sigils of their black god prominently across their chests.  More than a few arrows were sent in their direction, but between their heavy armor and whatever magical defenses they had up, none penetrated to cause injury.  

One of the clerics raised her mace and shouted an invocation to her god, and the Zhent army came forth in a violent wave.  At her call, however, a beam of pure light blasted from her palm into the face of the wounded giant, and with a final gurgle of pain it fell hard to the ground, struck stone dead by the power of her magic.  The other giant hurled a final boulder and hefted its club, charging toward the ranks of oncoming warriors, but the Zhents calmly set their spears and absorbed its rush on the points.  Pierced by a dozen spearheads, that giant too fell, and the attack came on around it. 

The hobgoblins, now reduced to fewer than a hundred warriors, met the charge bravely.  Now they had the advantage of position and cover, and they fought with the desperation of men who had nowhere to escape save over the corpses of their foes.  A streak of lightning from the shaman’s wand erupted into the line of spearmen, slaying a dozen, while the other adepts cast defensive wards or healing spells to aid their warriors.  But then one of the clerics pointed and a globe of silence fell over the shamans, negating their efforts, forcing them to retreat further from the lines of battle.  Meanwhile blasts of sonic energy exploded elsewhere among the defenders, sending hobgoblin warriors reeling moments before spears thrust into their positions.  

The skyriders returned, flying low, dropping their missiles onto the heads of the defenders, until the top of the hill was wreathed in flames.  At that range several took hits from the archers still plying their bows, and soon they were winging off again, nursing their injured mounts.  For a moment the rush of spears faltered, falling back with nearly a quarter of their number dead or dying around the base of the hill.  But the delay was only long enough for them to reset their line, and soon they came again, this time with the armored knights and the evil clerics accompanying their charge. 

The hobgoblins that could still lift weapons charged down to meet them, and Kolova Gorge was filled with the echoing crash of melee combat. 

It went on for quite some time.


----------



## Maldur

The ruthless efficienty of the black column...


thx, Lb!


----------



## Broccli_Head

Gotta love the Zhents and their heavy infantry and cavalry. Very efficient.


----------



## weiknarf

*YEAH!*

That'll learn 'em to sully the good name of the Zhents!


----------



## Horacio

What can I add besides "great update"?


----------



## wolff96

Of course, the real question is who masterminded the Hobgoblin attack that brought the Zhents to this particular mountain pass.

If I remember correctly, over the pass is Cormyr. (Someone correct me if I'm wrong.)

That means that the Zhent army is in the perfect place to be mistaken for an invading army... Chaos rules all! Faerun in flames!

Or maybe I'm just off my rocker again.


----------



## Lazybones

wolff96 said:
			
		

> *Of course, the real question is who masterminded the Hobgoblin attack that brought the Zhents to this particular mountain pass.
> *




Well, we already know that, don't we?  Or at least, we know who Guthan was plotting with in Book VI...



> *
> If I remember correctly, over the pass is Cormyr. (Someone correct me if I'm wrong.)*




From part 34:


> The archer nearly laughed to himself in a grim humor. Normally, the prospect of crossing the mountains, which would take them into territories nominally part of Cormyr, would be troubling. But fortune played strange tricks on both individuals and nations, and shortly the western side of the mountains was going to get uncomfortably active, while the once-great nation of Cormyr was barely able to maintain order in its core, let alone on the frontier marches.



Well, remember that an army's already heading north, to deal with the "Zhents" (though they don't know that the two armies aren't allies).  



> *Chaos rules all! Faerun in flames!
> *



You ain't seen nothing yet...


----------



## Black Bard

> Chaos rules all! Faerun in flames!



I think that *chaos*  has a name, and *he*  is laughing out loud in his black throne...


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 42

The companions found that their victory had netted them nearly a hundred bedraggled survivors of Asbravn, a handful of hobgoblin prisoners, and a few equally unhappy options.

The hobgoblins’ captives were in bad shape.  Already cold, exhausted, and weakened from hunger and exposure, it was clear that without shelter and supplies they would soon start dying in numbers.  Dana did what she could, but the rations stored in Cal’s magical backpack barely made a dent in their need, and despite free use of her clerical powers and her wand of healing she could do only so much for them.  Still, she was able to bring a few back from the brink of death, and their grateful looks only motivated the adventurers to do whatever they could to help the poor wretches.  

A sparse but cold drizzle started, complicating their situation further.  A dark wall of clouds to the west promised much more sooner rather than later.  It was immediately obvious that it would take days of hard hiking to make their way back down to the lowlands, to cover the rough hills that they had flown over in a mere day.  

While Dana and Lok tended to the captives, Cal and the others dealt with the prisoners.  Five of the twenty hobgoblin warriors had been taken, but of them only the archer that Cal and Benzan had captured was of real use.  Cal’s _charm_ spell had made him more receptive to conversation, and soon they were learning what they could of the raiders that had destroyed Asbravn.  

Their inquiry was cut short, however, when Cal, responding to another prod from the pegasus-Benzan, paused to cast a _dispel magic_ to restore his natural form.  The tiefling grinned as the outlines of the pegasus dissolved and shifted back into his usual self, but they were caught by surprise at the hobgoblin’s response. 

“YOU!” the warrior hissed.  He lurched forward, his expression twisting into a visage of pure hatred.  Cal tried to restrain him, but it was clear that his spell had been broken.  The tiefling had to call for help as the hobgoblin leapt at him, and only Lok’s swift arrival had enabled them to subdue him and bind his arms and legs.  The other captives they had already tied up a short distance away, setting a few of the stronger valemen to watch over them, so they did not have any trouble from that quarter.  

While Cal used another spell to restore Lariel to his elven form, Lok and Benzan regarded their prisoner, Benzan rubbing his chin where the hobgoblin had gotten in a lucky hit.  The hobgoblin stared at him with a surly expression, unable to do more than wriggle within his bonds.  

“Well, seems your reputation has once again preceded you,” Lok said.  Benzan shot him a querying look, but the genasi’s expression was as blank as stone.  

It was Dana who finally solved the mystery.  Once she and the others had tended to the freed captives as much as they could, Cal brought her over to the hobgoblin leader.  The creature had become sullen, refusing to respond to questions despite Benzan’s repeated prodding, and he took them all in with a hateful look as they gathered around him.  

“Maybe you’d better go keep an eye on the trail, Benzan,” Cal suggested.  The tiefling opened his mouth to complain, but finally gave over with a nod and walked away, leaving the rest of them with the captive.  They noticed that the hobgoblin watched Benzan leaving with sharp eyes, but he returned his attention to them as Dana crouched in front of him.  

Dana closed her eyes, and they could all feel a prickly sensation as she called upon the power that she drew from her special calling.  Walking the roads of Faerûn as a mystic wanderer had drawn her into the secret wonders of the natural world, and she called upon that ancient legacy now, mixing it with the divine power of her link to the goddess Selûne.  The hobgoblin struggled although they could not see what she was doing to him, but after a moment his struggles faded, and when she opened her eyes the warrior’s hard expression had softened into a look of wonder. 

“What... what did you do...”

“I freed you from your anger, from the pain that your hatred was wreaking upon your soul.  I am Dana Ilgarten, and I am not your enemy.  What is your name, warrior?”

“I am Targos.”

“Targos.  Well then, perhaps you can first tell us why you reacted so to Benzan’s appearance, and then you can tell us why your people attacked Asbravn...”

The companions’ expressions varied between surprise and anger as the hobgoblin told his tale.  They were amazed to learn that Targos was one of the few survivors of the hobgoblin outpost in the Wood of Sharp Teeth, part of a slave-mining operation that they had wrecked what seemed like decades ago.  Apparently the hapless creature had spent much of his time since as a wanderer, finally ending up with this tribe here in the shadow of the Sunset Mountains.  

But their interest in the vagaries of Targos’s life was eclipsed as he related the story behind the attack on Asbravn.  Although the hobgoblin was not partial to all of the details of his commanders, he was observant and clever, and with the effect of Dana’s enchantment loosening his tongue he was all too eager to share the conclusions that he had drawn from all that he had witnessed.  

“Demon worshippers,” Cal commented finally, once Targos’s report was concluded.  “Can you tell us any more about this human cleric you saw?”

The hobgoblin shook his head.  “He avoided the company of all save the shamans, and even they did not get on well with him, I gather.  He is the one who brought the Baneite uniforms, though, the ones that we wore during the attack on the town.  He did not accompany the attack force, however, and as far as I know he remains still in the valley.  I would say it is likely that the order to bring the slaves back there is connected to him somehow.”

Lariel said, “We must get this information to Cylyria, and to the leaders of the Council of Iriaebor.  Someone has clearly gone to great lengths to cast a shadow of blame upon the Zhentarim, and while I do not regret any damage done to the Black Network, we must discover who or what is truly behind these plots.”

“We know the Cult is involved, and now this cabal of demonists,” Cal said.  “Strange allies, and yet something still doesn’t feel quite right about all this.  We’re missing something...”

“We need to get these people out of the elements,” Lok said, interrupting their musings with hard practicality.  “Even with Dana’s talents, half may not survive the hike back down to the Vale, in these conditions.”  He glanced up meaningfully at the looming black clouds of the coming storm.  

“This hidden valley, how much farther is it?” Cal asked the hobgoblin. 

“At least a half-dozen miles, over rough terrain,” Targos replied.  He looked back over the gathered people.  “With this lot, the better part of a day’s march, I’d say.”

Cal nodded, briefly meeting the eyes of each of his companions before nodding.  

“Well, we’d better get moving then.”


----------



## Black Bard

What power did Dana use to loose Targos' tongue?? Is it _Charm Monster_ ??


----------



## Maldur

theyll be in for a nasty suprise!


----------



## Lazybones

Black Bard said:
			
		

> *What power did Dana use to loose Targos' tongue?? Is it Charm Monster ?? *




Yes, it's one of the class abilities of the Mystic Wanderer prestige class from _Magic of Faerun_.


----------



## Horacio

Great update, Lazybones...


----------



## Dungannon

Oooh, it's (technically) Friday.  That means we can look forward to another killer cliffhanger sometime today...


----------



## Lazybones

Dungannon said:
			
		

> *Oooh, it's (technically) Friday.  That means we can look forward to another killer cliffhanger sometime today...  *




Well, not as killer as next week's is going to be (let's just say we're building to a dramatic confrontation),  but today we get another look at Delem:

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 43

Within the cavernous chamber hidden deep within the fastness of the Sunset Mountains, Delem rose and with an effort walked forward away from the now-closed Portal.  He wore only a set of tight-fitting trousers that seemed fashioned from the hide of some alien beast, with a small pouch belted at his waist.  A small amulet of dull black metal hung at his throat from a throng strapped so tightly that it looked as though it might already be choking off his supply of air.  His only other possession was the ungainly weapon he bore, a short staff of gray metal topped at each end by an oblong disk of the same substance.  A faint buzz, like the sound of a small horde of angry bees, seemed to come from the weapon, but it might have just been a trick of acoustics underground.    

The flaming demon turned to face the sorcerer.  “Give me the Seeking Stone,” it said, its voice hissing like the sound of steam coming from a lidded kettle.

“I am in command here, palrethee.  You forget so easily the commands of your Master?”

“We are no longer in the Abyss, manling, and do not think that the stolen skin you wear gives you the right to direct me.  I have existed for aeons, and the sum of your puny human existence is merely a drop in the wellspring of what I am.”

The man looked upon the demon with a look of contempt.  “Ah, yes.  I know you palrethee hold exalted airs upon your mighty ‘status.’  Did you once stride the planes of the Abyss as a mighty balor?  Whom did you anger, demon, to earn the lowly skin you now wear?  For mark me, the reason you were chosen for this mission was because a greater demon could not penetrate the temporary rift in the Portal.”

The palrethee hissed in fury, and came forward a step, its clawed hands coming up threateningly.  But before it could come any closer Delem spoke a phrase of magic, and a lance of pure magical energy erupted from his hand, a spear of liquid flame that extended in an instant from his fist to a few inches before the demon’s chin.  

“You have learned little indeed, if you think that your petty flames can threaten me,” the demon warned. 

Delem shrugged, and with a flick of his wrist the head of the _thunderlance_ sliced to the right, its tip catching the demon’s shoulder with a cut that drew a line of steaming ichor from a shallow gash in its flesh.  The demon jerked back in sudden pain, but it quickly recovered, fixing the sorcerer with hate in its eyes.  

“Know this, demon,” the man said, and his voice was deep with power.  “After I was raised to the Skin I was sent for my final training to the battlefields of the Blood War.  I _know_ how to hurt fiends, and if you challenge me again, I will see that your next incarnation is in a more appropriate form.  A dretch, perhaps.”

The palrethee shot a glance at its fellow demon, but the shorter creature merely watched the confrontation with an intense look in its eyes, clicking its claws together.  Finally it turned its gaze back to Delem.  

“We serve the same Master,” it said.  “I follow his commands.”

Delem flicked his hand again and the fire-lance vanished.  “Go above, and scout out the area above.  Do not reveal yourself to anyone present, but report back to me.”

The demons departed, leaving the sorcerer alone in the same quasi-darkness that he’d often encountered in the Abyss; a blackness that was deeper than night and yet which his eyes could somehow penetrate in a form of weird shadow-vision.  It was disconcerting, with everything he saw taking on a sort of unreality, as if solid things were about to flow into the outlines of something completely different.  The effect could make your head spin if you weren’t used to it, and even though Delem had adapted to much worse he still called forth a _dancing lights_ cantrip to shed a more natural illumination around him.  The light from the hovering wisps of flame was weaker than usual, as if the darkness resisted this encroachment upon its domain.  

He did not allow himself to relax even once the demons had departed.  He could not afford to show weakness now.  The transition between planes had disoriented him more than he had expected, leaving him vulnerable enough for the palrethee to attempt its unsubtle attempt to seize leadership from him.  He regretted the encounter not for what it was—it had been necessary to humble the demon, after it had threatened him—but for the fact that now he would have to redouble his vigilance.  Demons were not quick to forgive a slight, real or imagined.  

That part of his body that was still human protested as he started across the room.   Fortunately, he had a great deal of experience in ignoring such minor annoyances as mere physical pain.  He’d forgotten how cold it could be here, however; in the fiery pits of Gehenna, on the eternal battlefields of the Blood War, it was always hot.  Blistering hot, a heat that got inside your bones and threatened to boil away any shred of feeling you might still have within you. 

He would have to secure garments.    

His steps took him near the summoning circle, and the ring of corpses lying there.  Delem looked at them without regard.  He did not know who they had been, or how or why they had facilitated his coming here, and he did not care.  He started toward the nearest, a dark figure clad in a warm-looking cloak, but stopped as he caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye.  

Wary, he spun into a defensive posture, bringing up the _kabbak-johr_ with reflexes that had been honed by an interminable time of vulnerability and torment within the demon-realms of the Abyss.  One of the corpses had shifted.  He almost thought he had imagined it, when suddenly they all started to move, twitching until they gained enough energy to straighten contorted limbs and awkwardly lift themselves to their feet.  

Delem’s mouth twisted in disgust.  He had long since lost his touch to Kossuth, in fact could barely remember what it had felt like to channel divine power.  But even as a fallen cleric he could still recognize the undead.  Even as the first of the undead creatures—a human, different than the others—turned toward him, he lowered one hand from his weapon and called upon his magic.  A small globe of eager flames erupted in his palm, ready to blast these abominations back into the depths from which they had sprung.  

The former man, its features gaunt and sunken, stared at him with eyes that were haunted dots of feral red light.  It showed no reaction to the flames that the sorcerer held ready, but its jaw fell open, and words issued from a throat that no longer breathed mortal air.  Delem recognized the words all too well as the desperate sounds of a soul in torment.  

“We... serve...”


----------



## Horacio

Great update!

Good to see Delem again


----------



## Maldur

Great stuff LB!

Is there a pic of the weapon? I cant really picture it ( I can depict about 14 different versions that all fit the description)

thx, for the story...so far


----------



## wolff96

MMMmmm.

Now that's good story hour.

Nice to see Delem back in Faerun. And keeping his minions in line, to boot. I've got to imagine it WOULD be a rude shock to go from Hell and it's various environs to the cold North... Nice touch!


----------



## Lazybones

Maldur: the demon-weapon is sort of like a dire mace.

Monday update:

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 44

Benzan emerged from the dark tunnel warily, his bow held close against his body to protect the bowstring against the omnipresent damp.  It was useless; his sodden garments pressed against his flesh already, and as he stepped from the narrow cleft that led into the valley the downpour that had continued throughout the night and most of the day before greeted him once more with its full force.  

The valley was much as the hobgoblin had described, a wide bowl nestled within a ring of surrounding peaks.  To his right, a mountain stream transformed into a torrent by the rain ran through a steep-sided ravine to vanish into a gaping slash in the stone cliffs, destined to emerge again somewhere lower in the mountains.  Perhaps this stream would eventually feed the River Chionthar as it poured down out of the mountains to wind its way all the way to Iriaebor, and ultimately to Baldur’s Gate and the Sea of Storms.  A long way to go, even for water...

The tiefling shook his head to clear it of such idle thoughts.  He was tired.  They all were, although the companions were in far better shape than the survivors from Asbravn.  Dana, in particular, had driven herself relentlessly, calling upon her own energy and the power granted by Selûne in a battle to keep as many of those unfortunates as possible from being drawn across the line into death.  Despite her best efforts, they’d lost four the night before, and would lose more if they did not secure shelter quickly.  

The rain had begun in earnest shortly after they had set out again, early yesterday afternoon.  They had shared out the arms and clothing of the slain hobgoblins among the former prisoners, and virtually all of the supplies stored in Cal’s magical knapsack.  It would take nearly all of Dana’s magical abilities to create enough food for so many, unless they were able to find game, but Targos told them that there would be at least some stores left in the valley camp, along with a handful of guards left behind from the raiding force. 

The hobgoblin had been very helpful, freely offering his cooperation and suggestions under the effects of Dana’s magic, but Benzan did not trust him.  He had offered to help Benzan scout, but after his initial reaction to the tiefling they had all decided that it was better to keep the two of them apart.  Targos seemed content to follow Dana around like a puppy, but Benzan did not forget the long arrows that the hobgoblin had fired into him during the battle earlier, or the way he had so casually mentioned some of the things that he had done during the raid on Asbravn.  Benzan would have preferred it if he had been tied up and guarded like the other four prisoners they had taken from the hobgoblin force.  He wouldn’t have minded if those four had been left for the carrion like the rest, but Cal and Lok had firmly overruled him on that matter.  

Again he berated himself for letting his thoughts drift, and he turned his attention back to the valley.  The falling rain interfered with his view, obscuring the far side of the valley, but he could not see any signs of habitation.  From what Targos had told them, however, he could mark the probable location of the hobgoblin camp.  

Turning back into the shelter of the tunnel, he hurried to alert the others.  

* * * * * 

It took them the better part of two hours just to move their column through the narrow pass and the dark tunnel and across the valley to the hobgoblin camp.  The companions led the way, wary of the guards that Targos had warned of, but the place seemed utterly deserted, the entire valley devoid of life.  They found signs of occupancy that hadn’t been washed away by the storm, most significantly a cluster of five crude huts of stone and wood that spread out over a larger cleared area that had clearly accommodated a much larger group fairly recently.  A ditch ringed by a stockade of undressed logs formed the perimeter of the hobgoblin camp, although the gate stood open as they approached.  Benzan and Lariel continued their search while the others led the Asbravners into the simple shelters.  A few of the townsfolk possessed enough woodslore to help Lok find some wood dry enough to burn, even despite the deluge, and soon they had crammed most of the cold and tired villagers into the huts close around small but warming fires.  Targos found the stores of food he had promised, barely enough for a single meal for the gathered mass of people, but he could not explain the absence of the guards.  

“Perhaps other orders were sent, recalling them to the main column,” he suggested.  “I admit, it would not be out of character for the shamans to issue strange commands without notifying the rank-and-file warriors.”

As night began to fall on the camp, the companions’ eyes were drawn repeatedly to the dark opening just visible in the far cliffs that rose sharply at the rear of the valley.  

“We’d better go take a look,” Cal said.  “If they’re in there, we don’t want to give them time to prepare a nasty surprise for us.”    

“Shouldn’t we at least wait for morning?” Benzan said.  “We can defend this place, and at least some of us can get some rest first.”

“Maybe we can just take a quick look,” Lok suggested.  “See how far back it goes.”  Targos had been unable to provide intelligence as to the contents of the cave, or tunnel, or whatever it was, since none but the human cleric and the shamans had been allowed to enter.   

“I’d better stay here,” Dana said.  “Some of these people are already very sick, and even with the fire and hot food I’m not sure how many will survive the night.”  Her friends were reluctant to break up their company, the more so with each look at that dark tunnel, but ultimately they agreed.  Before they set out, however, Benzan took her aside. 

“Be careful with that hobgoblin,” he said.  “I don’t trust him, even with your _charm_.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she snapped, then, recognizing the way her voice sounded, she sighed.  “I’m sorry.  It’s just that ever since... I mean, lately you’ve been... _hovering_ a bit too much.  I haven’t suddenly been transformed into a clay doll that you need to pack in straw.  You should know me well enough by now to know that I’m not going to change what I am, not even for you.  You’re mule-headed enough without...  Look, I don’t know.  I’m sorry, I’m babbling.  Maybe I just need some rest.”  By the hard look of her jaw, however, he knew that she’d get little rest that night, not so long as these people needed her strength.  Would she save some for herself?  Not likely—she was right about one thing, anyway; he knew her.  

“What’s so funny?” she asked, looking askance at his change of expression. 

“Nothing,” he said.  He toyed with the idea of adding a comment about her own “mule-headed” traits, but wisely decided against it.  Instead he glanced at Cal, Lok, and Lariel, who were standing a short distance off in the rain, waiting.  “I’ve got to go.  Just be careful, and let yourself get some rest.  You won’t be of any help to these people if you’re too exhausted to pray for your spells tomorrow.”

Her expression tightened slightly further, but she didn’t respond.  Nonetheless, her eyes clearly bespoke her suggestion for him to mind his own affairs, and leave her to hers.  For some reason, an image popped into his mind of her using the power she’d used on Targos on him, twisting his mind around until he no longer knew anything but following her around like a puppy.  

It was too late, he knew.  She’d already ensnared him with a power greater than any _charm_.  They might be squabbling now, but that wouldn’t change that basic fact.  

Her expression hadn’t softened, so he didn’t press his luck with a kiss.  Instead, he smiled again in the way he knew infuriated her, and joined the others as they trudged through the sucking mud and over rain-slicked rocks toward the dark opening in the cliffs.


----------



## Maldur

the tension!!

thx LB!


----------



## Horacio

Maldur said:
			
		

> *the tension!!
> 
> thx LB! *




What he said 

And great update too


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 45

The dark hole in the cliff swallowed them up, and in just a few steps it was as if they had transitioned into another world, with only the insistent patter of the rain behind them as a reminder of the weather outside.  Even that sound was muted, as if the heavy stone surrounding them absorbed all noise, leaving only the quiet darkness. 

It was immediately clear that this place was not natural, the lines and angles too precise for a cavern, although everything had a kind of rough-hewn simplicity to it.  The tunnel ran straight ahead into the mountain, an even five paces across.   

“Nice place,” Lariel commented dryly.  “Demon worshippers, right?”  He unlimbered his bow, and changed out his damp bowstring with an ease that belied frequent practice.  After a moment, Benzan imitated his action.  Meanwhile, Cal called upon a cantrip, casting a _light_ spell that drove back the shadows.  

“I should have remembered to ask Dana for her torch,” Benzan said.  “I forget sometimes that you guys can’t see in the dark.”

“We’re not going to be here long,” Cal said.  “Just take a quick look around.”

Benzan took the lead, scanning the walls and floor for any signs of traps, and they moved ahead.  

The tunnel had led them barely fifty feet, just enough for the sound of the rain outside to fade away behind them, when it opened into a slightly wider area with a ceiling a good ten paces above them.  A heavy arch of solid stone slabs framed another tunnel that continued on ahead, but flanking that entry were a pair of constructs that gave them pause. 

They were statues, each easily ten feet high, carved from the heavy stone of the lintels themselves to face each other across the opening.  They were roughly man-shaped, although the details of their forms were indistinct even when the full light of Cal’s spell fell upon their features.  As they looked closer, they could see that it wasn’t that the statues were weathered by age, but rather than they seemed... _unfinished_, as if their creator had not been able to commit to a final vision for the details of their appearance.  They were clad in robes, or perhaps it could have armor; again it was impossible to be certain.  Their faces were vague as well, only the hint of features that could have been male, female, any of a dozen of Faerûn’s races or none of all.  

For a few long moments the four scrutinized the statues.  Finally, Benzan shook his head.  “I don’t like this.  This place doesn’t feel right.”

“I feel it as well,” Lariel said.  “It’s as if there’s something here, something undefined that I cannot quite see.  It’s like... like a tickle going down your back, when you think you see something move in the shadows of a sealed room.”

“Lok?” Cal asked. 

“Strange,” the genasi rumbled.  “I do not recognize the stonework.  Clearly fashioned by intelligent hands, but by no craft that I have ever seen.”  Warily he moved closer toward the statues, but suddenly and abruptly stopped in mid-stride.  

“What is it?” Cal asked, sensing that something was wrong. 

“I... I cannot move!” the genasi grunted, each word forced.  

Benzan was already moving forward, despite Cal’s word of warning, but the tiefling only crossed to where Lok stood and dragged him awkwardly backward.  As they fell back the genasi regained control over his limbs, and the four retreated back to warily confront the dark tunnel and its silent guardians.  

Cal cast another cantrip, scanning the portal.  “It is as I suspected,” he reported.  “There is a potent ward here, a magical shield that protects this place.  I cannot say exactly what it is, but I think we’ve gotten a good idea as to its effects.”

“And we get past it how...?” Benzan asked.

“I don’t know.  Perhaps with more study... and I should speak with Dana...”

“Well then, perhaps we should call it a day then,” Lariel suggested.  “If there is anything in there, it no doubt knows we’re here, and it hasn’t chosen to act.  We’ll keep a tight watch tonight, and try again in the morning.”

Cautiously the four companions retreated to the surface, and returned to the camp that was already just a vague shadow as the gray haze of twilight deepened into full night.


----------



## wolff96

You just keep turning up the anticipation, you know that? Of course you do, what am I saying?  You're the master of the evil cliffhanger.

Another great update... and I still can't wait to see the sparks fly when Delem shows up and Dana and Benzan learn where he's been.


----------



## Maldur

great stuff, LB thx.

And I always called him a evil cliffhanger guy!

But this wasn't that bad!


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks guys.  I just finished Jordan's latest (yawn), and maybe his tendency to draw things out... and out... and out... has had an impact on me.  Unlike him, however, I won't make you wait 18 months to find out what happens, only to find out that the answer is: nothing. 

I'm home sick with the flu (bleah), so I haven't been doing any writing.  I have one more post done for this week, and it's got a big cliffhanger (what I've been building to all week  ).  Do you want it tomorrow, knowing that you won't find out what happens until Monday, or do you want to wait till Friday? 

Lazy


----------



## wolff96

My vote is for Friday.

And I share your opinion of the new Jordan book. Wow. Could he accomplish ANY less in that many pages?


----------



## Horacio

I vote for Friday too


----------



## Maldur

My vote is for NOW! ( oh wait its friday allready )


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 46

But the next day provided no ready answers.  The storm had continued its onslaught unabated throughout the night, dumping a more or less constant downpour upon the mountain valley until its lower reaches were transformed into a hazardous maze of overflowing streams and slicks of treacherous mud.  Several rockslides over the night had transformed the landscape from what they had seen the night before, but the hobgoblins had chosen a sound campsite and their vantage was not directly threatened, an island in the storm.  

The new day broke in a gray haze, the rain continuing in a steady drizzle as the companions and the refugees woke and took stock of their situation.  They had no supplies, but after a morning of prayer Dana was able to conjure enough magical food to sustain them all, at a heavy cost to her regular selection of divine spells.  Those of the townsfolk who were best able were put on work details to fetch wood from the ready supply of deadwood nearby; in this the storm had aided them by uprooting several of the scrub trees that clung to the valley slopes and dragging them down closer to the valley floor.  With warmth, food, and freedom, the townsfolk were beginning to show signs of engagement once more, although it was clear that it would take considerable time for most to come to grips with the personal devastation that each had suffered.  The companions, each of whom had been faced with similar losses, understood and gave them the space they needed.  

By the end of their first full day in the valley, every member of the mismatched company was tired and filthy, with mere distinctions in race and gender obfuscated by a universal coating of sticky brown mud.  Dana had taken an hour from her ongoing care of those townsfolk who were still ill to join her friends in another probe of the cliff complex, but despite their best efforts the mysterious stone guardians continued to confound them.  With some experimentation they found that Benzan was able to advance the farthest, but that he too experienced an implacable barrier directly before the two statues.  Attempts to dispel the effect were to no avail, and nothing stirred from the dark tunnel at their presence, despite their light and the noise of their conversation.  Thus defeated, the companions returned to their campsite.  Despite the effects of the bad weather the place was starting to look more substantial, the townsfolk managing a great deal in just a day’s work.  Drains had been dug to allow runoff to escape the stockade without collecting in a sea of mud, the gate had been reinforced, and guards holding hobgoblin weapons posted around the perimeter.  Only a few of the survivors had been in the militia, but after what they’d been through all held their weapons with hard determination, and it was better than nothing.  Still, the companions knew that any determined attack would likely fall hard upon their shoulders. 

But with nothing stirring in the valley save themselves, it looked increasingly as though they were alone in a washed out, empty wasteland of drab grays and browns.  They could not begin the difficult journey back down to Sunset Vale as long as the storm held, but it was clear that the townsfolk were growing increasingly eager to begin, and as the day began to ebb it seemed as though the rain eased as well, offering the hope of a better day tomorrow.  

Benzan crouched alone on an outcropping of mud-slicked stone that overlooked the valley, a stone’s throw from the stockade.  After spending much of the day crowded into the company of almost a hundred bedraggled refugees, he appreciated the chance for solitude.  He wasn’t assigned to watch duty just yet; with his darkvision he and Lok would both be on the walls for a goodly part of the night, he knew all too well.  He’d spent a busy day, not only helping with the work on their camp, but accompanying the second expedition to the cliff tunnel and conducting a scouting sweep of the valley with Lariel.  By all rights he should be in his bedroll now, grabbing what sleep he could, but still he lingered at his vantage, his face creased with thought.  He caught sight of another woodgathering party heading up the slope behind the stockade, a half-dozen townsfolk armed with axes, accompanied by Lariel.  The elf spotted him and waved, and Benzan waved back absently. 

“Hey,” a familiar voice came to him.  

He turned to see Dana walking toward him.  Her clothes were stained by mud, and her hair was slicked and mussed, but to his eyes she looked beautiful.  He smiled, and she returned the gesture as she came to join him.  For a moment she looked dubiously at the muddy stone, then, looking down at her own sodden clothes, laughed softly to herself and sat down next to him. 

“You should get some rest,” she told him.  “It’ll be a long night, and Cal said we’ll start back down to the Vale tomorrow, if the storm breaks.”

“What about the tunnel complex?”

“Whatever’s in there, it doesn’t look like we can get past that ward.  It seems deserted, anyway.”  She looked around the valley, the wind catching loose strands of her hair and flapping them around her face.  

“I’m sorry about before,” she said, finally.  “I... it’s just, sometimes, it’s hard.  What we do.  Somehow in the stories of ‘adventure,’ they manage to leave out the parts with the cold and the wet and the blood and the suffering.”  Her gaze traveled back toward the stockade, at the people she’d been caring for.  

“I love you, Dana.”

Her gaze came back to meet his.  “I know, Benzan.  I love you too.”

They embraced, and for a time the warmth of their feelings for each other beat back the cold and darkness of the world around them.  Finally she drew back, touching his face in a tender gesture.  “I’ve got to get back.  Three of the townsfolk still have a fever that persists despite everything I try to do...”

“Go,” he said.  “I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

She nodded, and both of them rose.  With a final kiss she turned and headed back to the stockade, her magical boots carrying her rapidly across the uneven terrain, like a fey nimbly rushing through a gray wood.  Only this blasted landscape looked nothing like the kind of place one would find a merry forest spirit, he thought grimly, taking a final scan of the valley.  Darkness was already starting to settle, although it would not hinder his ability to see, at least to the limits of his darkvision.  Another constant reminder, not that he needed it, of his mixed heritage.  

He’d intended to start back after a final sweep along the upper reaches overlooking the valley, but he hesitated.  When he’d glanced up at the slope in the direction that the woodgatherers had gone, he thought he’d seen something, a dark shadow creeping though the rocks that had vanished as quickly as it had appeared.  Frowning, he took up his bow—unstrung, the string protected against the wet in his pouch—and took a few steps in that direction.  It might have just been a trick of the light, but he’d learned to trust his instincts in such...

“So.  You didn’t waste any time, did you?”

The voice caught him up short—it had come from just a short distance away, from the far edge of the outcrop, among a maze of huddling boulders.  A cold chill crept up his spine as a tall shadow emerged from the dark, wrapped in a concealing cloak that thoroughly covered his features.  The chill wasn’t for the sudden appearance of the other, but it was for the familiar sound of a voice that was the absolute last that he’d ever expected to hear in this place, in any place.

“What...” he said, fighting a surge of mixed confusion and unease.  

“You know,” the shadow said.  “You know, you treacherous bastard.  I always knew you wanted her, and now, it looks like you have gotten what you want.”

As the cowled figure drew nearer, Benzan got a good look at his face, and his own grew white.  

“Delem...”


----------



## Maldur

oooooh, nasty!!


LB, are you comming to gencon?


----------



## Dungannon

Man, this has to be one of the biggest cliffhangers you've left us with, LB.  I hope you get better soon so you can post another update *SOON*.


----------



## djrdjmsqrd

*I am still reading...*

LB,
Once agian I have to thank you for such a good job!  Still one of my favorite SHs...and such an evil CH'er....grrr....

Djordje


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks guys, I liked that one... 

Maldur: no, I don't get a chance to go to cons, too busy.  Guess you'll have to punch me out some other time. 

Monday it's back to work, so I'll get an update posted then!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 47

Finally overcoming his shock, Benzan opened his mouth to shout an alarm, but Delem cut him off.  “Stay where you are, and do not call out to the others.”  

Benzan hesitated, his mouth still hanging open, but no sounds came out despite his obvious efforts.  He shook his head, and fixed the sorcerer with a baleful look.  “What did... you... do to me?” he grunted, shaking with the effort of trying to fight off the spell.  

Delem laughed.  “Ah, Benzan, you were always a weak-minded fool.”

The tiefling’s shoulders sagged, but his eyes had narrowed to wary darts that followed the other as he came closer.  “Why—how can you be here, Delem?  You were trapped in the Abyss, we have been trying...”

“Yes, I know,” Delem cut him off, and his voice dripped bitterness.  “Your efforts have been noble, I’m sure, but they haven’t amounted to a whole lot now, have they?  Face it, you abandoned me to my fate, and now I begin to see why...”  His gaze traveled meaningfully toward the stockade, where Dana had disappeared just a few minutes ago.  

“Delem, you don’t understand, we thought you were dead...”

“Oh, I was dead.  But I have been reborn, forged by the fires of a darker pit than even you can imagine, Benzan.  You barely look older than I remember you, but in that time, I have lived a lifetime.  An eternity, in the reckoning of where I was...”

Benzan shook his head.  He swayed, still unable to move.  The sorcerer had closed the distance between them, but remained far enough so that Benzan could not reach him, even with the length of his blade.  “We can help you,” the tiefling said earnestly.  “We’re your friends, Delem...”

The sorcerer laughed.  “I neither want nor need your help, and even if I did, I am far beyond your reach now.  And as for friends...”  For a moment his cold façade cracked, and a hint of the old Delem showed in his eyes, a hint of desperation tinged by an overarching madness.  “I have no friends, only a Master whose will is the very blood that pounds in my veins...”  With an angry swipe of his hand, the sorcerer spun in a tight arc, his cloak swirling out behind him.  Benzan saw that under the cloak Delem’s torso was bare, and for an instant he caught sight of flesh that was puckered and textured, as if diseased.  But before he could say anything in response Delem focused his hard gaze on Benzan once again, and the tiefling felt another chill as magical power flowed through the man’s words.

“Give me the statue, Benzan.”  At the tiefling’s look of confusion, he added, “The black statue of the six-fingered man.  I know you carry it, secure in the bottom of your pouch.  I can feel it on you—a prized possession that you never let out of your grasp, even if your conscious mind has all but forgotten its presence.  Give it to me.”

Before he realized it Benzan had reached down and opened the leather script that hung at his side.  Sure enough, the statuette was there, roughly wrapped in a strip of burlap.  True to Delem’s words, he had not even thought about it in a long time, yet it had always been there, close at hand, through all his travels.  

“Give it to me!”

Delem’s voice shattered his reverie—Benzan realized that he was standing there, holding the statuette in his hands, the world around him faded into the background.  Delem’s face shone with an eager expression, and his hands reached out for the object, although he still had not come close enough to be within the tiefling’s reach.  

Benzan hesitated.  The statue felt warm in his hands, even through the layer of burlap shrouding it from view.  He could feel a competing tug of sensations inside him, could feel the wash of Delem’s magic urging him to comply, and a counterbalancing tug whose source he could not identify.

And then he heard a shout to his left, up the slope away from the stockade, followed a moment later by a loud cry, and then by another.  The sound seemed to shatter the conflicting strains pulling at him, and he turned back to Delem, who also had drawn back, caution flaring in his expression.  

“What...  what’s happening?” Benzan muttered.

A shout came from the direction of the stockade, closer.  “Benzan!” came Dana’s voice, and in a moment he could see the light of her magical brand, drawing nearer.  The tiefling felt a cold touch of fear clutch in his chest, and he turned back toward Delem, his expression darkening.  

The sorcerer had already retreated back to the edge of the boulders.  “Very well, it looks like we will have to do this the hard way.  You _will_ have to come to me...  I do not hate you, Benzan.  Hate is too costly an emotion, where I have come from.  But I will enjoy our next meeting!”

“Delem...”

“Go to her, ‘friend,’ but you will remember nothing of our encounter here.  Go!”  

Benzan felt the familiar tingle of another magical _suggestion_, and even as he tried to hold onto his memory, it vanished even as the sorcerer faded away from sight.  He shook his head, confused, looking down at the object in his hand as if wondering how it had gotten there.  Then the voice came again, shaking him back into awareness of the present. 

“Benzan!”  

She had drawn close enough to see him, but he had already shoved the wrapped bundle back into his script, and even as he turned he was stringing his bow.  “What’s happening?” he said.  

She was breathless from running, the flickering light of the illusory flame outlining her features.  “An attack...”


----------



## Horacio

Wow!

Simply, wow!

Wonderful!


----------



## wolff96

See, *THIS* is why anyone with a weak will save should take Iron Will.  

After all, reflex saves can hurt you. Fortitude saves can kill you. But only will saves can &%^$ with your brain.

Great update, LB!


----------



## Maldur

Holy gods, THAt was even worse than a cliffhanger.

LB, your awesome!


----------



## LuYangShih

Well, I just finished reading this, and I have to say, I'm impressed.  This is the best Forgotten Realms story I've ever read, and it's one of the best stories period I've ever read.  I love everything you've written here, and this is one of my favorite types of stories, the type where I love the vilians even more than the heroes.

The way you set up your villians, as well as their motivations and actions, is inspired.  They're devious, ruthless, cunning, calcuating and coldly effecient.  I was so certain when the two Riders in Red were fleeing they would escape, yet a relatively minor villiain in your story managed to slay them with simple tactical knowledge and effeciency.  

It's great to see villians who don't trip over their own two feet at every opportunity, giving Heroes the edge they need to win.  I really feel your characters have had to struggle for every victory they've won, and you've really done a great job with all your villians.  The anticipation for more updates is almost killing me, and I'm a bit dissapointed that I will now have to wait every week for a new chapter in this amazing story instead of the non stop reading I've been doing.

I'm especially impressed with what you're doing with the corrupted hero archetype.  I always loved that quote from Planescape:Torment "Time lays waste to all things".  I seriously doubt anyone could retain any semblance of morality or compassion if subjected to that kind of mental and physical pressure for that long.  

I can barely wait for the next part, and I have to say this is simply incredible once again.  May the villians prevail!


----------



## Lazybones

Thank you LuYangShih, and welcome to the story.  Of the many things I've written, I think _Travels_ has been the most fun (probably why I've done it for so long... I never initially intended to go beyond a single Book).  Or maybe I'm just addicted to the positive feedback 

RE your comments in the Rogues' Gallery: I had originally given Delem another two levels in the AotS prestige class, but for plot reasons, I later decided that I didn't want him to have access to 5th level spells just yet. 



			
				LuYangShih said:
			
		

> *The anticipation for more updates is almost killing me, and I'm a bit dissapointed that I will now have to wait every week for a new chapter in this amazing story instead of the non stop reading I've been doing.*



Not so!  I update 3-4 times a week (very boring job with small gaps between major projects = time to write).



> *May the villians prevail!   *



You're going to like what's coming. 

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 48

Lariel urged his companions on the wood-cutting detail to hasten, as twilight settled around them, the already dim light of the gray day deepening inexorably to black.  With his low-light vision, he would be able to see clearly for some time yet, but the humans he was with would soon be effectively blind.  Well, if it came down to it he still had his _light_ spell, though he’d rather not be carrying such a beacon in this place.  Although the valley had been almost eerily quiet over the last few days, without so much as a bird or a mouse to shatter the emptiness, there was an uneasy air that the elf could sense even before his visits to the dark tunnel and its warding statutes.  To him used to the rhythms of the natural world, this place seemed alien, unnatural. 

While the cutters worked quickly and efficiently, as eager to be back within the shelter of the stockade as the elf, Lariel kept watch with an arrow fitted to his bowstring.  It took some doing to find wood that was not soaked beyond use, but the townsfolk worked hard and soon had gathered six armfuls of usable fuel onto a simple tarp they laid out beneath the shelter of an overhanging boulder.  

Except when they gathered to depart, only five of them were present. 

“Where’s Narleth?” Lariel asked.  The townsfolk exchanged a worried glance, and one of them, a grizzled farrier with a good half-century under his belt, shook his head.  

“He was right behind me, I swear.  We were just over by that tree over there.”  He indicated a leaning scrub tree that had been half-toppled by the storm, with half of its exposed roots hacked away by the workmen.

“Could be he slipped, brained himself on a rock,” one of the others suggested.  “Damn near did that myself a dozen times already.”

Lariel frowned.  Already the details of the tree were growing indistinct even to his vision, and he’d be surprised if the humans saw anything more than a shadow.  Still, he gestured for them to wait for him, while he took up his bow—still carefully covered under his cloak against the rain—and nimbly made his way across the slope toward the leaning tree.  Behind him, the other men clutched unfamiliar weapons nervously and stared out into the gathering gloom.  

It didn’t take the agile elf long to make his way to the tree, nor did it take him long to find out what had happened to the missing man.  Narleth—what was left of him—was crammed into a narrow gap under the tree’s remnant, his torso torn by a dozen long gashes.  His face, left intact, bore a look of utter terror.  

The elf felt a prickling down his spine, punctuated a moment later by a shout from the woodcutters.  Even as the elf leapt up and over the bulk of the tree, that shout was followed by a cry of pain, and then another, more desperate wail.  

Lariel’s sharp eyes made out a chaos of moving bodies, as the townsfolk tried to get away from whatever it was that had ambushed them.  There—he saw it, a squat black form that seemed to wear the shadows around it like a cloak.  It lashed out with claws already wet with more than rain at a fleeing man, dragging him down as it tore into his back.  Another was already leaning hard against a boulder, clutching his side, and the rest were bent only on escape.  A hobgoblin shortsword lay abandoned in the mud; if it had had any effect on the creature, it showed no sign of it as it eagerly pressed its attack.  

It was a difficult shot, with the motion and the dim light and the rain, but Lariel didn’t hesitate.  The arrow came to his cheek in a smooth motion, and even as he felt the energy imparted by his magical bow tingle down the long shaft he fired.  The shot was true, slamming hard into the short creature’s shoulder, and it hurt it, by the way that it reared up and let out a feral cry of pain.  

But that was nothing compared to the reaction among the townsfolk.  As one they screamed out in sudden agony, even those already a good ten paces away.  The one leaning against the boulder suddenly jerked back as if struck, and he fell limply to the muddy ground.  Another spun around in his flight and lost his footing, skidding hard until he bounced up against a cluster of protruding stones.  None escaped the effect, and Lariel himself felt it, a sudden twinge at his shoulder that faded quickly.  

A pain at exactly the same point where he’d struck the creature.

The creature snarled at him, and started away, darting quickly across the muddy slope despite the long shaft jutting from its shoulder.  Lariel had instinctively drawn and readied a second shot, but even as he aimed he hesitated.  Several of the men of his party were still moving, though most were down, clutching their shoulders in pain.  Another shot, while it might kill the creature, might kill them as well...

Reluctantly, he lowered his bow, and hurried toward them.  The creature seemed content to withdraw, and soon it had vanished into the gathering night.  

Lariel collected those who still lived—the man whom the creature had attacked was dead, as was the one who’d been leaning against the boulder—and they headed back toward the camp.  On the way they met Cal and Lok, who had come in response to the shouts, and with their help they brought the wounded men back into the shelter of the stockade.  

Night descended over the valley, as the storm continued.


----------



## Maldur

They are in so much trouble!!

thx LB.

LuYangShih couldn't say it better! the travellers have to work hard for their victories. (but it seems they have met their match)


----------



## Broccli_Head

Nasty little demon with that trick!


----------



## Rugger

Ah, the Jovoc demons...heh.

I used a pack of these against my 12ish level party, and the first area-effect spell the wizard cast nearly wrecked the whole party.

It was beautiful. Much like your Story Hour LB. 

Eagerly awaiting the next part....

-Rugger
"I Lurk!"


----------



## wolff96

Those sound like fun!

Where can I find them?

And another great update to add to your many, LB...


----------



## Rugger

The Jovoc Demons and their wonderful "Aura of Butt-whooping Transference" (my paraphrasing) are in the MM 2.

Just to drive home how cool they are...they can hack at each other and damage the PC's  (They have Fast Healing 5 or so)

They're Jovocriffic!

-Rugger
" I Lurk!"


----------



## Horacio

hmmm, demons... Things look bad...


----------



## LuYangShih

So, why not give him Fighter levels?    Seriously, I understand, I was just a bit puzzled as, from what I know of the Blood War, anyone who spent that long fighting in it and lived would have to be at least 16th-20th level.  Still, my knowledge of all of that is limited and Delem is intimidating enough as it is.  


It's great that you update so often.  I really love reading this stuff.  These Demons rock.  I'll have to pick up the MM2.


----------



## LuYangShih

Hey, I was browsing through the Rules forum, and I came across this link;  http://www.wizards.com/dnd/article.asp?x=dnd/ei/ei20021208a 

If Delem lasts long enough against the Heroes, maybe he'll get some of that.    Seriously, I'm very intrigued by the Acolyte Of The Skin PrC.  I'm a warrior man myself, but this class is really unique and interesting to me.


----------



## Talindra

whew......I haven't posted in a really long time, but I'm still here.  Life got in the way, but I have finally caught up on my story hour reading, and I have to say that this is the only story hour that holds my attention no matter what.  Lazybones, you are an amazing writer, and even if I disappear for a while, I will always be back for more!


----------



## Lazybones

Epic characters...  interesting stuff on the epic PrCs, but I've already decided that Book 8 will mark the end of _Travels_.  I've already got the main plotline established and I can promise an _epic_ (not in the ELH sense, though) conclusion to the saga.    

I'm glad you like the jovoc; that's one nasty little guy.  Inspired by the story and the reaction to it, I've just implemented a jovoc in my newest Neverwinter Nights module.  I took a large gnome model, turned its skin pure black, and gave it a custom outfit that turned part of its arms and hands bright red.  It looks very scary (if small!).  The Aura of Retribution power isn't available in NWN, but I think I might be able to script it without too much trouble.  Until then, I gave it +5 Vampiric Regeneration, so whenever it hits a foe, it sucks the life out of em... heh heh.  The lion and assassin demons from the MM2 will also likely make an appearance in the module, since they'll be pretty easy to convert over.  

For more info on my and many other great NWN campaigns, visit www.neverwinterconnections.com. 

Glad to see you back, Talindra!  Perfect timing, especially since we're heading for a direct confrontation between your favorite character and our present villain/victim!

And tomorrow's Friday, so you know what that means.  But first, today's update: 


* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 49

“A fiend of some sort, by your description,” Cal said. 

He and his companions sat around a flickering fire inside one of the huts.  They were alone—all agreed that including the survivors of Asbravn in their discussion would likely only induce a panic.  Already they had stationed double guards around the stockade, although they would be of dubious utility in the darkness if the small black creature returned.  

“At least I hurt it,” Lariel said.  “It might elect not to return tonight.”

“It sounds like a canny beast,” Cal said thoughtfully.  “It avoided the one foe that could truly hurt it, and struck in such a way to draw you away from the others.”

Benzan, on the other side of the fire, frowned, his face wearing a deeply thoughtful expression that he’d had since they’d returned here.  Every now again he would shake his head, as if disagreeing with some imaginary conversant.  Dana, sitting beside him, covertly shot worried looks in his direction, but the others, confronted with more immediate concerns, continued their exchange.  

“It would seem that we are not alone here after all,” Lok said.  “Logically, this thing came from beyond those statues in the underground complex.”

“Yes,” Lariel said.  “But we still have no way to go after it.”

“In any case there’s little we can do about it tonight.  I suggest we all take turns on watch—it’ll be a long night, and even with the help from the townsfolk I’m not comfortable with our abilities to defend the wall.  We’ve done what we can to make the huts secure, but we’ll need to be able to respond quickly to an alarm.  At least the rain finally seems to be easing off some, so we should be able to keep torches lit in the center of the camp.  With that, at least, hopefully we can spot anything trying to come over the wall before it can get inside.”

“Benzan, are you up to sitting first watch?  Your darkvision will be a useful aid.”

The tiefling looked distracted, and only belatedly realized that they were all looking at him.  “Um, yeah, all right.”

Lariel nodded.  “I’ll watch too.  I don’t think I’ll be able to rest much anyway, not after seeing that... _thing..._”  

“I’ll stay up too,” Dana said, with a meaningful glance at Benzan.  The tiefling, however, did not notice, wrapped up again in whatever mental puzzle had distracted him earlier. 

“No, Dana, you need to rest,” Cal told her.  “You used your powers heavily today, and I have no doubt that we will require Selûne’s watchful intervention again tomorrow.”

With that, they retired to their bedrolls or to their watch positions.  Those townsfolk not confined within the cramped space of the huts took up their stations with apprehension clearly written on their faces.  Lariel and Benzan checked the wall and set torches, and the camp settled down to an uneasy rest.  

* * * * * 

Dana stirred uneasily in her sleep, groaning softly as images tormented her.  It was a familiar nightmare, one that featured dark places and torments not quite seen out of the corner of her eye.  Through it she could hear Delem, alternately calling out in pain for her aid one moment, and then angrily berating her for abandoning him the next.  She kept walking the dream, shifting from one locale to the next, unable to trace the voice to its source, with each further step feeling increasingly mired in an oppressive sense of helplessness and despair.  

Then, with a shift so abrupt that it jarred her even within the dream, she was someplace... _different_.  She was in a vague expanse of muted outlines and soft colors, a place that felt curiously unfinished.  The dread she had felt was gone, and with it the memories of the nightmare faded, replaced by a soft feeling of comfort.  This was like a womb, in the comforting embrace of a familiar mother.  

She drifted for a time, then something began to take on a distinct form ahead of her.  It was a familiar sight, a dark tunnel warded by a pair of stone statues carved from the lintel stones of the opening.  In the real world, being in this place had produced feelings of uneasiness; here, there was just the faintest twinge at the edges of her thoughts.  

_What am I doing here?_ she thought.  

As if in answer, a voice sounded in the back of her mind, filling her.  _You will be tested, daughter, drawn into a confrontation that will be more of a trial than you have yet faced.  You must be strong, and trust yourself, or you will fall far, beyond the reach of the light..._ 

The words sifted into her consciousness, but here in the dream she felt only a vague confusion at their meaning.  The voice continued.  

_The Guardians are strong, silent sentinels that have watched since a time when the world was young.  But they are creatures of darkness that cannot withstand the Mother’s light._

The image before her dissolved, and she was falling away, the dream drifting apart from her.  With regret, she drifted herself, unable to do anything but be carried back toward wakefulness.  

She opened her eyes.  The hut was quiet, dark, the sound of rain on the roof above mercifully absent.  Silently she gathered her cloak and stole from the hut, out into the camp.  It was still late, deep in the night, and a silence hung over the valley like an all-encompassing presence. Around the edge of the hut she could just see Lok, Cal, and a number of the townsfolk keeping watch in the center of the camp.  Torches flickered around the perimeter, banishing the shadows back to the stockade, where darkness loomed around them like a wall.  

Her gaze was drawn upward, to the vast gray expanse of the night sky.  There, like a slash, was a rift in the clouds that seemed to widen as she watched.  From within that opening glimmered the brilliance of the moon, Selûne’s heavenly form currently half-full, a bulging crescent that cast a faint luminance upon her face.  She closed her eyes and gloried in that touch, could feel the power in that pale light.  

She had not slept long, perhaps half the night, but she felt fresh and rested.  Careful not to disturb the watchers, she walked a short distance away, her bare feet squishing in the mud, and knelt upon a bare spot of earth.  Her cloak fell back, exposing her shoulders, and the moonlight seemed to make her skin glow.  

Opening her mind to her goddess, Dana prayed.


----------



## LuYangShih

No epic action?  Damn.  Ah well.  Nice update, but I want more Demon Action!


----------



## Lazybones

LuYangShih said:
			
		

> *No epic action?  Damn.  Ah well.  Nice update, but I want more Demon Action!   *



And you shall have it!  Friday cliffhanger!

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 50

The night passed uneventfully, and with the dawn came the brightest day they had seen in some time.  Although lingering clouds covered most of the sky above, the storm had pressed on to the east, into the depths of the Sunset Mountains.  

By the time that the full light of the day had dawned over the valley, it revealed the five companions already trudging across the muddy slope toward the dark tunnel in the cliff face.  They moved silently with grim determination.  There was no need for conversation at this point; they had discussed their plans over a hasty predawn breakfast in the shelter of their hut, and were now committed to uncovering the mystery of this place once and for all.

Once more they moved into the dark passage, leaving the outer world behind them.  Dana’s magical brand pushed back the darkness, and they moved down the familiar length of corridor to the threshold where the two stone guardians waited.  

There was no hesitation.  Dana stepped forward, and boldly called upon the power of her goddess, speaking the words of a prayer with a force that echoed them through the room and down the corridor to fade into nothing.  There was a faint crackling in the air as the divine energy flowed through her, and a beam of liquid moonlight, identical to the radiance that she had soaked up the night before, erupted from her hands and played over the statues.  

A groaning noise filled the air, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once, and they thought they could hear the faintest echo of a shriek, gone so quickly that they were not certain they had not imagined it.  But then, with an audible crack, the stone forms of both statues snapped, a long line a finger’s breadth across opening down the middle of their bodies, stone dust falling to the floor in motes that gleamed in the light of Dana’s moonlight.  Then silence returned to the room, as Dana’s spell ended and the illumination faded to the light of her torch.  

Benzan stepped forward warily, until he reached the entrance of the corridor.  “The ward, it’s gone,” he reported.  

With the tiefling in the lead, the companions pressed on, deeper into the complex.  The second tunnel was of the same construction as the outer area, smooth walls and right angles despite the absence of any signs of toolwork or deliberate carving.  But as they moved deeper into the mountain the stone itself seemed to change, darkening until it was almost black.  

After an interminable time and distance, the corridor opened onto a small room, perhaps ten paces to a side.  The place was absolutely bare, absent even of dust that could identify whether someone had come this way recently.  Two passages identical to the one through which they’d entered led away, and after an inconclusive scan of both they took the tunnel to their left.  

“We’re going down,” Lok reported after they’d covered a short distance.  “The slope is very faint, but it’s there.”  

“Seems like a lot of effort, to make such long corridors,” Cal offered.

No one else offered comments as they pressed on.  The mood in this place was heavy, oppressive.  Benzan, ten paces ahead of them, gestured back for them to slow, and a moment later Dana’s light revealed that the passage opened onto a larger space ahead.  

They passed through another lintel of massive blocks of undressed stone to enter a large chamber.  This one was easily a hundred paces across and at least that in depth, as the edges of their light was reached before they could see the far wall.  Fat squared pillars rose in twin rows across the room, forming corridors to either side of the central avenue before them.  There was no detailed stonework, no decoration or embellishment, only the same rough angles and simple, massive construction. 

Benzan had already crossed to the nearest pillar on their right.  “There’s a number of exits to the side, more corridors,” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to echo in the vastness of this space. 

“Let’s continue, and search here, before we move on,” Cal suggested.  “Stay together.”

They pressed ahead, staying to the central avenue, checking to the sides as they went.  They marked each side passage they passed warily, but nothing emerged from the darkness to threaten them.  Finally, the creeping edge of their light revealed an end to the chamber.  Five steep steps of jagged stone led up to a raised dais upon which stood another wide lintel and another dark tunnel.  

“We’re not alone,” Lariel said suddenly, his bow in his hands, an arrow nocked and tension on the string, ready to be drawn and fired at an instant’s notice.  He was at the rear of the group, staring back at the darkness that had caught up behind them.  

Then they could all sense it, the faintest hint of scraping on the stone, hints of movement in the surrounding shadows.  Close, but not near enough for revelation by the light.  Dana held the torch up high, driving back the darkness a pace further, but within that ring of illumination only they moved.  

“Look!” Cal hissed in warning.  

They turned back to the dark tunnel ahead, atop the dais, where a light had appeared out of nowhere.  For a moment they could not identify it, then, suddenly, it resolved into a gaunt humanoid form, wreathed in a nimbus of living flames, that stepped forward into the chamber.  Beside it, difficult to mark against the presence of the other, trod the squat demon that they had encountered earlier.  At least it looked like the same creature; there was no sign of the wound that Lariel had inflicted upon it.  

The two demons fixed the companions with baleful looks, but they made no move to attack.  The companions readied weapons and spells, but held their ground.  And then, behind the demons, a third figure stepped into the room.  

He appeared unremarkable in contrast to the two monstrosities that flanked him, a man in a dark cloak that covered his face in a heavy cowl.  Beneath the cloak his torso was bare, the light Dana’s from torch and his own burning companion revealing scars that crisscrossed his lean, muscular frame.  

“All right, demon-worshipper, we’ve come...” Cal began.

The man atop the dais suddenly threw back his cowl.  Lok, Dana, and Cal stood transfixed, stunned by the revelation of their former friend, restored to life by some power unknown to them.  

Delem threw back his head and laughed, a dry, inhuman cackle that filled the chamber with dread.  

“Delem!” Lok cried, at the same time that Dana screamed something incoherent in a wrenching sob.  Cal simply stood there as if poleaxed, and Lariel, uncertain what this portended, hovered warily, his bow twitching slightly in his hand.  

Benzan, however, staggered as if struck by a blow, as memory flooded back in.  “He’s evil!” he cried.  “He came to me last night, he wants the demon statue!  He’s in league with them!  He cast some sort of spell on me, to forget...”

“Well done, Benzan,” Delem laughed.  “Warning your friends just _after_ they’ve stepped into the trap.” 

“Delem!” Dana sobbed, approaching hysteria.  “Delem!”  Lok held her tightly, his solid arm around her body the only thing that kept her from rushing forward.  

“How can this be?” Cal asked, finally able to speak.  

“You mean you haven’t guessed?  You knew what had happened to me, where I’d been condemned to by the ghour, you abandoned me to my fate, and you think that I would simply wait, unharmed, _unchanged_, for you to get around to doing something about it?  YOU THOUGHT IT WOULD ALL BE LIKE IT WAS BEFORE?”  

“Behind us,” Lariel whispered, as dark forms emerged at the edges of their light, hovering there, waiting.  The companions, however, were caught up in the scene unfolding before them.  

“Delem, no—”

“It is too late.”  The sorcerer’s head lowered, and his voice came out as a strangled hiss.  “Kossuth has abandoned me.  I serve a new Master now.”

His hand came up.  The demons tensed.  Benzan shouted a warning, even as the flames erupted in the sorcerer’s hand.  

“Fireball!”


----------



## Maldur

Nooooooooooooooo, another cliffhanger


----------



## LuYangShih

What can I say, except...  WOW!  Impressive, most impressive.  I've never enjoyed reading a story more.  The way you write these characters and the scenes is nothing short of brilliant.  I'm shocked you haven't been picked up by a publisher yet, with such talent.  Really, great writeup, I eagerly await the next post.


----------



## Broccli_Head

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *
> ught up in the scene unfolding before them.
> 
> “Delem, no—”
> 
> “It is too late.”  The sorcerer’s head lowered, and his voice came out as a strangled hiss.  “Kossuth has abandoned me.  I serve a new Master now.”
> 
> His hand came up.  The demons tensed.  Benzan shouted a warning, even as the flames erupted in the sorcerer’s hand.
> 
> “Fireball!” *




This is one of the best cliffhangers, yet!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 51

Delem had counted upon the shock of his sudden appearance to give him the upper hand, as he called upon his innate magical powers to summon a powerful _fireball_.  

But since they had lost their friend to the Abyss, the companions had been through a number of deadly trials, and their instincts were honed by hard experience.  Cal had been as hard hit as any of them by Delem’s revelation as any of the others, with the possible exception of Dana.  But even as Benzan shouted his warning, and the _fireball_ formed in Delem’s hand, he fired off the _dispel magic_ that he had readied.  The countermagic sliced through the weaves of Delem’s casting like a knife cutting parchment, and the spell dissolved with a harsh sizzle.  Delem’s eyes widened in sudden surprise.

But there was no time for more negotiation or discussion, as chaos erupted around them.  

Shadowed forms leapt forward from the darkness around them.  As they came fully into the light they were revealed as hobgoblin warriors.  At least at first glance; as they came nearer the companions could see the clammy grayness of their skin, and the fiery pits that burned in their eyes.  

Undead, then.  Coming from behind and from the sides, there were perhaps a dozen in all.

With battle joined, Lok released Dana, after first pushing the distraught woman behind him into the center of their group.  He charged the dais, his axe coming up into a ready position for his first attack.  

The fiery demon, the palrethree, leapt forward to meet him.  The flames wreathing its body flared up, promising hurt to anyone that would dare to attack it, but Lok simply barreled in and laid into it with a powerful stroke of his axe that cut deeply into its torso.  The demon, clearly hurt, staggered, as hot ichor fell onto the stone to hiss and smoke.

On the opposite flank, Benzan faced a pair of undead hobgoblins that rushed in from the side with incredible speed, but even as he drew his sword he was distracted by the other demon.  The little jovoc demon leapt down the steps of the dais, slashing at Benzan with its long three-clawed hands.  The claws failed to penetrate the excellent protection of his mithral chainmail, and without thinking he slashed at the short creature with his blade. 

Too late, he remembered.  

His magically enhanced sword cut deeply into the creature’s body, drawing a high-pitched keen from its bloated mouth.  He realized his mistake instantly as pain erupted through his body, radiating out from the exact spot where he’d struck the creature.  Cries from his companions reinforced his mistake, as they too suffered the effects of the demon’s wound.  What was worse, he could already see the gap in the demon’s flesh starting to close, the flow of black ichor ceasing as its unholy constitution started to restore its injured body. 

“Benzan!” Cal cried.  “Remember the plan!” 

Gritting his teeth, Benzan turned and slashed at one of the hobgoblins, barely ducking the overhead slash of its sword.  For being dead, it seemed to have no hindrance to its fighting ability, fighting with the same speed and skill it had possessed in life.  Its companion used the distraction to come at Benzan from behind and thrust its sword into his side, digging through mail links to cause a minor wound.  

In the rear of the group, Lariel fired his bow with amazing rapidity.  The first undead hobgoblin fell while it was still barely at the edge of their light, a full ten paces away, and the second crumpled with two arrows jutting from its chest just two steps from the deadly elven archer.  Still more came, four threatening him from all sides, but somehow he managed to avoid all of their attacks while darting backward, drawing them after him while continuing to ply his bow. 

Of course, the _mage armor_ he’d conjured up earlier helped a great deal, as did his incredible dexterity. 

Cal, recognizing the danger posed by the demons—and by his former friend—lifted his hand and called upon the power of his ring.  The jovoc demon suddenly jerked up into the air, flying quickly into a corner of the room until it hovered in a corner high above them. 

“Lariel!” the gnome cried. 

The arcane archer saw and planted his feet, drawing and firing.  Electrically charged arrows darted through the air like lightning, slamming into the body of the pinned jovoc.  Helplessly writhing, far enough away so that its aura of retribution could not harm them, the demon quailed and finally fell still, its ability to heal quickly not sufficient to aid it against death.  

Their plan had removed one foe, but both Cal and Lariel paid a dear price.  Lariel’s enemies swarmed on him, and even though he tried to dodge away, he took a pair of hits that tore through his defenses and left deep gashes across his body.  Perhaps worse, they surrounded him, leaving him no way to use his bow without suffering further attacks from their blades.  

Grimacing, the archer dropped his bow and drew his sword. 

His mood would have been darker if he’d seen the first undead creature he’d dropped stirring, slowly getting up again.  

Meanwhile, Delem pointed at the gnome, and shouted, “That’s _my_ ring!” He called upon his magic once more, and this time Cal could do nothing to stop it as a raging inferno of red-hot flames sprang up in a wall right in the midst of the companions.  Dana dove to the side, her natural agility taking her out of the _wall of fire_, although she still suffered from the heat radiating from the flames.  

Cal, however, protected by the druidic amulet granted him by Zev in the Reaching Wood, stood within the flames, sweating but otherwise intact.  And furthermore, the undead hobgoblins that had been coming toward him, lacking any such protection, were driven back.  One was too slow to avoid the fire, and it fell in a burning heap, lost within the roaring flames.  

“A poor tactical move, my friend!” Cal cried, and Delem screeched in anger.  

The palrethee demon had suffered a heavy blow from Lok’s first attack, and it looked as though the demon stood little chance in the face of the genasi’s incredible battle skills.  But demons rarely fought fair, and this specimen was no exception.  Calling upon its innate abilities, it released a wave of cold _fear_ that swept over the companions.  

Lok, toughened by the discipline he’d learned since earning the title of dwarven defender, nonetheless could not stand against that evil magic.  He fell back, stumbling on the steps behind him, while the demon, cackling an infernal laugh, lashed out at him with a clawed hand.  The blow was not serious, drawing shallow gashes across Lok’s cheek, but the demon’s hand trailed liquid flames that clung to the genasi like alchemist’s fire, and as he fled, he burned.  

The spellcasters resisted the effects of the demonfear, shrugging off its power with the strength of their disciplined minds. 

For Benzan, however, it just wasn’t his day when it came to tests of will.  The tiefling had held his own, even when a third undead hobgoblin came up to threaten him.  His first foe, already injured by a deep thrust, went down when his second attack sank the full length of the sword into its chest.  Twice slain, the hobgoblin crumpled.  The other two flanked him and attacked again, but the tiefling spun into a sudden counter that took off one’s arm at the elbow.  Their own attacks were potent, but once more his magical armor absorbed the force of the blows.  

And that’s when the demonfear came over him.  Trembling, he drew back, taking a glancing hit to the face in the process that spun him around.  Blood from the gash in his forehead trailed down into his eyes, threatening to blind him, and for a moment everything swam out of focus around him.  

Dana, ignoring the heat of the flames at her back, called upon the power of the goddess.  Channeling that font of power, she directed some of her own strength into Lok and Benzan, bolstering them against the fear.  Benzan seemed to recover, turning to deflect another sword-thrust just in time, but even with Dana’s bolstering Lok could not apparently shake free of the mind-altering power of the demon, and he all but fell down the steps, staggering away from the dais.  One of the undead hobgoblins, unable to get to Cal, instead pursued the fleeing genasi.  

The demon, still cackling despite the ichor that dripped down its body from the wound Lok had cut in it, turned from its foe and leapt forward from the dais, its claws outstretched toward Dana.  

Lariel was being hard-pressed, as his foes swarmed on him and attacked from all directions.  He’d managed to drop one with a swing that tore through the tendons of its leg, although it still twitched and tried to get up.  The other three, however, were relentless in their attacks, and he’d taken another pair of hits that only his magical defenses and quick moves had kept from being fatal.  Still, despite his skill with the sword, it looked as though only one outcome could end here, with four wounds already draining his lifesblood upon the stone.  

Then, suddenly, the elf felt a sudden rush of energy fill him.  His slowing movements became even faster than before, and it was as if the thrusting blades had suddenly started to move in slow motion, so quickly did he dart in between the attacks to avoid injury.  His own sword lanced out and touched a hobgoblin on the throat—so quick it seemed like just a touch, but then the hobgoblin’s head leaned back, and back... and fell from its shoulders to the ground.  

Sparing only a quick salute to Cal for the _haste_ spell, Lariel fell to the task of hacking his undead foes to pieces.  

Cal had advanced to the forward edge of the _wall of fire_, as the heat of the flames was starting to work through the defense provided by Zev’s amulet.  Apparently the heat only radiated out in one direction, as the undead had advanced close to the rear side of the wall, careful to stay clear of the flames themselves.  After helping Lariel, he turned back to the front of the room in time to see the palrethee demon tear into Dana, driving her back toward the raging _wall of fire_.  Dana dodged one claw only to scream as the second tore deeply into her side, drawing lines of fire that continued to smolder even as she darted to the side.  It laughed as it came at her again, too close for her to bring her spear around effectively.  But she suddenly stopped, turning to face its rush.  Even as it reached for her again with its claws, she called upon the strength of her patron and spoke two words that reverberated with power. 

“Be.  Gone.”  

The demon shuddered as the _dismissal_ spell wracked it, and it shrieked as it seemed to crumble in upon itself, dwindling to a point that vanished as if it had never been there at all.  

“Enjoy your trip back to the Abyss, fiend,” she grunted, clutching the burning wound in her side.  

Delem, shorn of his demonic allies, fell back to the dark tunnel, his earlier confidence replaced by a torn indecision.  As he ran back into the darkness, disappearing from view, Dana’s cry trailed after him.

“Delem!”

The mystic wanderer was after him in a flash, her magical boots adding length to her stride so that she all but flew up the steps of the dais and into the dark passage.  As she ran she drew out her magical torch, the light of its _continual flame_ driving back the shadows.  

“Dana, wait!” Benzan yelled.  He cursed as the hobgoblins came at him again, trying to take advantage of even the momentary distraction, but with an angry curse he dropped one with a powerful stroke to the body that would have left a living foe gasping out its last breaths upon the floor.  Even the undead creature was hard hit, although it was already trying to get up again.  

“Go!” Cal cried, blasting the tiefling’s second foe with an _acid arrow_ from his wand.  Half of the undead hobgoblin’s face melted away as the vicious acid ate away at its decayed flesh, but it continued to attack, chopping with its sword like a cleaver.  Benzan, however, was already running after Dana, and the blow narrowly missed him. 

With the banishment of the palrethee back to its plane of origin the effects of its evil spell faded, and Lok turned on the undead creature that had been harrowing his retreat.  He’d dropped his axe back on the dais, but he simply grabbed the creature, ignoring the blow from its mace that glanced harmlessly off his heavy plate armor.  Flexing his superhuman muscles, the genasi roared and slammed the undead creature into a nearby pillar.  The impact filled the chamber with a sick cracking sound, and the undead fell limply for a moment.  But then it started to squirm, the corrupted lifeforce that drove it unwilling to vacate the ruined husk that housed it. 

Lariel, on the far side of the room, had already come to the same conclusion.  With Cal’s _haste_ greatly enhancing the speed of his attacks, he’d dished out enough damage to fell a dozen living warriors.  Several of his undead foes were crawling on the ground, their bodies ravaged by the elf’s sword beyond the point at which they could stand, but they continued to fight toward him, refusing to relinquish their assault.  He continued to hack at them, but the ones he’d dropped earlier with his arrows were already stirring again, getting back up as the dark energies of this place restored the fragile shells of their corporeal forms.  

“They’re regenerating!” he shouted in warning to the others.  He spun out of the way of a clumsy thrust from a one-armed foe just in time to face the one he’d decapitated earlier, the headless hobgoblin staggering uncertainly but inexorably to its feet, already reaching for its dagger.  Lariel continued past it, slashing deeply into its leg as he passed.  The blow knocked it off its feet once more, but it barely hesitated before trying again to rise. 

“The fire!” Cal yelled, even as a pair of the undead, braving the hot side of the wall of roaring flames, came around and leapt at the gnome.  Cal simply darted back through the wall, accepting the wave of heat that made it through the defense of his druidic amulet.  The undead warriors, foiled once more, were already circling back around the perimeter of the wall, their flesh blackening from the force of the heat.  

Lariel and Lok instantly recognized Cal’s strategy, and without hesitation they moved to put it into play.  Lok picked up the faintly struggling form of the foe he’d just smashed and ran back toward his companions.  The hobgoblin had just managed to recover enough to start clawing at the genasi’s face when Lok hurled him forcefully into the roaring flames.  A harsh, inhuman scream filled the chamber, and then abruptly died.  

Lariel, meanwhile, had lured his foes to the “cold” edge of the wall.  One of the few that could still move freely came at him with an overhead swing of his axe.  The elf ducked and twisted toward his foe, suffering a gash to the back of his shoulder as the axe came down through his defenses, but then he was inside its reach, and with his superior speed used the hobgoblin’s own momentum to drive him forward into the wall of flames, joining its erstwhile comrade in oblivion.  

The hobgoblins did not relent even in the face of certain destruction, but between Lok’s strength, Lariel’s agility, and Cal flinging _acid arrows_ at a few stragglers, it was only a matter of moments before all of their foes were permanently destroyed.  

As the roaring flames of the _wall of fire_ faded, the energy of Delem’s spell spent, the three companions turned toward the dark tunnel.  Lariel paused only to drink a healing potion, and recovered his bow while the other two moved to the dark opening. 

“Come on,” Cal said.  

Hastening, the three followed their companions into the darkness.


----------



## Broccli_Head

Wow! the heroes are good!

I loved it when Dana dismissed the demon...and when Cal dispelled Delem's initial fireball. 

They sent evil Delem packin'. Maybe he'll reconsider now!


----------



## Maldur

wow


----------



## wolff96

First off, that's an awesome update, LB.

Second, I find something funny...

Delem chastises the heroes for thinking that he would still be exactly the same as he used to be, despite all the intervening time he spent in hell.

And then he begins using Fireball, Wall of Fire, and all his other fire-based arsenal. 

Heh. Looks like the heroes aren't the only ones who underestimated the power that their adversary had to command...


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 52


Dana rushed down the length of the corridor, yet another long passageway with darkness receding from the light of her torch as she ran.  In her haste to catch up with Delem she was heedless of another ambush. 

Perhaps, deep down, a part of her remained convinced that the young man she remembered would not, could not, bring himself to harm her, despite what Benzan had said.  Her head was swimming with all the revelations that had suddenly been dumped onto her, and her blood still pounded with the intensity of combat.  There was no denying that Delem had been in league with those demons, that he had tried to kill them.  But maybe he, too, had been caught up in the intensity of the confrontation, and if she could just catch up to him, speak to him alone...

Distracted by these thoughts, she barely noticed when her light indicated a chamber ahead, and she skidded to a stop right at the threshold that marked the entry to the room.  

The chamber wasn’t very large, a plain cube about fifteen feet on each side, its walls and ceiling formed of the same solid, undressed blocks that made up the rest of the complex.  There were three exits, each leading off in a different direction, but no clues as to which might lead her to her goal. 

Shaking her head angrily, Dana clutched her spear and warily entered the room.  Of course.  She should have caught Delem by now, unless he had mastered a magic to enhance his own speed the way her magical boots did hers.  But there were other ways for a magic-user to escape detection...

She opened her mind to the goddess, without relaxing her attention upon her surroundings.  The osiron was just a minor spell, to detect magical auras, but the response she felt was immediate and nearly overwhelming.  This whole place was at a conflux of currents of power, and even the very walls seemed to throb with reflections of those flows.  She was glad that she hadn’t elected to detect for evil—even without a spell, she could feel the taint that hung over this place like a miasma in the air.  Through an effort of will she focused her mind through the distortions, casting out for more immediate auras. 

There.  It was only a faint residue, gone almost before she could identify it, but it had clearly come from the right-most passage.  Without hesitation, she hurried in that direction.  

This new tunnel was much like the others at first, but soon she could sense a noticeable slant downward, and the passage began to curve to the left, bending back in upon itself in a downward spiral.  She hastened down for about a hundred paces, two hundred for one not wearing magical boots, before the passage straightened again and opened onto another large chamber.  

For a moment, she just stood there, overcome by the darkness.

For it was dark, the chamber filled with a black radiance that seemed to drink up the light of her torch like a splash of water thrown onto cracked sun-baked clay.  But even though the torchlight had been reduced to the radiance of a struggling candle, she could still see, the form of the chamber and its contents revealed as a disorienting negative image of reality, all hard lines and unreal angles.  Her eyes were drawn to a freestanding stone archway that dominated the chamber, the stacked blocks forming an inverted “U” that was filled with what looked like a thin sheet of striated black rock.  Before the arch there was a small object, a squat form that looked like a truncated pillar or pedestal.  In the center of the room there was a summoning circle graven into the rock, and the sight of filled her with a strong feeling of disquiet, reinforced what she knew instantly about this place, even without the aid of a spell. 

Evil.  This place was full of it, awash in it, a taint like oil on a pond, except that in this case the taint suffused the waters of the pond itself, filled the very air she breathed.  She felt a tinge of nausea, and for a moment she had to struggle against a powerful urge to turn and flee from this place, screaming. 

But she remained, and mastered her fear, driven by the need that had tormented her over the last year, by the guilt and the worry and the concern for a friend.  

“You shouldn’t have come here,” his voice came from out of the dark, a short distance away.  

The shadows sloughed off him as he ended his spell, revealing him standing there before her.  The light of her fading torch just reached his face, revealing skin that was pale and marred by ugly scars.  He had been beautiful, once; unspoiled, naïve, if tormented by the legacy of a power that he had not asked for.  She had not been attracted to him in the way that he’d wished, but she’d always respected him, by the common bond born of two forced by circumstance out into a world where things didn’t always make sense.  But that bond seemed shattered, now, as she was forced to confront the dark reality of what he had become. 

But she would still not give up, not without fighting. 

“Whatever’s been done to you, Delem, we can help you.  Remember all the things we’ve faced together, the five of us.  Join with us again, and we can tear you free of this...”

“I am beyond redemption,” he said, interrupting her as he came forward, almost within her reach.  For a long moment they stared at each other, her gaze seeking something in the cold pools of the sorcerer’s eyes. 

“No,” she said, finally.  “No.  I will not give up, Delem.  They’ve done something to you, shackled you, but we will not stop until we have freed your soul.”

He came a step forward, so close that she had to crane her head up slightly to look at him.  Hadn’t they been about the same height, before?  He looked at her, and something flickered in his eyes as he extended a hand toward her face.  His fingers brushed against her cheek, in a gesture that seemed tender.  

“I am sorry, Dana, but it is too late for me.  My very touch is death...”

She drew back in horror and let out a strangled gasp.  She looked up at him, her mouth open to speak, but nothing more than a hiss coming from within.  She clutched at her face, where a black splotch was spreading from the point where his fingers had touched her.

He watched, his eyes cold, as she staggered back a step, and fell, convulsing, to the cold ground.


----------



## Broccli_Head

That's rough.... 

Poor Dana.


----------



## LuYangShih

Delem needs to go to the Lazybones Master Villians Academy and take a crash course.  Those tactics were PATHETIC.  His Demons got waxed in a couple rounds, his spells were useless or helped his enemies...  Bah.  Throwing a Wall Of Fire up when you are using regenerating Undead that can be destroyed by it is insane.  And why wouldn't he just end the spell before he ran off, at least?  Delem has a great villian debonaire, but the Hobgoblins were smarter than he is.


----------



## wolff96

My guess would be that since he didn't create -- or ask for -- the undead, he couldn't care less.

They served their purpose as a nice distraction. That was about it.

----------------------

Poor Dana is right! Failing her saving throw against weak Poison... That's just bad luck, that is.

Nasty description, LB!


----------



## Lazybones

LuYangShih said:
			
		

> *Throwing a Wall Of Fire up when you are using regenerating Undead that can be destroyed by it is insane.*




Um... yes, well that _is_ the point now, isn't it?  I mean, Delem wasn't always 100% "there" to begin with, and after all that he's been through...


----------



## LuYangShih

I meant insane in the "chewing off my clothes and drooling" kind of insane, not "diabloically planning to conquer the world with my massive army of cybernetic trolls" kind of insane.  And he made a classic blunder...  you can _never_ rely on roleplaying considerations to balance game mechanics.  The _fool_!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VII, Part 53


With an angry yell Benzan blasted into the chamber, tearing into Delem even as the sorcerer turned his head toward the onrushing tiefling.  The two collided in a violent rush that barreled both of them toward the center of the chamber.  Both remained standing as they broke apart and turned toward each other, Delem staggering as he clutched a red gash in his side where Benzan’s sword had cut into him.  

“I’ll kill you, you bastard,” Benzan hissed, coming in again without hesitation, his steps moving in a smooth dance, his sword cutting a deadly swath.  

Delem dodged aside, too slow to avoid the strike, but the blade met resistance as it hit again, deflected by a magical field of force.  The sorcerer had not neglected his defenses. 

“Fool!” he hissed.  “I am already dead!” Benzan spun into another attack move, but Delem darted back a step, and called upon the power of a spell.  A roaring wave of fire erupted from his fingertips, washing over the tiefling.  Benzan could not avoid the flames, but the innate resistance granted by his otherworldly heritage helped him withstand the force of the _burning hands_.  

“Is that the best you got?” Benzan yelled, leaping into another attack.  This time the sword struck deep, piercing Delem’s defenses and stabbing several inches into the meaty thickness of his shoulder.  The sorcerer fell back again, but did not cry out.  He raised his hand to cast another spell, but Benzan was faster, lunging again in a thrust focused on the sorcerer’s heart. 

But before he could connect, pain exploded through his back.  He plunged forward, his muscles stiffening, his limbs jerking uncontrollably as he staggered past Delem and fell.  He managed to use his momentum to roll, knowing that remaining still was death, and did not stop until he felt the hard stone of the chamber wall against his back.  Struggling against the waves of pain that continued to echo through his body, he fought to get up, without success.

Delem’s chuckle drew his attention up again.  The sorcerer was standing beside a second figure, a vague form wreathed in dark garments.  As he watched, Delem took a strange staff from the newcomer, a thick pole with a bulb of dark metal at each end.  

“I hope you enjoy the touch of the _kabbak-johr,_” Delem said, flourishing the strange weapon.  “Its caress is a lesson in pain that few mortals get to experience.”  The shadowy figure remained behind the sorcerer, not moving, and to Benzan’s eyes there seemed to be something strange about him, something unnatural that he couldn’t quite place. 

Delem noticed his attention and glanced at the stranger.  “I believe that you already know my companion,” he said, with a dark laugh.  With a wave of his hand he called a cantrip, a pair of hovering flames that drove back the unnatural darkness enough to clearly illuminate the stranger’s face, highlighting features that had been too vague to identify with his darkvision.  

Benzan sucked in a breath, surprised.  “Guthan!”

The dark cleric showed no reaction, but Delem chuckled once more.  “Yes.  Strange, how the currents of fate draw us back around to where we began, connect the many disparate threads of our lives.”  He walked around the silent figure, drawing his hand across the man’s shoulder as he passed him.  “He would greet you, have many things to say to you, no doubt, but sadly, _his_ rebirth has shattered what little remained of his mind.  Still, he has provided a valuable service, acting as the conduit that brought us here...”

He laughed again, but Benzan paid little heed to his words.  Already the pain caused by that strange weapon was beginning to fade, and he felt control over his muscles returning.  His gaze was fixed beyond Delem, at a limp form near the entrance of the chamber, her convulsions faded, now lying there unmoving, lifeless.  A red haze filled his vision, and a fury beyond anything he’d ever felt added fuel to the fire burning inside him, a fury that he fed until it seemed that his body would burst with it.  

Delem turned back to him, and suddenly he saw it, too, his eyes widening with surprise.  “And now you too must die, Benzan,” he said, his hand coming back, his hand wreathed with eager flames. 

“Garrrrr!” Benzan roared, leaping up into a full charge.  A bead of fire erupted from Delem’s hand and streaked past the charging form, exploding against the wall where he’d been standing a moment before.  Benzan hurtled forward even as the _fireball_ opened into its full size, its force adding to his leap as he landed in a smooth roll and came up, sword swinging at Delem’s torso.  

The sorcerer leapt back, but not quickly enough to avoid another deep gash across his midsection.  Clearly Delem had to be hurting, now, but the man seemed to be immune to pain, powered by whatever unholy connection had restored him to life, and his skin had taken on the thickness of old leather, making the cuts less damaging than they would otherwise have been.  Benzan, lost in a rage, pressed his attack, but as Delem gave ground the undead Guthan leapt into the gap, forcing the tiefling to divert himself from his target.  Benzan ducked the undead cleric’s first attack, a clumsy but powerful attack from his bone-handled mace, but before he could bypass him a series of _magic missiles_ slammed into his body from Delem’s outstretched fingers.  

“Kill him!” Delem shrieked, and the Guthan-creature came in at him again, while Delem hefted his demon-weapon in both hands, coming in from the other side.  

But before they could reach him, Benzan called down a sphere of _darkness_, wreathing them all in an utter blackness that even the strange visual aura of this chamber could not penetrate.  Using the power of his sword, he silently lifted himself into the air, emerging from the darkness and rising swiftly to the ceiling, using the power of his _ring of shadows_ to hide himself from view.  Quickly he used his leverage against the ceiling to move toward the nearest wall. 

But before he got far, another _fireball_ streaked out of the darkness, straight up toward the ceiling.  Unable to dodge this time, Benzan cried out as the hot flames exploded around him, blasting his flesh, searing him with a pain almost as great as the touch of the _kabbak-johr_.  

“I know all your tricks, Benzan!” Delem shouted from below.

The force of the blast knocked him roughly to the side, slamming him against the wall, and then he was falling, barely able to control the magic enough to keep himself from impacting with full force against the hard stone floor.  As it was, he barely clung to consciousness, sprawled all but helpless against the cold stone, only vaguely aware of the presence that was drawing nearer.  

He managed to lift his head enough to see Delem’s legs a good ten paces away.  Too far to do anything about it, even if he could manage to lift the sword that still rested in his limp hand.  The blade had not abandoned him, but it looked as though it would soon find a new owner. 

Delem spoke a word of power, and a glowing shaft of fire erupted from his hand, forming into a lance of solid flames.  The point extended until it was just an arm’s length from Benzan’s face. 

“Time to die, ‘friend’.”

* * * * * 

Monday: the conclusion of Book VII


----------



## Maldur

wow


----------



## Broccli_Head

Dang! Dana dead...Benzan down. 

 Lok and Cal are around the corner, though right???


----------



## wolff96

Well, Dana and Benzan are down...

Nobody has checked for a pulse, though.

Acolyte Poison is nasty stuff, but she's got a good shot at surviving it. Of course, maybe she is dead. In that case, the remaining Travellers will *really* have a reason to hate Delem...

Great update, LB!


----------



## Dungannon

All I can say is WOW!

You are planning a book VIII, right?


----------



## Lazybones

Indeed, Dungannon: Book VIII will be the final book of _Travels_, and it won't be nearly as long as Book VII (more like about the length of the earlier books, 30 chapters or so).  I've already started it, although as always I'll likely take a break for a while before I start posting, perhaps request temporary mod powers and prune the thread some.  I've already plotted out the dramatic conclusion of the series (at least I hope it's dramatic  ), and there will be an epilogue that reveals something of the ultimate fate of the survivors of the little band that first met at a lonely crossroads out in the empty vastness of the Western Heartlands. 

But for now, the conclusion of Book VII.  Thanks all for reading and the many positive comments from my regular readers, as well as those who delurk to offer the occasional praise.  

* * * * * 

Book VII, Part 54


Delem held the _thunderlance_ a pace away from Benzan, who could do nothing to stop him from thrusting it into his body and ending him. 

“Time to die, ‘friend’.”

His arm tensed, but before he could release that short killing thrust, Delem jerked suddenly back.  Tendrils of white electrical energy flashed from the head of the arrow stuck in his shoulder, adding to the damage from Lariel’s arrow.  Delem turned to face them—the elf, standing in the entry to the chamber, flanked by Cal on one side and Lok on the other.  

“Give over, Delem!” Cal said, his voice billowing to fill the room.  

“Never,” the sorcerer hissed.  He glanced at Guthan, and said, “Kill them!”  As the undead former-cleric started forward, he lifted his hand and called once more upon his magic. 

But the companions were ready for him.  Even as he spoke the first word of his spell, a bolt of acid from Cal’s wand struck the sorcerer in the chest.  Delem, caught by surprise, clearly felt the pain this time as the acid burned into the mottled flesh of his demonic skin, and he staggered backward, his spell lost.  Cal was already running forward, but toward the motionless form of Dana, not toward their foe.  By the speed of his movements, it was clear that he’d once again enhanced himself with _haste_.  Lok rushed straight for Guthan, his axe raised to strike, while Lariel calmly stepped to the side and readied another arrow, tracking the movements of the wounded sorcerer.  He held his fire, waiting for the signs of another casting.  

Lok met the undead cleric in the center of the room, the two exchanging all-out blows from their weapons.  The fallen priest’s mace clanged loudly off of the genasi’s shield, while the warrior’s return stroke clove deeply into the torso of the undead thing.  Guthan stumbled and nearly fell, his body torn with a rent that would have sent any living creature instantly into death, but the unholy life force that inhabited the human shell drove him on to attack.  He managed to stagger back up to his feet and lift the mace again, but before he could strike, Lok’s axe came around in another deadly arc, backed by the full force of the genasi warrior’s strength, and severed his head from his shoulders.  

Delem tried another spell, but Lariel’s aim was once again true, penetrating the sorcerer’s defenses and slamming this time half the length of the shaft into Delem’s side.  His body now rent by wounds and punctures, somehow Delem still stood, and kept his feet.  His eyes shone with an unholy light as he staggered forward, picking up speed as he lowered the point of the _thunderlance_ toward Lok’s head.  

Cal crouched by Dana’s side, fearing for the worst.  He saw the dark blotch that had spread across half her face, and quickly diagnosed what had happened to her.  He held his breath as he checked her pulse, feeling a flood of relief as he detected the faintest hint of a heartbeat, an erratic throb of someone just clinging to this side of death’s door.  

His own healing wand had been spent earlier, but he quickly found Dana’s, still in her pouch.  He knew that she’d used it heavily to treat the ailing Asbravners, and whispered a silent prayer as he pressed it to her face and called upon its power.  He felt relief as the familiar blue glow spread out from the wand into her body, a flow that he augmented by singing a soft melody, a song empowered with the intricate flows of his own healing magic.  She did not stir, but he continued to work both magics, pouring life into the body of the ravaged woman.  

“Lok, look out!” 

Lariel’s warning came even as Lok spun from the headless, collapsing body of Guthan, and Delem charged in from the side toward the genasi.  The _thunderlance_ came on toward Lok’s face, but jerked to the side at the last moment as a final arrow sank into the sorcerer’s arm, the long shaft jutting through his bicep and out the other side.  

Lok lifted his axe—reluctantly, it was clear—and swung.  The head of the weapon crashed into Delem’s chest just below the breastbone, knocking him off his feet to slam heavily to the floor a few feet away.  

Lariel had started toward Benzan, another arrow nocked and ready just in case, but the tiefling had already stirred, and was fumbling with the cork of a healing potion he’d taken from his bag.  Cal was still tending to Dana, so it was Lok alone who stepped forward to stand over the fallen man.  

Delem was still conscious, but blood flecked his lips and ran in twin currents down his cheeks, and more bubbled up from the gaping holes in his torso.  He looked up, his eyes already glazing, and it was with great difficulty that he managed to focus on Lok.  The genasi had already dug into his pouch for a healing potion, but the sorcerer shook his head. 

“Don’t bother,” he managed to say, weakly. 

There was a stir of movement behind the genasi, and the others came up to join him.  Dana was leaning on Lariel, her features still deathly pale, and Benzan, limping with blackened char crusting his exposed skin, seemed little better off.  

“Heal him!” Dana urged, but Cal had already moved to kneel at the sorcerer’s side.  Dana’s wand was empty, and he’d used all his own spells, but he still had the minor curative power within his magical lyre, which he strummed as he concentrated on the dying man.  

“I’m sorry...” Delem said.  “I’m sorry, for everything.”  He seemed lucid, but as the blue glow of healing spread into him, he stiffened.  “He has me still... I cannot escape his grasp, even here.”  With a great effort, he managed to lift himself up enough to stare at Dana.  The young woman stood there as if paralyzed, unable to look away.  

“I love you,” he said.  “Don’t come for me.”

Then his body twisted, wracked by some internal agony that they knew was not related to his wounds.  Lok tried to hold him, to pour the potion down his throat, but he coughed up most of the liquid, shaking his head.  

Suddenly, his entire body grew rigid, and then... deflated.  It was as if all of the inner stuff of his body suddenly dissolved, muscles and bones and organs alike, and his alien skin sagged limply, an empty shell, distending into something almost unrecognizable.   

A glowing outline was momentarily visible, superimposed on the form that had just been the body of their friend.  Even as that body dissolved, the form began to shimmer, twisting and fading into an ever-smaller point, until it—and what was left of the physical remnants of Delem—disappeared. 

The last thing that they heard was a faint echo, a whisper of a cry that sounded like a drawn out, lingering scream.  Then they were left in silence, with only Dana’s sobbing breaking the utter quiet. 

“Delem!” she cried, a sound of despair.  

“DELEM!”


END OF BOOK SEVEN


----------



## Maldur

I can only say :

"Thanks, Lazybones"


Great stuff as usual!!!!


----------



## Broccli_Head

Amazing ending!

When does the next book start?


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## wolff96

Yes!  I knew Dana wasn't dead.  

That was a great ending to an excellent book, Lazybones.

I love Delem's last words -- the combination of his love plus a plea not to follow him... heh. As if that wouldn't GUARANTEE that the Travellers will chase him into the depths...

As always, love your work. See ya next book.


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## Dungannon

What an amazing ending to this book, LB.  Am I correct in assuming Book VIII will deal with the Travellers' attempt to reclaim Delem from the depths of Hell and _finally_ delve into the story behind Benzan's mysterious statue?


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## LuYangShih

Hey Lazybones, since you are interested in writing novels, are you going to submit a story to WoTC for the Maiden Of Pain?  If you don't know what I'm talking about, just go here: http://enworld.cyberstreet.com/news...=article&sid=1574&mode=thread&order=0&thold=0


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## Lazybones

Thanks for the link.

I've read the proposal, and I'm not certain if I'm going to submit.  It was just so... _proscriptive_, and it feels like it would be more like a homework assignment than a creative exercise in the joy of writing. 

Of course, that's probably just the sort of attitude that's going to keep me unpublished... 

I've started writing Book VIII, although I'm working on a big work-related writing project at the moment so I can only grab little breaks here and there.  I may get the Prologue up this week, definitely by next week.


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## Broccli_Head

wolff96 said:
			
		

> *I love Delem's last words -- the combination of his love plus a plea not to follow him... heh. As if that wouldn't GUARANTEE that the Travellers will chase him into the depths...
> *




That's what I hopin' for, too!

Glad that you've started work on the next book LB.


----------



## Lazybones

Travels through the Wild West: a Forgotten Realms Story

Book VIII


Prologue


Summer came late to the Western Heartlands in the Year of Lightning Storms, 1374 by Dalereckoning, as the spring rains persisted through the month of Kythorn well into Flamerule.  But when the skies cleared and the sun started to fill the long days, it came strong and hard, as if making up for time lost.  With the land saturated by the particularly heavy spring rains, the heat that descended upon the region was thick with damp, an oppressive heat that splattered the landscape like a heavy blanket.  

The west was abuzz with tales of the events in the Sunset Vale that spring, and their continuing aftermath in Iriaebor.  The most common name spoken in those stories was that of General Aghmer Goran, who was already being transformed into a legend by the bards who fed the appetite of the people for stories of war and glory.  Goran’s victory over a Zhent army in the shadow of the Sunset Mountains had been retold in a thousand different versions.  If some of the details seemed a bit odd—that the Zhents had been moving north, away from the settlements of the Vale, when Goran’s mounted forces had caught them, or that the force was rather smaller than the initial reports had claimed—those details could be forgotten in the face of what was still clearly an important victory over the faces of Evil that threatened all the goodly and peaceful folk of the region.  The details varied with each telling; some of the more popular tales has the General facing and defeating the enemy leader—a dark cleric of Bane—in personal combat, while others described her fleeing the battlefield while her forces were slaughtered by Goran’s cavalry.  There were also many tellings of the clash of great magics at the battle, with evil clerics and a Zhent magic-user—a skymage, no less—facing off against the divine power of the clerics of Eldath, Chauntea, and Selûne from Iriaebor.  The precise outcome of that confrontation depended upon who was doing the telling, but one thing was clear; the broken body of the Zhentarim mage had been found afterward from where he’d been blasted from his saddle by a divine bolt of _searing light_, and conversely three clerics of Good had returned to Iriaebor in shrouds, to be mourned by their congregations before being laid to their final rest. 

The storytellers had already dubbed the conflict as the Battle of Goran’s Ridge, after the place where the mounted troopers of Iriaebor had forced the Zhents to ground and overrun them.  According to the most reliable of the many reports, several hundred of the Black Network’s elite troops had been slain in the engagement, with upwards of fifty more brought back in chains to face trial and the hangman’s noose.  

Goran’s return had been accompanied of course by an incredible triumph, the likes of which rivaled even the incredible displays of pomp and festivity that one found in the military states of the Old Kingdoms of the east.  The pent-up fear and anxiety that had plagued the citizens of Iriaebor had been let out in an incredible outpouring of celebration that had gone on for three full days.  

In the aftermath of that victory, Goran could have had himself crowned king, or consul-for-life, but the triumphant general quietly rejected such suggestions.  Instead, he took the title of “first citizen,” this honorific granted him by the leaders of the Guild Council.  That collection of powerful leaders from the city’s richest merchant houses were masters at knowing which way the wind of public opinion blew, and realized that if they failed to act, they might have had to confront Goran being raised to a new crown regardless of what the man actually claimed to want or not want.  In the following tendays, while the public mood still waxed positive, a few clauses of the City Charter were quietly rewritten to grant the new First Citizen certain powers within the Council, including a limited veto, executive authority over the town administration, and unrestricted command of the city’s armed forces.  A few of the Councilors may have felt some misgivings at some of these changes, carried out as they were without debate and behind the scenes, but none, fearing the volatility of the mob, ventured to challenge them publicly.    

As the tendays passed, however, things quieted down, and the tales that traveled with the merchants along the western roads shifted back to more mundane topics, like the wicked summer heat.  Those people that had survived the darkest days of what some folk were already calling the Vale War set about rebuilding their lives as best they could, although it would be years, if not decades, before Asbravn was rebuilt into anything more than a shadow of what it had been.

But even as public interest shifted away from the tumult of great events, back to the practicalities of life, the repercussions of the events of that dangerous spring continued to be felt in the halls of power among the west.  What had happened had involved a serious challenge to the order of things, and that could not be forgotten with the defeat of a Zhentarim army.  As the summer stretched on in a wave of sweltering heat, certain individuals continued to meet quietly, drawing consensus toward several important decisions that would further shape the outcome of events in the west.  The rumors that crossed the land began to speak of retaliatory strikes and perhaps even another war—or perhaps just a continuation of the one that had started with the wave of hobgoblins and giants that had descended onto Asbravn that cold spring night.


----------



## wolff96

Whee!

More story hour!  Thanks, LB.

Obviously the calm before the storm...  did you say that VIII was going to be the last of the Traveller stories? If so, do you have any plans beyond that?

Sniff....  I'm going to be sorry to see Lok go.


----------



## Maldur

wooohooo tales restarted


----------



## Lazybones

wolff96 said:
			
		

> *Obviously the calm before the storm...  did you say that VIII was going to be the last of the Traveller stories? If so, do you have any plans beyond that?
> *



Yes, Book VIII will be the end.  I realized that I could keep it going _ad infinitum_; I already have enough loose threads hanging to fill six more books.  But I've been writing this story for near on a year and a half now, and it's time to move on to other projects (i.e. my neglected novels).  I intend to wrap up the major plotline that's currently in place (i.e. Delem), and follow that up with an epilogue that puts the story to bed.  

Part 1 of Book VIII is another long one, so I am breaking it up into two posts, today and tomorrow.

* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 1 (1st post)

Book VIII, Part 1


The clop of her horse’s hooves sounded too loudly as the solitary rider rode through the quiet streets of Berdusk.  There were people out and about, if not many, and those who were walking the streets moved purposefully as though intent upon being through with their business as quickly as possible so they could retire back to the relative comfort of a shady interior.  The sun was a great golden ball directly overhead, and the world baked beneath its radiance.  

The rider was a woman well into middle age, if still muscled and hale, although her shoulders were now slumped as she rode, and her face under the brim of her lounging hat bore the wear of many leagues traveled in recent days.  As she looked around the city she knew all too well, she frowned.  While Berdusk had recovered from the depredations that it had suffered during the Night of the Shadows, and it had been spared the worse disasters that had fallen upon other cities in the region, the spirit of its people still reflected the strain.  A few looked at her as she rode past, querying, hopeful looks, as if trusting her to make it all better.  She nodded at a few of the townsfolk that she knew as she continued on, but did not pause for conversation.  The Berduskers, perhaps sensing her purpose, did not interrupt her. 

The horse, too, perhaps sensed the end of the journey ahead, for it picked up its pace to a gentle canter as they entered the broad compound known as Twilight Hall.  Watchful eyes marked her coming, but there was no suspicion here, only warm greetings and polite queries that she met with a smile and a nod.  Men and women in soft robes bearing the sign of the god Deneir passed in clusters, on their way to or from services in the temple or to the great library that formed one edge of the great compound, and they too sent friendly waves her way. 

She rode her horse directly to the front gates of the great hall at the rear of the compound, the massive structure that marked the physical headquarters of the mysterious and powerful organization known as the Harpers.  The only indicator of its identity was a simple wooden plaque the size of a war shield hanging over the massive double doors, carved with the symbol of a plain traveler’s harp.  

A stable lad had already run out from the stables to take her horse, and as she dismounted a tall figure, a graying man clad in a simple brown tunic and hose, came out of the hall and stood at the head of the steps, regarding her with a wry look. 

“You look like a storm brewing, Cylyria,” the man said.  “I take it the road was a long one.”

“Too long, Tothar,” the Harper leader said, as she handed her reins to the youth and headed wearily up the stairs, obviously sore from long hours in the saddle.  “I’ll be damned glad once Jarthel gets back from Waterdeep, so we can avoid these long... excursions.”

The older man laughed.  “I never thought I’d hear you say that.  You used to love the open road, used to say that magical shortcuts like teleportation and windwalking were just cheats, sidestepping the hard work of taking yourself where you wanted to go.”

She reached the head of the stairs and briefly embraced him, then cracked her back.  “I want to take a long bath and sleep for about two days, but you wouldn’t be here to meet me unless there was something important.” 

“Some people have come to see you,” he told her.  “Arrived just yesterday in the city, and when I told them you would be returning today, they came back to wait.  They’re in the Foyer of Knowledge.”

Cylyria raised an eyebrow.  “And these visitors are someone you think I should see.”

“I believe you know them, actually.  Balander Calloran, a gnome illusionist from Waterdeep, and Dana Ilgarten, daughter of the Iriaeboran house, and a priestess of Selûne.”

“Just them?  Not a tiefling rogue with them, and a genasi warrior?”

“There may be others in the city, but only the pair of them came here,” Toth explained.  “I can ask them to return later, if you wish.”

“No, I’ll see them,” Cylyria said, forcing herself to ignore the protests of her tired muscles a little bit longer.  “Just let me wash some of this dirt off, and tell them I’ll be with them in a few minutes.”

* * * * *


----------



## Broccli_Head

OK...so you'll be back in a few minutes?


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 1 (2nd post)



Thick rafters of ancient blueleaf braced the vaulted ceiling of the Foyer of Knowledge, a comfortable chamber warmly decorated with thick carpets, wood paneling, and lushly padded furnishings.  Twenty bookcases lined the walls, and a dozen _continual flames_ set in decorative brass lamps added a merry glow to the long shafts of afternoon sunlight that entered through the narrow windows high along the walls.  

Two figures looked up from a pair of comfortable armchairs along the wall as Cylyria entered, and rose as she crossed the room toward them.  The Harper bard now wore a silk half-robe in a soft blue color, but underneath the hem of the garment the frayed leather of her traveling boots was clearly visible, and as she walked the patched knees of her trousers peeked out as well.  She carried no obvious weapon, but those who knew the Harpers knew that for many of those uncanny folk, their voices and their bare hands was often armament enough against those who would seek to do evil.  

Cylyria took in her guests with a warm smile despite her weariness.  These two looked worse off by far, clearly having just made a long and difficult journey of their own.  The gnome looked older than his years, his shoulders hunched as though he expected a sudden attack even in this place of comfort and ease.  And the woman... Cylyria had never met Dana Ilgarten, not in person, anyway, but she instantly recognized the look of someone who carried a heavy emotional strain.  Cylyria had known enough pain in her own life to know it in the face of another.  Outwardly the mystic wanderer looked calm, composed even, but her eyes betrayed the turmoil she carried within.  

“Welcome to Twilight Hall,” Cylyria said, making her voice warm and comforting almost as a reflex.  “It is good to see you both, to meet in person at long last.”  She gestured toward the seats, and took a stool for herself from a nearby corner and brought it over to them.  Calloran started to protest, but she waved it off and seated herself facing them.  

Calloran sat forward at the edge of his chair, which was one of several in the room built to comfortably accommodate one of his stature.  For a moment, Cylyria was reminded of a dear friend of hers, another adventuring gnome she’d known... a decade ago, it now was.  How quickly time slipped past, she thought in an idle flash.

“I’m glad we were able to catch you,” Cal said.  “I understand that things have been... busy... ever since... all that happened.”

“Yes,” Cylyria said.  “And I fear that we will see darker times ahead, here in the West.”

The gnome raised an eyebrow.  “Then the rumors are true?  The Lords’ Alliance has voted to go to war?”

Cylyria grimaced despite herself, but then smoothed her features.  The habits of the Harpers were hard to break, and she had to remind herself that those here were friends, proven allies in the cause that she had spent her entire life pursuing.  With a sigh, she nodded.  “Yes, for once, rumor treads the same road as truth.  I have just returned from a conclave gathered in Elturel, and despite some dissent, the consensus was that the events of this last season cannot be allowed to pass, despite the claims of the Zhent leadership that this war was not of their making.  We still do not know what plots occurred, what inner cabals developed between the Cult of the Dragon, these demon-worshippers, and the Black Network, but the damage that they unleashed upon the Western Heartlands, that cannot be denied.”

The gnome leaned even closer, but Cylyria noticed that Dana was barely listening to the conversation, as if she could not muster enough interest to pay heed to this grim news.  

“I trust you understand that what I say here remains within these walls?”  When the gnome nodded, she continued, “Even as we speak, a strike force travels to the High Forest, to one of the known enclaves of the Cult of the Dragon.  The Harpers contributed a number of powerful agents to this cause, including your friends, Lariel and Gorath.”

“So the half-orc was restored?  That is good news indeed.”

“Yes,” Cylyria said.  “The High Priest of Lathander was persuaded to help us by the nature of Gorath’s deeds, and the dire need against the foe against which he gave his life.”

“If he wasn’t raised just to die once more,” Dana said, interjecting her first words into the conversation.  “The Cult is not an easy adversary, we learned, and even one dracolich...”  She trailed off, a troubled look creasing her features.

Cylyria kept her own expression smooth with an effort.  “Indeed, we know well the dire threat posed by the Cult and their monstrous creations.  But while the undead dragons are powerful, they _can_ be destroyed, and even one of their foul outposts laid waste is a great victory in our struggle.”

Neither of the adventurers responded, and after a moment, Cylyria continued.  “This putative expedition is important, but the more significant thrust will strike at Darkhold itself.  The events of the last season have convinced the leaders of the Alliance that this blight on the landscape of the West cannot be suffered to remain any longer.  Our reports indicate that the Zhents have not reinforced the keep; it seems that they are not prepared to risk open war so far from their main base of operations at this juncture.  By Midsummer an army the likes of which the Western Heartlands have not seen for over a millennium will be on the march, gathered from the diverse city-states of the region, from as far away as Waterdeep itself.”

“Will General Goran be participating in this expedition?”

“Indeed, Iriaebor was among the forefront of those committing to the common cause—understandable, given what they’ve already been through—and the new shining star of the west has personally stated his intent to see this through to the very end.  While he will not have full command of the army, his presence, and his role, will certainly be significant.”

“Troubled times, indeed,” Cal replied, finally leaning back in his chair with a tired sigh. 

“I would ask your aid in this cause, even with all that you have already done, but I suspect it is something else that has brought you here to Berdusk.”

Cal nodded, and Dana flinched and stiffened, as if someone had pressed a cold, clammy hand to the back of her neck.  

 “I assume that Lariel told you our grim tale,” Cal said. 

“Some.  Enough to know that it is a sad story indeed, even for a bard who knows many such accounts.”

“Indeed.  What we know... what we know is only bits and pieces, still.  Delem was bound up somehow in what was happening with the war and the demon-worshippers and the invasion of the Vale.  One of their leaders was a cleric we knew, a former follower of the god Mask, now apparently a servant of the same Prince that holds our friend’s soul hostage in the Abyss.”

Cylyria nodded.  This she knew already from Lariel’s report, and the news had made quite an impact on the Lords gathered at the recent meeting.  Rather than raise her own questions, though, she let the gnome take the conversation in his own direction, already suspecting where it would lead.  

“We have a few clues as to the identity of this being, but we still lack the lore that we need to be certain.  Thus we came here...  Our friends are already at work gathering supplies and new equipment in the city, and we intend to be in Waterdeep by sunset this eve, and from there...”

Cylyria leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she clasped her hands together.  “You seek more than a name.”   She frowned, but her voice was soft as she continued.  “You do know what it is that you are asking?”  She looked up, but her gaze was fixed on Dana, not Cal. 

“We will do what we must,” the younger woman replied, and there was no doubt in her voice, only an almost-frightening intensity.  

“We know the dangers,” Cal said, and he shrugged in a way that seemed resigned more than anything else.  “But as Dana said, a greater mandate drives us, and we cannot turn from this path any longer.  Besides, we are not the first from Faerûn to begin such a dark journey, nor will we be the last, I fear.”

“Yes, I know of which you speak.  But still... you and your companions have grown in power, there is no doubt.  In the entire Western Heartlands, there are perhaps a few dozen with your abilities, and fewer that surpass them.  But walking the Planes... the dangers out there, beyond the constraints of our world, those are greater than even the greatest challenges of the Forgotten Realms.  And of all those strange and wonderful and terrible places, those alternative realities, the worst of them...”

She left the word unspoken, but Cal nodded.  “We are not ignorant of the danger.”

Cylyria nodded.  “I would do all that is in my power to turn you from this course.  Your talents could be put to good use here, for threats both great and terrible stalk the Realms in this troubled time.  But one of the things that we Harpers believe in is the power of individual choice, the freedom for one to choose his or her own path.  Your story tugs at my heart, and I can understand the suffering that you have faced.  I will lend what aid I can, though I fear it may be of little avail.”

“My advice comes in the form of two courses.  Both are not without risks, but you have already shown yourselves to be no strangers to such.”

“Many leagues to the southeast, on the far side of the Giants’ Plain along the Dragon Coast, lies the harsh expanse of the Giant’s Run Mountains.  This region is sparsely populated, at least by civilized folk, for it is rough and untamed, with all manner of dangerous creatures lurking in the shadows to catch the unwary.  Within the fastness of these mountains is a sacred place, a shrine located upon a lonely mountaintop.  Dwelling there is an entity known only as the Oracle.  Little is known of this creature, save that it is a thing of elemental magic, what scholars call a _weird_.  Such beings are rare, even here in Faerûn, where beings of extraplanar origin make frequent appearance among us.”  That last comment contained a subtle emphasis, and Cal nodded, realizing that it applied to his absent companions.  

“And this Oracle can help us?” Cal asked. 

“I know not, or even if it would be disposed to aid you if it could.  The weirds specialize in specific areas of knowledge, and from what I have heard, the Oracle’s realm of knowledge deals with journeys, both their beginnings and their endings.  I can give you a map that will guide you in the right direction, but I cannot guarantee success.”

Cal nodded.  “At this point, even a possible lead is a great help.  And what is the second course you mentioned?”

“This option I recommend only if the Oracle is not able to help you.  There is a place, a conflux among the Planes, a place where roads meet and trails intersect.  It is a place of wayfarers and waystations, where knowledge can be found along with every other commodity that can be imagined by the wildest flight of fancy.  Wonders and dangers coexist there...  I visited there but once, many years ago, with my husband and some others who thought, in the way that young fools do, that we could handle anything that the world—ha, that the universe!—could throw at us.  I still remember it as if it were yesterday...”

“What is this place?” Cal asked, after Cylyria had trailed off into memory.

The Harper cleared her throat as she fixed her mind back onto the present.  “It is called Sigil, or by some, The City of Doors.  Trails lead off from there to a thousand different realities, ten thousand, or maybe an infinity of possibilities.  As I said, just about anything can be found there, including enough knowledge of the Outer Planes to fill a hundred libraries.  If it comes to it, I can give you the information that you would need to _plane shift_ there, as well as a few contacts that may or may not be of help.  As I said, though, it is not a course I would recommend casually, as there are many surprises there for those unfamiliar with wandering the Planes.”

Cal nodded.  “We appreciate the information, Cylyria.”  He stood, extending his hand to the Harper.  “Thank you.”

She nodded, and rose as well.  “If you can delay your departure until tomorrow, I will have someone bring the map to the Giant’s Run, and the other information I promised, to your lodgings within the city.”

“Thank you.  We’re staying at The Wandering Fool... appropriate, perhaps.”  The way he said it, it was grim, rather than wry.  

The Harper escorted the pair out to the stableyard, then returned to the interior of the Hall, distracted by her thoughts.  The course that the four companions proposed was... ‘suicidal’ was the first word that came to mind.  But the bard remembered other deeds that had sounded equally crazy when first proposed, carried out by a group of friends who had gloried in their prowess, five gifted individuals who had faced everything that the world could throw at them and laughed in the face of certain destruction.  

Those days were gone, for her, recklessness replaced by deliberation, if the cause and the goals were much the same.  She remembered her own husband, the pain of loss still fresh even after the passage of years.  If he had been dragged a prisoner into the Abyss... 

She turned to look back toward the window, where the afternoon sun was already drifting low along the horizon.  Time was passing quickly, and there was much to do.  Her weariness forgotten, Cylyria Dragonbreast strode with determination toward her quarters.


----------



## Broccli_Head

oh yes...Sigil! 

looking forward to what goes on as the heroes travel beyond the West.


----------



## wolff96

Considering that I'm currently running an interplanar campaign that relies heavily on the Cage, I'll be very interested to see your descriptions of Sigil, LB.

Great story, as always...  though I have to admit to being a tad disappointed that it's a Friday and we don't have a cliffhanger!


----------



## Maldur

wooohooo no cliffhanger 

boooooo, no other updates 

thx, LB


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 2

The common room of The Wandering Fool was already a din of crowded activity, even though it was still a good two hours or so until the sun would complete its journey over the western horizon.  Merchants and their guards, townsfolk, and a miscellany of assorted travelers filled almost every table in the long chamber, which was close and hot despite the hint of afternoon breeze that sifted in through the open windows.  

Cal and Dana hesitated in the open doorway, looking around the place.  In truth they had the coin for better lodgings, but with the pace that they had set in the last month, traveling from location to location swiftly both by magical and mundane means, they tended to select inns by expediency rather than comfort as their main criterion.  This place had happened to be near the gate through which they had entered Berdusk late yesterday afternoon, and in any case they had not intended to remain here more than a day.  At least their rooms—the best in the inn, their coin got them that at least—were comfortable and private, taking up the entire second story of the annex that had been built later and attached to the main building.  

The innkeeper, a stout dwarven matron wearing a spotless wool apron across her ample frame, noticed them and caught their attention with a gesture from the bar.  “Your friends are in the back room,” she said.  “Would you like to take your supper there?  The others haven’t eaten, yet.”

“Yes, thank you,” Cal said absently, already turning to join Dana as she walked deliberately toward the doorway to the back hall.  Several of the patrons glanced at them as they passed by, but one look at their faces was enough to turn them back to their own concerns.  There had been a lot of that, of late; although the companions did not realize it, they had all been transformed by what they had experienced, and now an aura surrounded them, a feeling that boded no casual interference in the quest that they had already tacitly accepted.  

Lok looked up as the two entered the private room in the back of the inn, but Benzan, seated in the far corner with his booted feet up on the table, continued to stare down into his mug.  A stray glimmer of light that reflected from the metal fittings on the windowframe caught for a moment at his throat, where the black gemstone amulet they’d taken from the dracolich’s hoard dangled.  Cal had finally identified the item as bearing a potent ward against poison, and with Benzan’s role in their group as scout and lock-opener, they’d all agreed that he was the best person to have it.  

Cal closed the door behind him and Dana and moved to the table, pulling himself up onto an oversized chair.  There were a number of sacks tied with leather throngs atop the table, laid out in a long row.  

“You were able to find what we need?” he asked. 

“We got everything and more,” Benzan said.  His voice was already a little slurred—clearly this wasn’t the first ale he’d had this afternoon—and his boots made a loud clop on the stone flagstones of the floor as he dropped them from the tabletop and leaned forward.  “We were richer than I thought; Lok was holding out on us with some extra gemstones, it turns out.”  The warrior did not respond, but Cal shook his head—the idea of Lok deceiving them was ludicrous, but he knew that the tiefling was not really trying to deride the genasi.  He understood, as he too felt that tension that came frequently and tightened his insides, until he felt almost physically sick with it.  Benzan’s behavior was only a reflection of what they’d all felt since that encounter within the fastness of the Sunset Mountains. 

“The priests of Deneir sold us a dozen healing potions; mostly the low-powered ones, but we bought a few of the moderate-strength ones too.  And another of your healing wands, like you asked for, Cal.  Cost a bundle, but we can afford it, right?  After all, we’re rich.”  He drained his mug and put it down on the table.  “Couldn’t find all the scrolls you wanted, but we got a couple, and two more quivers of magical arrows, and a case of bolts for you and Dana.”  

“How did you fare?” Lok asked.  “Did you see the Harper Lady?”

“Yes,” Cal said, “and while it looks like we’ll have to stay here another day, it seems like we have a new destination tomorrow.”  With that, he briefly outlined their conversation with Cylyria, and her suggestions about the Oracle and the planar city of Sigil.  

“So the Alliance is going to take out Darkhold,” Benzan said.  “Can’t say as those blackhearts don’t deserve it.”  He reached for the empty mug again, then remembered it was empty, and shifted as if to get up. 

“They’re going to bring us supper in here,” Cal told him, and he sat back down for the moment. 

“Something still bothers me about all this,” Lok said.  “From what Targos told us, and what we learned from the Asbravners... something doesn’t quite add up about this alliance of evil organizations.  There’s something that we’re missing...”

“Cylyria thinks much the same thing, I believe,” Cal said.  “But in any case, it’s not something that we can do anything about...”

“Too many loose ends,” Benzan interjected.  “Too many loose ends.  I told you we should have killed that hobgoblin when we had the chance—fool to trust someone who wants you dead...”

“Look, we’ve been over this before,” Dana said.  “I didn’t know he’d slip the charm when he did, but even if we did, he and the others were watched, but they still managed to get away.  In any case, I don’t think that they are any threat to anyone, not anymore.” 

“Yeah, I wouldn’t have thought that a lone adolescent hobgoblin would’ve been much of a threat, either,” Benzan barked back.  “Especially after we killed all his kin in the Wood of Sharp—”

“Enough, Benzan,” Cal broke in.  “Give it over.  We’re all tired, and our nerves are frayed enough, without more bickering.  You’re right—there’s a lot of loose ends, and a lot of questions that still need answers.  But we have a more pressing mission now, a goal that we all agreed upon, all swore to.”

“Yeah, making a little visit to the Abyss, taking on a Demon Prince on his home turf,” Benzan shot back. 

For a long moment there was only silence in the confines of the small room.  Dana, Cal, and Lok exchanged glances, while Benzan only stared down at the surface of the table before him.  Finally, Benzan stood, his chair sliding back noisily behind him.

“I need another drink,” he said, leaving the room. 

This time, no one moved to stop him.


----------



## Dungannon

I think Benzan has finally discovered something he's truly afraid of, and he's not handling it well.  I hope he manages to pull it together before it's too late.


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 3


“Are we being fools?” Cal asked. 

Lok turned his head, but did not respond.  The two of them were riding alongside each other, their horses maintaining a gradual but steady pace across the trackless expanse of the plain.  Benzan and Dana were a good hundred paces ahead of them, out of earshot, the two close together, although they did not appear to be engaged in conversation.  There had been little conversation thus far on this journey, for a cloud hung over them that muted their desire for casual talk.   

To the north, east, and west, the vast plain stretched out to the far horizon, quiet save for the wind that gusted over the open stretches of virgin land.  When the winds died the plains baked in the hot sun, and when they blew they drove dust and grit into the faces of the riders.  The plains only looked empty, and dangerous creatures made their homes there, but thus far the companions had not encountered anything that equaled a true threat to their combined abilities.  

To the south, directly ahead, the land rose up in a jagged collection of craggy ridges that already looked to be a potent obstacle.  They could get around those, if necessary, although it might mean abandoning yet another set of mounts.  Behind the ridges rose the dark mounds of the Giant’s Run Mountains, within the fastness of which lay their current destination.  

The companions had ridden hard the last tenday, since leaving the main east-west road that connected the city-states of the Western Heartlands with the prosperous and crowded lands that circled the Sea of Fallen Stars.  They rode in silence, for the most part, going through the motions of caring for their animals and setting and breaking camp each day, matching the ominous quiet of the open plains in their mood as each dwelled within the deep expanse of their own thoughts.  Those thoughts were grim, too, reflections of the hard questions each faced within themselves.  

Questions like the one Cal had just asked.

Lok still had not answered.  Cal finally went on, “Sometimes I think on what Cylyria told us.  That were are among the truly powerful of Faerûn, now, and that there are evils _here_ that need fighting.  Evil is everywhere, I suppose...”

Lok said, “In my travels, I have heard many speak of heroes, and many tales about them.  My people, who do not give such titles lightly, have called me a hero for the deeds we did in the Underdark.  But what I think, is that a hero is just someone who does what has to be done.”

“There are always battles to be fought.  Evil lurks everywhere, for it is born of the selfish desires of the mortal heart.  We things of flesh and muscle and bone all have wants—it is in the nature of what we are.  But we also have free will, and courage, and brotherhood, and love.”

Cal nodded, understanding what his friend was getting at. 

“We do what we has to be done,” Lok added.  “We cannot leave our friend to the fate that has befallen him.”

“Even if we ourselves must walk a road that leads to our own deaths in the process?  I mean, we’ve gained power, and skill in our respective arts, but we’re not _that_ powerful, when it comes down to it...”

The genasi shook his head.  “We all understand the risks.  We’re not just going to throw our lives away.  We have our skills, and Dana the means to return us here if we find the task impossible.  We seek to go where few mortals have dared to go, and may indeed fail at the very start of the undertaking.  But to never try...”

Cal smiled.  “Truly I am blessed to have such a wise friend.”

Lok laughed, a rough, gravelly sound.  “Nay, friend, for wisdom, you should speak to Dana.  As for me, just show me where I need to put my axe...”

Cal laughed himself, but did not have a chance to respond, for at that moment the two saw that Benzan and Dana had halted ahead.  The tiefling had a hand raised in warning, though neither had dismounted, and so quickly Lok and Cal booted their mounts forward to join their friends.  

“What is it?” Cal asked, as they rode up.  Ahead of them the ground undulated as it met the first line of ridges, the hills meeting the plains in an abrupt transition like waves crashing on a beach.  The keen-eyed gnome scanned the terrain ahead, but in the dips, rises, and crags there were a thousand places where a foe could hide.

They all looked at the tiefling, but he only stared ahead, his face cold despite the sweat beaded on his brow from the heat.  “Benzan?” Cal finally prodded.

“There’s something there, already spotted us,” he replied.  

The others exchanged a glance, but Benzan didn’t elaborate on his statement.  “Should we go on, or wait here?” Dana asked. 

“We’re just as exposed out here as in there,” Benzan responded harshly.  He dismounted, and the others followed suit.  Leading his horse by the reins, his other hand resting close by the hilt of his sword, he started toward a cleft in the ridge that looked passable for horses.  

The others, wary, followed.  They had taken up the practice of casting their long-lasting enhancement spells at the beginning of each day, on breaking camp.  Cal and Dana had advanced in power to the point where these enchantments lasted nearly the entire day, and so each day the two spellcasters improved their agility with _cat’s grace_, Lok was infused with _bull’s strength_, and finally Benzan was granted _endurance_.  Their other protections they reserved for direct confrontations, which they expected at any moment.  

Their progress was slow in the hills, although they did not immediately encounter any obstacles that they and their mounts couldn’t navigate.  Benzan chose a course that led them as directly as possible straight toward the mountains, which seemed to wait for them in a long line to the southeast.  The afternoon deepened, but it was still several hours before nightfall when Benzan once more called a halt, this time in a broad gorge thick with knots of thorny, browned brush and massive half-buried boulders worn smooth by the action of wind and water.  

This time they did not need to ask why he’d called the halt, for they could all hear it, a scrape on stone there, a faint clatter of rocks there.  No threat was visible, but to the companions, veterans of untold dangers, it was as if a sudden tension had risen in the very air.  Quickly they secured their horses to the nearest available location, and prepared themselves for a confrontation.  

Benzan strung his bow and stepped forward, his eyes searching the crags and dips that surrounded them.  He lifted his arms wide, and shouted, “Well?  Let’s get on with it!”

All around them, along the steep rises that formed the edge of the gorge, the ground seemed to stir.  They came out of cracks and rents in the terrain, forming a broad ring that drew quickly closer.  The creatures had the look of lean, almost skeletal, hounds, although their faces were rent by overly huge jaws and their eyes gleamed with a feral, sinister intelligence that clearly belonged to no simple animal.  As if that wasn’t clue enough, each sported a pair of twisting tentacles several paces in length that sprouted from their shoulders, culminating in a ridge of jagged bone that looked ready to ravage exposed flesh.  Furthermore, the beasts seemed to shimmer and twist as the companions watched, and they periodically shifted in location a pace to the left or the right, their true locations masked by some sort of innate magic. 

The only sound was the desperate whinny of their horses, who’d been whipped into a panic by the appearance of the creatures, and a huffing growl that came from them, a dark sound that sounded almost like a laugh.  There were eight of them in all, and they moved in concert to block any retreat.  Each was nearly the size of a horse themselves, and one specimen, clearly the leader of this pack, was a good ten feet in length, its lean frame all taut muscle and fell disposition.  

“Displacer beasts,” Cal warned, as the things drew nearer.  “Be careful, their magic masks their true location, makes them hard to hit.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Benzan said, holding his arrow half-drawn, ready to attack but unwilling to provoke the creatures until his companions were prepared.  

The displacer beasts seemed content to slowly close their ring, savoring perhaps the fear that radiated out from the horses.  But that was all they got; the companions were like steel themselves as they formed a defensive square, shielding each other’s backs.  Cal and Dana cast spells, speaking silently as they moved their hands in subtle gestures, and while Benzan did not release his grip on his bow, he too spoke words in the arcane language of power, and a translucent blue plane of force appeared in front of him, a magical _shield_ that he could use without sacrificing the effectiveness of his archery.  

The monsters perhaps realized that delay was not serving them further, for abruptly the huge leader coughed, and the pack leapt to the attack, tentacles lashing out like whips ahead of their rush.


----------



## Maldur

Great stuff, LB!

thx for another great episode.

Are you posting their stat blocks in the other thread soon? Im very curious as to what being among the most powerful in the realms means.


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## Lazybones

Thanks for reminding me; I've upgraded their stats in the Rogues' Gallery (link in sig).  Most of the party is now ECL 13 (Dana's still a bit behind experience-wise, but she'll catch up before too long).


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## Maldur

thx, lb. interesting chain!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 4

The onrushing displacer beasts did not close to melee, but rather leapt to within seven or eight paces of the waiting adventurers, close enough to rake them with the deadly ridges of jagged bone that tipped their long tentacles.  Each of the four defenders faced one or two of the beasts, with the huge pack leader coming directly toward Lok, as if recognizing him as the greatest combat threat.  One of the beasts broke off and sought easier prey by assaulting the panicked horses.  One broke its tether and fled, but the other three were quick prey for the terrible attacks of the ferocious creature. 

The companions could do nothing to save their mounts, hard-pressed as they were against the attack.  Benzan fired his ready arrow at one of the two rushing at him, but the arrow went right through the displaced image of the creature.  Its own attacks proved all too real as it lashed out at him with its tentacles, slapping him hard as he tried to defend.  With bow in hand he did not have his magical steel shield up, but the spell he’d cast proved more than adequate, and one powerful slap intended for his face collided instead with the translucent blue plane of magical force.  As a second creature joined the attack, however, he found himself pressed just to keep his ground, and he realized that firing more arrows was no longer an option.  Even if he could find a true target through the creatures’ magical _displacement_. 

Grimacing as a tentacle slap caught his side with a force like an ogre’s punch, he drew his sword.  

Dana was also harried by a pair of the creatures, standing just an arm’s reach from her lover on an adjacent point of the square.  In the initial advance she’d quickly called upon the _divine power_ of Selûne, and thus bolstered had immediately cast out her mind across the planes to summon aid against these dire foes.  The displacer beasts attacked too quickly, though, and before she could complete her spell, four tentacles raked at her exposed body.  Her magical bracers offered some protection, but lost in the intricate patterns of her spell, she could not bring her agility into play to dodge the assault.  A cry of pain was dragged from her as the spell and her concentration dissolved, and she staggered back with blood dripping from vicious cuts in her shoulders and torso.  

“Dana!” Benzan shouted, unable to turn away from his own two adversaries.  

“I’m all right!” she cried, clutching at her spear as the tentacles continued to dart and probe for a weakness.  

Cal found himself facing a single foe, an ugly brute with a scar covering half its face and running across a vacant, putrescent eye socket.  It closed to within three paces before launching its tentacles at his face.  At that range the attack could hardly miss, but instead of ravaging defenseless flesh, they glanced off of the unyielding surface of _stoneskin_.  

“Always underestimating the little guy,” Cal said, moving quickly as he launched into his next spell without hesitation. “Well, it’ll cost you.”  His first casting had been _haste_, followed immediately by the _stoneskin_, and now he used his enhanced speed to good effect as he launched into the rest of his magical arsenal.  

Lok did not wait for the enemy to reach him, recognizing that the superior reach of the displacer beasts’ tentacles would allow them to stay back and rake the ring of defenders.  He leapt forward to meet the huge leader, ignoring the second creature that immediately moved to flank him.  

_So, not stupid, then,_ he thought to himself, knowing that he was going to take a beating as the creatures tore into him from both sides.  

He took the first lashing tentacle on his magical shield, and shrugged off the next even though it scored a glancing hit on his temple that would have ripped his head open had he not been wearing his helmet.  Roaring a challenge, he rushed directly at the huge creature looming over him, ignoring more hits as he entered its reach.  The displacer beast snapped at him with jaws that could have taken the head off a horse in a single bite, but Lok only caught the blow on his shield, lifting the creature’s head and slashing at its exposed neck with his axe.  This time, steel connected with shifting flesh, and hot blood jutted from a wide gash as the creature hissed and twisted back, clearly feeling the pain.  

But even though Lok had drawn first blood, the huge beast was clearly far from finished. 

Dana narrowly dodged another pair of tentacle sweeps, falling back until she nearly jostled Cal.  The gnome glanced up at her, and yelled, “Fly!”

The woman shook her head.  “They’ll tear you and Ben to pieces!”

“You can’t help us if you can’t get your spells off!” he returned, already turning to cast another spell, another tentacle ripping through the air between them to punctuate his statement.  Dana gritted her teeth and leapt back into the center of their ring, and opened her mind to the goddess.  

Her attackers followed her in, closing as they continued to lash out, but their attacks caught only empty air as she lifted off into the sky.  

Benzan drew his sword and darted nimbly into the reach of his two foes, trusting to his _shield_ to at least deflect a few attacks from one as he lunged in toward the second.  As they had with Lok, the two beasts adjusted their position quickly to flank him, forcing him to split his attention between attacks from two opposite directions.  

Suddenly a shadow fell over the battlefield, although the sun still shone high in the sky above.  Benzan started as the shadows gathered into a mass directly behind the nearest of the displacer beasts, coalescing into a solid form that became identifiable a moment later as a lion with a coat of purest black.  The mystery of the strange newcomer’s origin was solved a moment later as the lion tore into the displacer beast from behind.  Its claws failed to locate the true placement of the creature, tearing through a _displaced_ image, but its sudden appearance certainly drew the beast’s attention. 

“Thanks, Cal!” Benzan shouted.  With flanker now suddenly flanked itself, Benzan wasted no time and darted forward, driving his blade with both hands on the hilt.  This time he struck true, and the blade dove deeply into the chest of the creature, scoring a critical hit that dragged a wail of agony from the beast as it thrashed roughly backward free of the tiefling’s sword.  While not enough to finish it, the attack had clearly done a lot of damage to the still-struggling monstrosity.  

Cal ignored attacks that battered against his _stoneskin_ and continued to fire off spells in rapid succession.  He considered and discarded _invisibility_; he _wanted_ the creatures to attack him, to waste their efforts against his defenses and give his companions time to do some damage.  One of Dana’s foes, frustrated by her retreat, turned on him, and he knew that it was only a matter of moments before they battered through his _stoneskin_.  And when that happened, he wouldn’t last long against those terrible tentacles.  

He followed his _shadow conjuration_ with _displacement_, appreciating the irony of using the creatures’ own tactic against them.  The beasts apparently did not share the sentiment, hissing as several tentacle sweeps tore though empty space.  The gnome then spun and quickly fired off another _haste_, this time helping Lok with the enhancement.  Even as the spell took effect he was already considering his next choice, but one of the displacer beasts, clearly frustrated by the ineffectiveness of its attacks, leapt at him with its jaws snapping at his head—perhaps intending to grab him and carry him off.  

The tactic might have worked, except that the jaws closed on an empty image, and Cal’s form shifted a few paces to the side as the _displacement_ continued its work. 

“You’re a persistent one,” Cal said to it, casting another spell.  The displacer beast growled and darted toward him again, but suddenly its form shifted and twisted, and shrank down until it was flopping around on the sun-seared rocks in the form of a large trout.  

“Enjoy your few moments of life as a fish,” he told it, already turning to face his next adversary.  This one had clearly belatedly realized how dangerous this little enemy was, for it kept its distance even as its tentacles continued to try to bash a way through his defense. 

Dana, meanwhile, having gained enough altitude to escape the tentacle attacks from the displacer beasts, now called upon the power of Selûne to destroy their foes.  Realizing that their displacement was an effective foil against direct attacks, she first elected to call upon outside help.  This conjuration went uninterrupted, and shortly a giant eagle appeared in the air, its eyes shining with intelligence as it regarded its summoner and the battlefield below.  It nodded with understanding as it saw the displacer beasts, and even as Dana pointed it dove at the second beast that had attacked her earlier, and which was now moving to attack Benzan from behind.  The noble eagle’s claws dove into the beast’s back from above, and it whirled to lash out at the new enemy, scoring one glancing hit before the eagle rose up and soared back into the sky.  

But it wasn’t finished, as it swooped around for another pass. 

Dana continued her assault by calling a _spiritual weapon,_ a glowing mace of energy that she sent to harry another of the displacer beasts threatening Benzan.  

Lok and the pack leader continued to face off in a titanic head-on exchange of attacks.  The huge beast tore at Lok, threatening to overbear him with sheer size and mass, but Lok planted his feet with the finality of a dwarven defender, choosing his ground and setting himself with the solidity of a heavy boulder.  Against that redoubt the ferocious beast attacked in vain, and for each tentacle that scored through armor and shield it took a heavy stroke from the axe in return.  The second, smaller creature continued to lash at the genasi from behind, but it may as well have been chipping at a stone wall for all the effect its blows seemed to have against the stalwart warrior.  With Cal’s _haste_ taking hold, it seemed as though each stroke came just an instant too late to penetrate the fighter’s incredible defenses.  And while half of Lok’s attacks were foiled by the displacement effect of the creatures, the other half did incredible damage.  

Finally the huge creature, realizing the inevitable outcome of this confrontation, drew back with a keening wail that echoed throughout the gorge.  Lok did not hesitate, giving up his defensive stance and leaping at the creature even as it turned to run.  The axe came down once more, crashing through skin and muscle and bone, and with a final note of pain the massive beast crumpled.  

The second one didn’t even bother to try another attack before bolting and fleeing.  

The other companions, now that their full powers were coming to bear, were having similar success.  Despite having taken several hits, Benzan and his shadow-ally had defeated their flanked enemy, and even as Lok slew the leader the tiefling scored another serious injury to the one attacking from behind.  Dana’s _spiritual weapon_ continued to strike at it, distracting it enough for Benzan to score another devastating sneak attack, and soon it too was fleeing, limping as blood poured in a fountain from the deep puncture in its hip.  Cal’s second foe joined the flight, unaware that only a single hit more would have broken the gnome’s _stoneskin_.  It in turn was joined by the creature that had spent the melee destroying their horses, departing the battlefield with a huge chunk of bloody meat dangling from its powerful jaws.  

The last surviving beast delayed a moment longer as it rose up to face another diving attack from the summoned giant eagle, a mistake that cost it dearly a moment later as Benzan and the shadow-lion came at it from two sides.  The eagle faded as the beast’s tentacles tore asunder its physical form, driving it back to its otherplanar home, but the creature’s victory was of little use against the attacks that quickly had it bleeding and reeling.  It managed one weak slap that impacted Benzan’s _shield,_ and then it too was down bleeding its life upon the hot stones.  

Dana floated gently back down to the ground and tended to the wounds they had suffered in the brief but violent battle.  Their horses were dead, save for the one that had broken free and fled, but they had slain half of the displacer beasts, including the huge leader.  The companions had taken some hurts, but nothing too serious, and even those injuries were quickly healed by Dana’s power.  

“I guess we have gotten more powerful at that,” Benzan said, reviewing the carnage, as he recovered his bow and tested the string.  “Thanks for the help.”  He glanced at the shadow-lion, which was already dissolving back into wisps of black that quickly faded.  

“Yes, a potent new spell,” Cal commented.  “Good teamwork, all around; though we may want to talk more about coordinating our actions... perhaps at camp tonight.”

The four companions gathered back together, cleaning weapons and changing bloodstained clothes, and recovering what they could from the mess that was the remains of their mounts.  Despite the loss of the horses and the grim death around them they seemed more energized, as if the brief battle had awakened something that had been lost in the grim mood that had hung over their journey thus far.  When they turned to depart the battlefield, Benzan made a few wry comments, Dana retorted with a cutting observation at his expense, and Cal even plucked a few notes on his lyre as Lok led them forward.  

Their determination restored by their victory, the four friends continued onward toward their destination.  

The displacer beasts did not return to trouble them.


----------



## wolff96

A great fight, Lazybones...  Advanced Displacer Beasts are NASTY, eh?

Something I've wondered about for a while now... Do you actually roll for the fights? Or do you just create them mentally?

Given the way the fight worked, it's easy to see the mechanics inherent in it -- the shield spell, the failed concentration check, Lok's use of a defensive stance -- but I'm still trying to figure out whether or not it's a real fight or just incredible imagination.


----------



## Lazybones

I write most of the fights out, round by round, during lengthy and boring staff meetings at work.  I don't roll dice, but I try to be loyal to the percentages in terms of hits, crits, and saves.  I have the SRD installed on my hard drive here at work and am constantly using it to look up rules.  There have only been a very few times when I tweaked the game mechanics in order to serve the story.


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## Maldur

But it works really well


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 5

The next four days passed more or less smoothly, despite the loss of their horses.  The terrain grew increasingly difficult, but with Dana taking to the air once per day to scout out the best route, and Benzan making use of the _levitation_ power of his sword to ascend to the top of sheer cliffs and lower a rope for the others, they were able to make good time through the foothills.  They avoided further clashes with the predators of the region; on the second day after their battle with the displacer beasts a pair of huge dire mountain cats took an interest in them from atop an adjacent ridge, but Cal managed to drive them off with a well-crafted illusion. 

The weather held, facilitating their journey, although days and evenings alike were punctuated by occasional hours in which a strong, gusty wind would sweep over the hills, catching at their cloaks and forcing them to bow low against the cover of the rocks.  That was not enough to cause them anything more than minor inconvenience, however, and they even came to welcome the breaks from the unrelenting intensity of the afternoon sun that continued to bake them even as they gained altitude over the plains that stretched out in a vast expanse behind them.  

By the fourth day they were well into the mountains proper, and their rate of travel slowed yet further.  They elected not to resort to the use of _polymorphs_ as of yet, as they would have to transform two of their number, reducing their effectiveness in case of trouble.  

Benzan, in particular, was gratified at that decision.  

The directions that Cylyria had given them offered little in the way of specific guidance once they were into the mountains.  Still, it seemed that fate had for once intervened in the companions’ favor, for Dana returned from her aerial scout late in the afternoon of the fourth day to report an unusual mountain that lay directly ahead along their current path, so they increased their pace in that direction. 

Even with Benzan levitating ahead to drop rope, it took them the better part of two more days to cover the distance toward Dana’s mountain.  Their goal was a craggy finger that jutted out from within a collection of higher peaks that still bore mantles of soft white despite the season.  Fortunately they would not need to go quite that high, but they still had to confront sheer cliffs and rocky overhangs that made climbing a difficult prospect.  Eschewing magical shortcuts, they set to the task, the four of them enjoying perhaps the challenge and camaraderie of a hazardous mission shared through teamwork.  The earlier tension between them and the sense of dread that had hung over them seemed to have faded somewhat, and for those two days they pressed diligently on, navigating the treacherous route and finally driving themselves up to finally stand upon a broad stone ledge near the summit of Dana’s mountain.  

Ahead of them rose a steep but navigable route up to the very tip of the peak, where they could identify the unusual structure that Dana had spotted before.  The summit was apparently hollow, a chamber of sorts with four wide openings facing the cardinal directions.  Above, supported by the four thick corners between the openings, was the very top of the mountain, rising for a good two hundred feet more before the true summit.  

From what Cylyria had told them, it was here that they would find the Oracle.

Warily, the companions approached the summit. 

As they drew nearer, they could see that the hollow within the mountaintop formed a chamber a good fifty paces across, and perhaps as much as thirty paces high.  The wind made a whistling sound as it passed through the four openings, each wide enough to admit twenty men walking side by side.  All in all, it was solemn, somber, and full of a sense of power.  

“There’s something... strange about this place,” Benzan whispered, even that muted sound seeming too loud here. 

They walked to the nearest opening and stared into the chamber.  Plenty of light filtered in from the sides to illuminate its contents.  The hollow seemed to be of natural stone, although it seemed overly smooth for rock that had not been worked by mortal hands.  The ceiling was a natural dome that seemed to draw in the winds from outside, and below them the floor descended to a point about ten feet below their current vantage. 

What immediately caught their attention, though, was a large stone ring in the center of the place, set into the stone.  The ring, which rose perhaps a pace above the level of the surrounding stone, seemed to encircle a pit—or at least that was what it looked like, for its interior was obscured by a roiling vortex of thick vapors thicker than the deepest fog.  They had barely gone a few steps from outside the chamber, but suddenly the noise of the wind grew noticeably stronger, and they could each feel a pounding in their heads that seemed to come only partly from without...  Their earlier perception of the power here was confirmed, as each felt a momentary affinity with the raw elemental energies that were gathered here.

“This stone... it speaks...” Lok said, his normally expressionless features betraying a look of wonder.  

 The stones merely relate the tale told by the winds, brother, came a voice from everywhere and nowhere, filling the interior of the dome with their clarity. 

They looked around, unable to see the source of the voice, but it was Cal who finally and decisively stepped forward, his own small voice clearly filling the hollow. 

“We have come seeking the Oracle, the Master of Journeys,” he said.  “We need guidance, to help a friend who is lost and alone.”

The rush of air redoubled, and they all suddenly had to grab at cloaks and hats that were tugged by the swirling winds.  Through it they became aware that the mists were rising up out of the stone ring, somehow maintaining their solidity within the vortex of rushing air.  

The wisps of fog drew together, and a form took shape within them.  The form was that of a beautifully formed, vibrant young woman, her body taken shape from the mists, her legs dissolving back into them as they dropped into the matrix within the stone ring.  Her eyes were a penetrating aquiline, pure orbs that glowed with a mysterious and unknowable intelligence.  Those eyes, they saw much, as they fixed on each of the companions in turn.  

The road you seek to travel, it is a dark one, came the voice, although the lips of the fog-form did not move and the sound of her voice seemed to come from all around them.  In it you may find what you seek, only to lose yourselves.

“We all understand the risks,” Cal said.  “We are willing to walk that path.”

The strange elemental being regarded them with that dark gaze once more.  Finally, the voice responded. 

It is within my power to aid you.  But there is a price...

The companions shared a quick look, but Benzan only shrugged.

“Naturally.”


----------



## Broccli_Head

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Book VIII, Part 5
> 
> Finally, the voice responded.
> 
> It is within my power to aid you.  But there is a price...
> 
> The companions shared a quick look, but Benzan only shrugged.
> 
> “Naturally.” *





That's why I love Benzan...his cynicism....


----------



## Maldur

Thx, LB!

Great update!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 6

The sun rose on another striking summer day in the mountains, with barely a wisp of cloud visible in a vast expanse of bright blue.  As the rays of morning light banished the shadows within the range they fell upon a small cluster of travelers who already had the look of having spent a goodly part of the morning marching along the difficult mountain paths.  

The four companions walked onward in relative quiet, the only sound accompanying the gusting wind the scrape of their boots on the bare stone.  Benzan was ranging a good distance ahead, picking out the best route along their chosen line of march.  All around them rose huge peaks that rose up into the morning sky, some of them still bearing small caps of snow despite the season.  Up here the air was colder, but still far from the bitter chill of the passing spring.  

They marched onward throughout the morning, creeping incrementally deeper into the range with each passing hour.  Finally, Benzan signaled and came quickly back toward the others, leaping agilely across the uneven stones that formed their current path up the side of a jagged ridgeline.  

“I think we’re getting close,” Benzan said.

“What makes you say that?” Dana asked.

The tiefling replied with a curt gesture, and they followed the motion to an object that jutted from the rocks a short distance off the trail ahead.  Warily they moved closer, but their initial perceptions were correct.  The object was an uneven length of branch, about as long as a quarterstaff, jammed roughly into a gap in the stones.  Atop the branch was a grisly sight—a collection of skulls of varying size, a half-dozen in all, ranging from a massive thing that looked to have belonged to a large predator, to several smaller ones that might have been humanoid in origin.  

“It would appear that they mark their territory,” Cal commented.  

“Perhaps I should scout ahead,” Dana suggested.  “With my _fly_ spell, I can cover this entire region in under an hour.”

“I think we’d better stick together,” Cal said.  “These creatures are reputed to have quite excellent senses, and I don’t imagine that they are careless, given the harshness of their environment.”

“Yet another fetch/kill mission,” Benzan said grumpily, leaning against a conveniently situated boulder.  “They’re starting to all seem the same, and it’s getting tiresome.”

“It’s for an important cause,” Cal said.  “And the Oracle did not ask us to do anything against our natures.  If what she told us is truth, she has reason to dislike them, reasons that clearly damn them by their actions.”  Meaningfully, he inclined his head toward the totem of skulls.

“Yeah, well how do we know these giants are as evil as she said they were?” the tiefling persisted.  “They collect skulls, but perhaps they belonged to things that invaded their territory... like we are now.”

“Well, according to the Oracle, they’re thieves at the very least,” Dana pointed out. 

“Ah, yes, the stolen gemstone.  I know you don’t think of me as all that attentive, but I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who noticed how she implied that she needed the powers of the stone in order to help us.”

“Or she might have been simply telling the truth,” she replied.  “In any case, she was quite clear that she would not help us until it was returned to her.”  

“Maybe it belongs to the giants by right, and she’s just using us...”

“You do raise an important concern,” Lok rumbled from where he stood a few paces distant.  As always, he looked as solid and imperturbable as always, particularly in contrast to the weariness that the others wore about them like their cloaks.  “I know these giants, at least from the lore of the dwarves, from the North—they are a degenerate, wretched breed of creatures that dominates through strength and delights in the sufferings of weaker beings.  But we should not be quick to generalize from that understanding, and should not be eager to slay without examining the situation first.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right, but something tells me that this is going to come down to blood—again.  I just hope it isn’t ours this time.”

“We stick together and pool our efforts, and we can do this,” Dana said.  

Cal suddenly stiffened, and raised his head toward the direction that they’d spent the morning hiking.  

“What is it?” Dana asked, noticing his sudden shift of attention. 

“I think you’re right, Benzan,” the gnome replied, wrinkling his nose in disgust.  The wind had shifted, blowing down in a gust from the trail ahead, but none of the others could sense what the gnome’s keen nose had detected on the breeze.  “We’re getting close—seems that the Oracle’s information about the proximity of their camp was accurate after all.”

“Well, we might as well get this over then,” Benzan said.  “You all ready?” 

 “Remember, keep your eyes peeled,” Cal warned.  “Our success here is based on catching them unawares, and giving us time to prepare our protections.  If we’re caught in a sudden battle, things can go badly very quickly.  Trust me—my people are used to fighting the Big Folk.”

“Yeah, you worry too much,” Benzan joked.  But his expression was serious as they started out on the trail again, and he didn’t range as far ahead this time as they picked their way up to the crest of the ridge.  In the bright light of the day, his _ring of shadows_ was of little help, but he naturally gravitated to the available cover as they made their way forward, and he frequently signaled for them to wait while he darted up a length of the trail, his alert eyes scanning the surrounding terrain for signs of an ambush. 

They passed another three hours in that manner, without seeing any sign of the enemy chosen for them by the Oracle.  Occasionally they detected other traces on the air that reinforced the nearness of their goal, and at other times Benzan indicated another clue—a footprint in a patch of packed earth, or a discarded object that had clearly belonged to an owner of great size.  They did not encounter any further warning markers, if the skull-staff had indeed been that, but that was not cause for them to relax their guard.  The air grew still, as if even the winds themselves were growing quiet in anticipation of the confrontation that seemed imminent.  

With each crest that they reached, it seemed as though another obstacle was presented—a nearly sheer incline a one point, at another a twisting gorge that they spent a full hour circumnavigating.  Hours passed, and the morning gave way to afternoon as the sun passed its zenith and started its descent toward the western horizon.  

Finally, though, they came to yet another steep rise, marked by a rugged but broad trail that twisted back and forth along the slope.  Carefully they made their way up the path—it was as treacherous as it looked, but they were getting used to such hazards by now, and they did not dislodge any loose rocks or make any other betraying sounds.  Again Benzan was the first to reach the top, and abruptly he froze, ducking down within a knot of boulders, signaling to the others to wait.  Quickly, but careful to remain unseen from beyond the crest, he made his way back to them. 

“What is it?” Cal whispered.

“Looks like we found their camp.  There’s another gorge on the far side of the ridge, a bowl-shaped canyon with a big open space below.  There’s a big cave in one of the canyon walls, and a crude camp of sorts set up right in front.  I saw... one of _them_ briefly... ugly bugger, the Oracle was right about that...”

“All right.  Let’s go... carefully,” Cal said.  “I’ll make you invisible, Benzan—it’s not the kind that persists after you attack, but it’ll last longer.  Dana, if there’s anything you have that’ll last more than a few minutes, now would be the time to use it as well.”

The mystic wanderer nodded.  “Benzan, give me your quiver.  Lok, you as well.”  While Cal called upon his protective _stoneskin_, Dana cast a spell that greatly enhanced the efficacy of their arrows with divine magic.  After returning the missiles to Lok and Benzan, Cal cast his _invisibility_ spell on the tiefling, and they set out once more, cautiously.  

“I’ll be close by,” Benzan’s voice came out of the air ahead of them.  “If I see anything, I’ll signal with a whistle.”

“All right.  Be careful,” Cal replied.  

Once they reached the crest, they could all see the camp in the dell below.  The canyon was ringed by fifty-foot cliffs along much of its perimeter, but there were also numerous places where a steep but navigable slope offered access to the canyon floor below.  

The giant camp was clearly delineated, with piles of trash and pits that reeked of discarded refuse even from their vantage point radiating outward from the dark entrance of the cave.  Nothing moved that they could see, although it was clear from their angle that the cave penetrated some distance back into the solid rock of the far cliff face.  

“Gah, what a stench,” Dana said, covering her nose. 

“Benzan, you said you saw one of them?” Cal asked, keeping his voice pitched low so as not to travel.

“Yeah, I think he went into the cave,” Benzan’s voice came from nearby.  “Big sucker,” he repeated.

“All right, let’s go, but stay alert.”

“I think it’s time for some better mobility, just in case,” Dana said.  She closed her eyes and called upon the power of her goddess, and after a brief prayer lifted off of the ground to hover a few feet beside them.  She drifted down the path while the others pressed on afoot, and they reached the canyon floor in a few minutes without incident.  

Slowly, they crossed toward the camp and the cave mouth.  As they drew nearer, the stench redoubled, and they could see that there were many bones among the refuse piled carelessly around the perimeter of the canyon.  

“Hsst!” came a warning from ahead, but even as Benzan’s alert reached them, they could all hear it—a rumbling noise from within the cave, punctuated by a single sharp sound of metal striking metal.  

Before they could react, they became aware of movement along the ridge that surrounded the canyon.  The companions drew together in another defensive knot as a number of massive forms rose into view.

The giants were huge, cumbersome creatures, each standing at least fourteen feet in height.  They looked almost human at first glance, despite their size, but on closer examination it was clear that the resemblance was only cursory.  Each of the creatures was disfigured in a unique and disturbing way, from the hunched back and mismatched arms of one, to the drooping and uneven facial features of a second, to the bowlegged, broken-jointed walk of another.  Despite their deformities and size, however, they made little noise as they took up positions on the crest overlooking the canyon, which indicated how they’d managed to come up behind the companions without alerting them.  There were five in all, a collection of freaks whose common feature was the malicious delight in their eyes as they regarded the little beings that had invaded their demesne.  Each was clad in ragged, noisome furs that mercifully covered parts of their misshapen bodies, and each bore a heavy club that might have once been the trunk of a considerable tree. 

“Well, looks like we’ve walked into yet another trap,” Dana said, her acid tone resembling Benzan’s too closely.  

As the two groups regarded each other, a sixth giant rose into view atop the ridge.  Even before it had come fully into sight, it was obvious that this one was the leader.  Its face looked like someone had bludgeoned it into a smashed mess, but it stood easily three or four feet taller than the others, and its thick arms and legs seemed like pillars of solid muscle.  It carried a staff that could have served as the mast of a coastal raker, but their attention was primarily drawn to the jewel that it wore around its neck. 

The bright daylight seemed drawn to that ornament, and it flickered almost eagerly as they watched.  The round opalescent stone, almost the size of a man’s head, was held in the center of a circle of crude, pounded iron the size of a tower shield, the whole strung around the giant’s throat by a necklace of thick chain links.  

“Well, at least we won’t have to search for the Stone,” Lok said.  He still held his axe, but as the giants had appeared he’d also unslung his heavy bow from its perch across his broad shoulders, ready to unleash a few of Dana’s empowered arrows before things came inevitably to close combat.  Above and behind him, Dana’s earlier sarcasm was belied as she fervently called upon the _divine favor_ of her patron to protect her.  

The formorian leader pointed his massive staff at the companions and spoke something in a guttural, incoherent speech that none of them could grasp.  The five others responded by shouted a crude refrain and pounding their heavy clubs against the ground.  

“They don’t seem happy to see us,” Cal noted. 

“Perhaps I can convince them to give up the gem without a fight,” Dana said.  “If you can make it so that they can understand me.”

“Be careful,” Cal said, even as he sang the notes that empowered his _tongues_ spell.  He reached up and touched Dana on the ankle as the young woman lifted gently into the air once more, rising up toward the ridge where the giant leader stood.  She kept her spear pointed down and to the side, holding up her other hand in an open gesture designed to avoid provoking the creatures.  Cal, meanwhile, continued playing his melody, letting a constant stream of soothing notes drift up from his lute.

Dana had only moved about twenty feet closer—the enchantment powers of the mystic wanderer would only function at close range—when suddenly the formorian lifted both its arms high into the air, holding the staff above it like a brace.  The jewel at its throat flashed as if in echo to that harsh cry, and Dana went flying backward as if struck.  She quickly recovered, hovering about ten paces over her friends, spinning and bringing her spear up in a warding pose.  

But the giants were already charging, moving down the steep slopes to come at the trapped adventurers from all directions.


----------



## Dungannon

Ahh, now _here's_ the Friday cliffhanger we know & love.   Guess the formorians aren't big on negotiation, are they?


----------



## Maldur

OH yeah, Cliffhangertime 

thx, LB!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 7

The adventurers faced a charge by a half-dozen misshapen but huge and powerful formorian giants.  The ground rumbled as the creatures lumbered ponderously down the slope toward their position, their clubs already lifted to pound their much smaller foes into jellied mounds of splattered organs and shattered bones.  

Even as the giants started their rush, Cal abruptly vanished.  Lok, by all appearances now alone, save for the woman hovering in the sky above, held his ground, drawing his great bow with an efficiency a weaker archer could never have managed.  His first shot scored a hit that lodged deep in a charging giant’s shoulder; the formorian roared in pain but did not ease its rush.  Lok’s second shot, aimed at the same target, narrowly missed, but he calmly drew a third and fired again even as the giants rapidly closed the distance between them. 

Dana rose higher up into the air, her eyes vacant as she opened her mind to the power of her goddess.  Using that power as a conduit, she called out across the planes, seeking aid.  

Cal, shrouded now within the protection of _improved invisibility_, and already bolstered by _stoneskin_ and _haste_, turned toward the other charging giants.  A pair was coming down a narrow cleft sandwiched between two steep cliffs.  That wedge consisted of a slope of fallen rocks that offered an easy route down to the canyon floor below, but Cal quickly decided to make things a bit more difficult for these two assailants.  

His hands could not be seen as he wove them in an intricate dance of motion, and the words that he spoke in the arcane language of magic vanished on the wind as soon as he spoke them.  But the results of the powerful spell he called, one of the newest in his arsenal, were immediately evident.  Thick black tentacles sprang forth from the ground and from the walls of the cleft, filling the confined space in a writhing, twisting mass.  The two giants were caught in the middle of the spell, and the conjured tentacles quickly started twisting and grasping at their heavy limbs.  The giants were too large and too strong to be held long, and the _shadow conjuration_ was weaker than the standard version of the spell, but Cal’s intent was to delay, and for the moment he had accomplished that. 

As he turned, though, he saw that two more giants had already reached the canyon floor coming from the opposite side, and would reach them in moments.  Suddenly, though, the first giant cried out in sudden pain, its shout echoing against the walls of the canyon as it clutched at its neck in pain.  Blood ran freely from between its fat fingers as it staggered down the final feet of the slope, looking around for the source of the attack.  Its companion shouted something and pointed its club at a shadowy form crouched between two boulders nearby, no longer protected by the cloak of _invisibility_.  A translucent disk of blue energy hung in the air before the concealed archer, but it did not look like that alone would protect him from the vengeance of the enraged giants as they turned toward his hiding place.  A second arrow followed the first, slamming into the already wounded giant’s side, driving them on even further.  

Before they reached him, however, the entire area was swallowed up in a ball of absolute _darkness_.  The unwounded giant was already too close to avoid stumbling into the sudden black, and its angry shout was heard a moment before it reappeared on the other side, falling hard to the floor of the canyon as it tripped on the uneven rocks.  

Dana opened her eyes as she felt a surge of divine energy flow through her, exulting as she felt the glory of the momentary link to the Higher Planes.  At her call a being shimmered into existence beside Lok, a form that solidified into the shape of a massive lion.  The beast, easily twenty feet in length from head to tail, wore a coat that seemed spun of pure gold, and its eyes gleamed with an intelligence that quickly fixed on the foe.  The giants seemed that much more hideous in the face of the celestial lion’s beauty, and it roared its own challenge before bounding to the attack.  It rushed toward the nearest foe, the giant that was already reeling from the hits from Lok’s bow, and leapt onto it in a storm of claws and teeth. 

Dana, meanwhile, hovered above the battle, but before she could begin her next spell, her attention was drawn up to the ridge.  There, the huge giant leader still stood, not having joined the rush of the others.  Tendrils of flowing energy were twisting down the length of its staff; the source of those flows, she realized, the glowing white stone at its throat.  It fixed her with a malevolent gaze that pierced her like a blaze, then it hefted the wooden shaft.  The flows of power coalesced into a wicked blade that topped the thick trunk like a spearhead.  

Dana opened her mouth, the words of a prayer already on her lips, but to her surprise the giant roared and leapt forward _off_ the cliff on which it stood, as if it could somehow will itself over the gulf that separated them. 

But having already witnessed the power of the elemental stone, she was not overly astonished when it lifted into the air toward her, the gemstone glowing like a miniature star around its neck.  

The two giants that Cal had trapped with his shadow-version of _Evard’s Black Tentacles_ had quickly started tearing through the grasping tendrils of shadowstuff, although not without taking damage from their powerful grip.  But Cal did not let up in his attack.  Even as they fought free he called upon an illusion, a cloud of utter blackness that reached out and enfolded the giants in its depths.  The giants shouted and redoubled their efforts to escape, one even swiping at the cloud with his club, but of course the attack had no effect against the image.  Cal even chuckled as the giants’ confused cries rose up from within the black cloud; while his spells had been mostly harmless thus far, they were quite effectively confounding their foes’ efforts to bring their incredible size and strength to bear. 

His grin faded fast when he saw the giant leader take to the air, but even as he shouted a warning to Lok, he heard another noise that drew him around again.  To the black cave entrance, where his sharp eyes spotted movement even before its source became visible.  

That source was revealed to all of them a moment later, as three huge shapes came into view.  Two were additional giants, younger versions of the others by the look of them, standing merely ten feet or so in height.  And between them lumbered forward a huge form on four clawed legs; the largest bear that any of them had ever seen.  It opened jaws that could have even given one of the adult giants pause, and let out a roar that was almost deafening as it echoed off the cliff walls of the canyon.


----------



## Maldur

wow, cliffhanger.

Nasty fight. And once again it seems the heroes bit off something more than they could chew!!


Thx for the update LB!


----------



## Broccli_Head

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Book VIII, Part 7
> And between them lumbered forward a huge form on four clawed legs; the largest bear that any of them had ever seen.  It opened jaws that could have even given one of the adult giants pause, and let out a roar that was almost deafening as it echoed off the cliff walls of the canyon. *




UGH! Dire bear!

Run away!!

Hey...shouldn't Dana have _flamestrike_ by now?


----------



## wolff96

That might even be an advanced Dire Bear...  LB is getting nasty with his short-timer heros, and they're not even off the prime yet!

Heh...  and LB is branching out. Now we've even got a MONDAY cliffhanger. Sigh...


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 8


The appearance of the two adolescent formorians and the dire bear further slanted the odds against the companions.  Although they had thrown their enemy into confusion, and inflicted great injuries in the initial moments of the battle, none of the giants had yet gone down, and soon they would be able to bring their deadly clubs to bear in melee.  

And when that happened, things would get very bloody very quickly. 

Cal responded quickly even as these new foes appeared in the mouth of the cave.  Calling upon a potent illusion, he summoned up a roaring wall of flames that filled the opening in the cliff face, blocking the bear and its handlers.  The giants and the bear responded as though the flames were real, neither quick enough in mind to immediately recognize that the roaring wall lacked heat, and they backed off, stymied at least for the moment.

The giant that had been wounded by Benzan’s first arrow cautiously circled the globe of _darkness,_ wary of another attack.  The second giant, meanwhile, spat curses as it clumsily rose at the far end of the sphere, blood trailing from where its face had bashed a rock as it fell.  

The first giant’s gaze passed over a man-sized boulder as it trudged across the rocky slope.  It sensed too late the sudden movement as Benzan reared up from behind the sparse cover, but it certainly felt the blaze of pain that erupted in its side as another arrow sank to the feathers into its torso.  It spun to face this small but dangerous foe, but Benzan kept up his barrage, firing a second and then a third arrow in rapid succession.  The giant absorbed the hits, clearly feeling the hurt now, but then it was close enough to swing its massive club at its attacker.  Benzan dodged back, but even his magical _shield_ could not fully absorb the force of the powerful creature’s assault.  He grunted, the air escaping his lungs in a sudden whoosh, and staggered backward, barely keeping his feet as he fumbled for another arrow.  

Lok took a step toward the cave mouth before Cal’s illusion took effect.  Realizing that these foes were delayed for now, he quickly loaded and fired again—this time at the huge leader that was rising toward Dana’s position above them.  His first shot scored a hit, the arrow jutting into the giant’s meaty leg, but it paid no heed to the wound.  His second shot also seemed true, but at the last moment it flared wide, as if deflected by some unseen force. 

Gritting his teeth, there was nothing more that the genasi could do to help Dana as the giant swept upward toward her.  

Dana was all too aware of the looming magnitude of the giant as it drew nearer, and she knew that there was no way that she could withstand the assault of that strange lightning-spear that it wielded.  Instead she drew back further, forcing it to come higher and farther to reach her, delaying until the last instant despite the bulb of fear that caught in her throat at the grim promise of the giant’s terrible expression.  But when she finally did call upon her patron, the goddess quickly answered her call, and a vertical shaft of light appeared behind her in the air, widening into a _dimension door_ that she vanished into just as the giant drew close enough to attack.  

“Come on down here, you ugly brute!” Lok called up to it, although he had to realize that with the giant’s superior reach, it could hover above him and pound him into the stone without risking a counter from the genasi’s axe.  

Cal did not leave his friend unprotected, though.  Quickly, his actions accelerated by the still-potent _haste_ spell, he crossed to where the genasi warrior stood apparently alone on the canyon floor, and imparted to him both a _haste_ spell of his own and the shifting glamour of a _displacement_ spell.  

“Thank you, my friend,” Lok said, as he fitted another arrow to his bow.  “Now get clear, quickly!”  Even as the huge giant turned and started its descent, Lok drew, aimed, and released another arrow straight up. 

Cal turned to see that their problems were still not as bad as they could get; the two giants he’d caught in his _black tentacles_ and subsequent illusion had finally escaped both and were charging toward Lok from behind, only a dozen giant-strides away.  

“More company!” he warned, moving enough so as not to get caught and trampled inadvertently in their rush.  He was starting to run out of spells that would be effective against these foes; he quickly fired off a _polymorph_, but was not surprised when the giant resisted its effects.  These things were tough.  

Well, he’d have to rely on the old tried-and-true tactics, then.  

As the closer of the two giants ran past his position, even its senses not sufficient to find him through his _invisibility,_ he let out a loud whistle.  

The giant’s head turned, looking for the source of the sound.  

And caught the full force of Cal’s _color spray_, the dazzling blaze of colors stunning it, at least for a few seconds.  

For now, that would have to do.

Lok darted aside, rolling as the blazing _brilliant energy_ head of the giant leader’s spear slammed into the ground with enough force to shatter the solid stone.  The _displacement_ had just been enough to shelter him—this time.  He quickly moved away, pausing to fire a quick arrow that was deflected by the giant’s invisible protections, but forcing it to adjust, to come after him, not letting it get set for a full and devastating series of attacks.  

But the giant abruptly rose up to its full height, hanging in the air ten feet off the ground, and pointed its spear-staff at Lok.  It roared a command in its guttural tongue, and again the gem at its throat flashed in response.  Lok stood his ground, ready for anything, but could not avoid the jagged bolt of liquid energy that exploded down the shaft and slashed through the air into him.  As tough as he was, the genasi felt the effects of the _lightning bolt_ heavily, but as the shards of stone and dust raised by the blast faded, he still stood, a blackened smear blazed across the breastplate of his magical armor, and wisps of smoke rising from his charred beard.  

“Ha!  Can’t do any better than that, you big oaf!  Come on down here and tangle with me hand-to-hand, if you dare!”

It wasn’t clear if the giant understood the genasi’s speech, but it clearly recognized the challenge, for it roared and dropped solidly to the ground, and charged toward Lok.


----------



## Maldur

*start a cheer*

LOK, LOK he's our dwarf! If he cant do it noone can!!

THx for the update, LB!


----------



## Black Bard

*Back from the dead...*

It's been a while since I've come to Travels, so I've come to say that I've just finished Book VII and, what can I say? Marvellous!!

I'm really pissed off for not being up to date with the heroes' epic drama, but I'll do my best to catch up...

Oh, just a little note about Lariel...He's really tough...All in all, he survived the experience of travelling with the heroes... He's really one of a kind... 

Congratulations again, Lazy...And I wish you good luck with your novel project!!!


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks BB, and welcome back!

* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 9

The giant leader, protected by the eldritch magic of the elemental stone, charged toward Lok, while its minions continued to attack the rest of the hard-pressed companions.  

Lok stood his ground, trading out bow for axe and shield, all too aware that a second giant, the one that had gotten past Cal, was coming from behind even as the giant leader came from ahead.  There was nothing to do for it, though, but hold; there was nowhere to escape to.  With finality he hefted his axe and planted his feet, choosing his ground with the determination of the dwarven defender.  

He did not stand alone, however.  The giant coming up from behind raised its club in anticipation of crushing this apparently unaware foe, but suddenly a huge shape leapt at it from the side.  Dana’s summoned ally, the celestial dire lion, leapt onto the giant, its claws slashing and tearing.  The noble creature was battered, and its right eye was swollen and closed from a smash from the club of its first target, but that first giant was just a shredded heap, never again to torment a victim for pleasure.  The second giant cried out and tried to detach the bundle of claws and teeth that tore at its flesh, without success.  

At the same time, the giant leader was distracted by a shrill cry from directly above.  It looked up in time to take a raking sweep from a pair of sharp talons to its face, as another summoned ally, a giant eagle, swept past.  Behind it came Dana, glowing with the light of Selûne’s _divine power_, her spear driving down before her like a lance.  The giant swiftly raised its own weapon, and the two struck as one, Dana’s spear slamming hard down into its shoulder even as its own blade caught the woman heavily across the torso.  Despite her own magical defenses, the incredible strength of the giant ripped a gaping wound across Dana’s body as the gleaming weapon slapped her aside.  Screaming, Dana lost her grip on her spear and went flying backward, spinning out of control.

The giant paused to pluck out the spear, then turned back toward Lok.  As soon as Dana had attacked he had given up his defensive stance and charged, and now leapt to the attack even as this dire foe turned to face him.  

Benzan gave ground, drawing both giants after him now, barely keeping ahead of them on the treacherous and uneven slope.  There was no way he could face up to them in hand-to-hand combat; that much was obvious from the way his ribs throbbed from just that one glancing impact.  But on the other hand, these giants didn’t know all his tricks...

He ran up a slanting boulder and leapt off, reaching down to grasp the hilt of his sword as he did.  The power came readily, lifting him into the air, high enough so that even the considerable length of the giants’ clubs could not reach him.  The giants hesitated, confused, staring up at him. 

“Sorry, fellas,” he told them, as he drew and fired.  

The first giant, already seriously injured, took two more hits before it bellowed out a final cry of pain and collapsed.  

Then he started in on the second. 

On the far side of the battlefield, Cal’s opponent was trying to find its elusive opponent.  Its exceptional hearing helped it track the invisible gnome’s movements even over the sounds of battle that filled the canyon, but Cal quickly realized that and called up a _ghost sound_ cantrip to cover his retreat.  The giant, frustrated as his club again banged against empty stone, turned to head back to the melee against more obvious foes.  It only managed a few steps before it felt a rush of painful electricity rush up its leg.  Angrily it stomped the ground where it thought the attack had come from, but that only emphasized the pain as its fat foot crashed onto the stone ground. 

Its frustration grew deeper a few seconds later when it felt a sting in its other leg, and looked down to see a crossbow bolt jutting from just above its knee.  

Dana spun around and once again tried to gain some altitude.  That one hit had nearly slain her, and she felt weak as her blood continued to fall in fat drops to splatter on the ground below.  She called upon the healing power of Selûne, which eased the pain, but as she looked down she saw the dire bear, accompanied by the two younger giants, coming out of the cave.  Apparently they had belatedly realized that the flames of Cal’s illusion were not real; even as she watched, they faded into nothing.  She glanced back at the huge giant, now directly engaged with Lok.  She wanted to help him, but knew that if these new enemies reached him while he was fighting that foe...

She had to buy them some time.  “I’m sorry,” she said, even as she let out a shriek to draw the attention of the giant eagle to her.  Then she opened her mind to the goddess once more, reaching across the gap that separated worlds.

The companions fought their battles around the perimeter of the canyon, but the most violent struggle took place at the center, between Lok and the formorian leader.  This warped and evil creature was the veteran of many clashes, powerful even for its kind, and it fought with a rage that intensified its already considerable strength and stamina.  Lok, in turn, fought with the skill and determination of the expert that he was, reinforced by the spells that his companions had placed upon him.  His strikes were swift, his axe cleaving into the thick legs of the giant, and in turn the _displacement_ power of Cal’s spell enabled him to avoid several attacks.  Conversely, however, the giant’s energy-weapon seemed able to penetrate Lok’s armor with ease, and soon the durable genasi was reeling, blood pouring down his torso from several serious wounds.  All it would take was one dodge too late, and that weapon would transfix him...

Benzan’s second opponent seemed at a loss for how to deal with him.  Even as its erstwhile companion thrashed out the last of its life upon the rocks, arrows from the tiefling’s bow started to slam into its body with meaty thunks.  Hanging in the air was causing his aim to draw off a bit more with each shot, but the inability of the giant to get to him more than compensated for that.  The giant reached down and pulled up a stone the size of Benzan’s head and hurled it at him, but while most giants were consummate stone-throwers, the misshapen formarians were poor at that art and the stone missed wide.  Finally, while Benzan took a moment to stabilize himself, the giant turned and fled, bleeding from several arrow wounds.  

Unfortunately there was no place for it to take cover, as the arrows started once more to follow its flight.  Driven by Benzan’s mighty bow, empowered both by the magical flames that the bow granted to its missiles and the enchantment Dana had put upon the arrows, each shot struck with the force of three hits from lesser bows.  The giant continued to run, although each step grew progressively slower as those hits took their toll. 

The dire bear roared and reared up as the giant eagle dove at it again, narrowly avoiding the slashing claws as it flew past.  The intelligent eagle was trying more for distraction than for injury, careful to stay far enough back to avoid getting drawn into the bear’s powerful hug.  The two young giants tried to assist, but were of little help at first, too slow to anticipate the eagle’s rapid movements.  Then Dana finished her latest summoning, and a pair of smaller celestial eagles appeared to assist in the fleeting attacks at the evil creatures.  

Of course, the giants were in little real danger from the talons of even the giant eagle, but once again they were a bit slow to realize that.  

Her summonings complete, Dana drew out the mithral chain from her pouch, and began spinning one end in a wide loop as she dove down lower to join the attack.  

Lok was taking a pounding from the formorian barbarian, and while the giant’s legs were a mess of deep gashes, it seemed invincible as it continued to harry Lok.  What was worse, the doughty genasi could already feel Cal’s protective enchantments start to wane, the spell durations only a few short seconds away from expiration.  Time seemed to stand still as the two mighty combatants—one huge, the other not even five feet tall—faced off again, their weapons slick with the blood of their foes.  

Then, suddenly, an image appeared in the air between the two, a hovering, female form that the genasi—and the giant, by the look on his face—instantly recognized.  It was the familiar vaporous form of the elemental weird, her body just an outline in clouds of mist, her legs trailing off into insubstantiality below her.  Her face had a look of finality on it as she pointed at the giant leader, at the gem that flared at his throat.  

The giant roared in anger and defiance, and with a mighty sweep of his staff-spear slashed through the insubstantial form of the weird.  The blow did no harm, of course; one cannot slay an illusion.  But even though the distraction caused by Cal’s final glamour was just momentary, it was enough for Lok to take advantage. 

The genasi leapt past the giant’s thick legs, his axe coming up in a powerful arc with his full strength behind it.  The blow caught the giant in the hamstring, slicing skin and muscle and scoring the bone underneath.  The giant cried out in sudden pain, shifting to face the warrior once more, the maneuver unbalancing it as the crippled limb gave out under it.  Down it went, staggering.  It was too strong yet to fall, and it caught itself by jamming the staff-spear into the ground and propping itself up on its good knee.  

It might have recovered, given a few more seconds, although it would not be running any long distances anytime soon.  But even as it struggled to rise, Lok came around behind it, and with a final mighty stroke severed the giant’s spine by burying his axe deep within its back.  

The giant’s death-cry shattered the mountains, echoing off the nearby peaks.  It struck the surviving giants like a hammer-blow, and even as the sounds faded the survivors broke and fled, seeking escape.  The bear was the only creature not to retreat, still swiping in vain at the diving eagles, still fighting even as Dana blasted a ray of _searing light_ into its head.  Dazed and blinded, it finally turned to retreat back into the shelter of its cave, but it only made it half way before Benzan’s arrows finished it.  

The companions gathered in the center of the canyon as quiet returned to the grim battlefield.  Dead giants and the carcass of the mighty bear lay scattered about, and the rocks of the canyon floor were splattered everywhere with great gobs of blood.  Only three of the giants had escaped with their lives, the two adolescents and the one that Cal had been battling on the far flank.  Dana’s summoned allies had returned to their place of origin, the spell that drew them here only of short duration, and the four friends quickly turned toward treating their wounds.  Only Cal had escaped injury, and there had been a few times where the giant’s blind attempts to strike him had missed by mere inches.  

“Well, that was something,” Benzan said, breathing heavily as Dana treated his injuries with a healing spell.  His quiver was empty, every arrow now buried in a giant corpse or shattered on the rocks.  Lok handed him the rest of his arrows, while Cal plied his own healing arts upon the battered warrior.  

Dana looked around, at the destruction that had been wrought here in the brief but violent battle.  “Let’s get what we came for, and get out of this place.”

The others readily agreed.


----------



## Maldur

Great battle.

thx for the update LB!


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## Broccli_Head

Viscious...but well worth the read!


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## wolff96

Now that was a fight...

Multiple Formorian giants -- each of which is pretty tough -- an advanced barbarian for a leader, and a very large dire bear.

I would hate to run up against that as a player, but it makes for a great read!  Thanks, LB.


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## Lazybones

Indeed, for a brief moment I'd feared that I'd written my heroes into a corner, but then I realized the old truism of adventuring/encounter generation: groups of foes who are extremely powerful in their physical attributes, but lacking in other talents, can often be taken out by a well-balanced group that is both smaller and "weaker" in terms of HD/levels.  

Plus this encounter gave Cal a chance to show off his growing facility with illusion magic.  

Today's update isn't really a cliffhanger _per se_, but it does mark a transition in the story.  Now our companions have a set destination, although it will take a few more steps until they are ready to embark on that final transition into the Abyss.  We'll see an old character return (NOT who you think  ), spend some more time with the Harpers, and face yet another titanic battle sequence.  Next week I'm at an on-site training all week for work, so my posts may be sporadic and/or at different times of day than is customary for me. 

Thanks for reading! 

Lazy

Note: if the Oracle's colored text is difficult to read on your browser, just highlight it for easier reading.  


* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 10


Several days later, the companions stood once more at the edge of the cavern where they had first encountered the Oracle.  The day was as brilliant and bright as on their last visit, with a sere wind that had drifted all the way up through the plains tugging at their cloaks as they entered through one of the broad openings.  

“I still have a bad feeling about this,” Benzan said, his eyes darting through the shadows. 

“We’ve come this far,” Dana said, so softly that she might have been talking to herself. 

The four came warily forward, until they stood at the floor of the chamber, at the verge of the great well in the center.  

The familiar wind rose once more, swirling within the chamber with a rush that filled their ears with sound and sent tingles of power running along their skin.  Within that invisible maelstrom the elemental weird rose up once more from the omnipresent mists contained within the interminable depths of the well, her female shape taking hold out of the swaying tendrils of vapor.  Once more those dark eyes fixed on them, eyes that saw places deep within.  

“We have recovered your Stone,” Cal said. 

I sense its presence among you.  Drop it into the Well...

“Now wait a minute... lady...” Benzan said, pointing a finger at the insubstantial form hovering above them.  “Taking on those giants was a bloody mess, and before we hand over anything, we want some answers, and quickly!”

The winds intensified, and a wailing echo filled the chamber with their passage, but the elemental creature’s expression seemed almost... amused.

You are suspicious, and your eyes shine with the fear that you cannot quite suppress.  You need not be afraid, not here, Benzan... although that paranoia may serve you well, in that place where you seek to go...

Benzan swallowed, he did not respond, but the wariness was clear in his eyes.  The weird rose up, and her body seemed to swell, until it was the size of a powerful man.  Her gaze swept over them all, and the power of a storm flashed in her eyes.  Her voice came again, an answer to the tiefling’s unspoken challenge, the threat in his manner and in the hand clutched tightly around the hilt of his magical sword.  

You would find me an implacable foe, here in mine own demesne.  But I am not your enemy.  It is true that I used you to advance my own ends—but is that not the way of you mortal folk?  You cling to your mortal existence with tenacity, and that greed for it, the miserly, desperate, temporary grasp on life, it infuses every bit of what you are.  The lusts for power of your kind are just a reflection of that basic truth.

“What you say bears honesty,” Cal said, “But let that fact not overshadow the other potentials of we mortals.  While it is true that our mortality drives us often to destruction, it can also lead us to savor the joys of life, to glory in the natural wonders of existence, and the gifts of brotherhood, of friendship, of love.”

The winds abruptly subsided, and the creature came forward to the edge of the well, shrinking until the translucent feminine outline of her upper body was about the size of Cal, close enough for any of them to reach out and touch her.  Your words are true, for I see the unity of purpose that drives you.  Cloaked in a shroud of fear and doubt and anger, it is yet founded in a selfless bond of friendship.  For too long I have been bound to this reality, for me to be swayed by such sentiments as governed my outburst.  The Stone, it is a locus of power that has served me as an anchor, and in its absence, I felt stirrings... raw emotions... hatred...

“We restore it to you freely,” Cal said quickly, removing it from an extradimensional pocket in his magical backpack.  The artifact seemed to swell as he drew it out, but Cal held it easily despite the fact that it was larger than his head.  It pulsed in his hands with both light and feeling, and as he held it over the vapors of the well, toward the weird, the whistling wind seemed to beat in tune with those energies within the rock.  

And then he dropped it, and it vanished into the mists instantly.  They could detect no immediate results, as the swirling clouds confined within the well continued their movements unaffected, but the Oracle seemed to swell up, and her otherworldly visage broke momentarily into a smile.  

You have honored your commitment, and so thus must I...  She said, drawing back from them into the center of the chamber, again impersonal and distant, an otherworldly being with knowledge beyond the scope of their mortal understanding.  And as she spoke, each of them heard the words echo not only through the interior of the cavern, but in their very being.  They knew that now, she spoke not as the elemental that had requested their aid, but as the Oracle, the Mistress of Journeys.  

You already bear the answer, she began.  That which your adversary sought, twice the Key, once for entry, and once for understanding.

Cal, Lok, and Dana shifted their eyes to Benzan, whose hand had fallen reflexively to cover the pouch at his hip, the pouch where the black statue rested in its safe concealment.  

“How did you know...” Benzan said, trailing off. 

You must return to the place where you confronted Him, your true foe, through the agency of his chosen, your friend.  That is where your journey truly begins.  With the Key, the power of the Moonmaiden can unlock the door.

Dana nodded, understanding.  She already knew the question that the Oracle had just answered, had tried to uncover whether her _plane shift_ spell could take her to where Delem was imprisoned.  Her patroness had told her that she would not need to, but Dana had not understood until later that this meant that Delem would come to them, drawn by the inexorable link that still bound them all together.  

But that binding was now corrupted, tainted by the presence of another actor in this drama.  The adversary of whom the Oracle spoke, the one that held their friend’s soul captive.  

The one whose Lair they now sought.

The Key opens your way, but be wary, traveler.  The Key cannot pass through the Portal, nor can it be used again after the initial sundering, until the balance between the planes has once again been restored.

Benzan shot a quick side glance at Cal.  “You get any of that?” he whispered.

“Quiet,” the gnome returned. 

Once the sundering has begun, the warp in the weave will persist until the rip in the fabric of time and space can heal of its own accord.  At this time the ones of mortal flesh, if their hearts be true to their cause, can pass through.  But a warning.  Those on the far side, in the realm of the tanar’ri, can pass through as well, and their lords, if alerted to the tear, can block that mending, and keep the connection intact for their own ends. 

“How do we keep that from happening?” Dana asked.  

You must remain close to the portal until it closes, and then you are free to depart on the next leg of your journey.  But be forewarned, the opening of the portal will likely draw a response from residents of that realm on the far side.

“Great.  So we ring a nice loud bell that we’ve arrived, and we can’t do anything about it until this ‘rip’ heals,” Benzan grumbled.  “It just gets better and better.”

The road you have chosen is difficult, but not impossible.  It may lead you to unexpected destinations, but remember this: the path may twist and turn, and try to draw you astray, but always it is *you* that chooses which way you walk.  Such is the way of journeys; I can help illuminate the road for you, but ultimately you must choose to walk upon the stones of the path.

Benzan and Cal each opened their mouths to speak another question, but as the Oracle’s final words faded, the wind suddenly picked up once more, filling the cavern with a gust that seemed to want to pick them up and toss them about.  The companions retreated a few steps from the well, clutching at their clothes tugged by the winds.  Then, abruptly, the winds died, and when they looked up, the Oracle was gone.


----------



## Maldur

As Holmes would say:

the game 's afoot!

thx for the update, LB!!


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## Black Bard

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...


----------



## Lazybones

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.


----------



## Maldur

They might not have reached 20, but they areepic adventurers.

Imagine preparing to go into Hell itself!!

THx for another great updat, LB!


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## Black Bard

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?


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## Lazybones

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.


----------



## Maldur

Arck!!

Another cliffhanger!!

thx, LB!


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## Black Bard

And a cruel cliffhanger indeed!!
A lot meanier than any "battle" cliffhanger...

Lazy, you are such an evil guy...


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## Lazybones

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 Calie 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.”


----------



## Dungannon

> *orignally posted by Lazybones
> 10,000 views... woohoo! Thanks to all the readers who have put Travels into the upper echelon of ENWorld Story Hours.*



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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## LuYangShih

Hm.  Interesting.  What layer of the Abyss are they going to, anyway?  Personally I'd like to see a change from the fiery pit of doom deal, and go for a more unique icy pit of doom or something.    Great story as usual, I look forward to reading more.


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## Maldur

thx, LB!

tension rising!!


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## Lazybones

I've been on-site for a work assignment, so I haven't had much chance to write lately.  This week my office is getting ready for a move to a new location, so the frequency of postings may be down for a little while. 

* * * * * 


Book VIII, Part 14


The next morning the companions were up early, even before Cylyria herself came to their guest quarters to greet them.  By the look on her face, it was clear that she was distracted by something on her mind, and she carried a burden under her arm, a lengthy bundle wrapped in a wool cloth.  

“What’s the matter?” Dana asked, loud enough so that the others heard from the adjacent suite and came quickly to join her and the Lady of the Harpers.  

“A strange encounter,” she told them, closing the door behind her in a gesture that was not lost on the four adventurers.  “A cloaked figure—a woman, we think, although the priest who took the message was not so sure, later—arrived at the compound shortly before dawn this morning.  She left this, saying that it was for you.  She did not give your names, according to the priests, but referred to you as ‘the four travelers.’”

“Strange indeed,” Cal said, crossing to where Cylyria was laying the bundle atop a small table.  

“Careful,” Benzan said, suspicion clear in his tone and the way he gripped the hilt of his sword. 

“I’m assuming that you tested it for anything threatening?” Cal asked, glancing up at Cylyria. 

The bardess nodded.  “We opened it—I hope you’ll forgive the presumption, but given the circumstances...  Well, anyway, it is not dangerous, though... well, perhaps you should see for yourself.”

Cal unwrapped the object—the wrapping was not secured, just wound around it—and let out a deep whistle.  The others closed quickly, curious, and stared at the revealed gift. 

It was a sword, but even in its scabbard it was instantly evident that this was a weapon of unusual quality.  Cal moved his hands over it without touching it directly, clearly casting a spell, and after a few moments raised his eyebrows again in surprise.  

“Powerful,” he said.  Cylyria nodded. 

“Draw the blade,” she suggested.

He did, and the metal hissed as it pulled free of the scabbard.  The sword was flawless steel, but what drew their attention immediately was the symbol etched in the blade near the hilt.  The carving reflected a coin that bore the face of a smiling woman, done so clearly that she seemed almost alive, returning their stare as they regarded her visage.  

“An unusual token for a blade such as this,” Lok said.  He had not touched the weapon, but his expert eyes had immediately weighed its quality.  

“The symbol is that of the goddess Waukeen,” Cylyria said.  “The blade is a _sword of the planes_, a weapon of great power that is of particular effectiveness against those not native to the Prime.  I can honestly say that I have never seen its like.  Although why it would be given to you... that I do not know.”

“Interesting,” Cal said.  “A gift that is exactly what we currently need.  I wonder if word of our destination has spread further than we expected.”

“I was very circumspect in my notifications, but they say that the only true way to keep a secret is if only one person knows about it.”

“Well, it’s a nice break, a stranger giving us a gift.  Usually, they are trying to kill us for some reason,” Dana said.  

Cal held the blade out to Lok.  “Nay, the axe is my weapon, and it has served me well thus far.” 

Cal turned to Benzan.  Indecision flashed across the tiefling’s face, and for a moment his hand tightened even further on the hilt of his magical sword.  Cal understood; for a long time he’d been aware that the intelligence that resided in the tiefling’s weapon had a subtle but definite impact on the man.  Certainly he was very protective of the bronze sword.  But finally Benzan nodded, recognizing what the gnome already had—that neither Dana nor Cal could make effective use of the new weapon, and that they would likely have need of its powers where they were going.  

He took the weapon, and held it awkwardly for a moment, then finally slid the scabbard through his belt.  

“Come,” Cylyria said.  “Let’s get some breakfast.”  She didn’t say anything further, but each of the companions could feel what wasn’t said, that the end of that meal would mark the beginning of a journey.  

A journey into darkness.  

* * * * *

“Our spells are ready,” Cal said.  “Now would be a good time to show us that ‘trick’ you had in mind.”

The four of them stood in a small, private courtyard behind Twilight Hall, alone save for Cylyria and the three new companions that would accompany them to hold in the Sunset Mountains.  

Fariq bowed, still holding onto his irrepressible grin, and dug into his pouch.  He withdrew what looked like a folded piece of black cloth, and with a flourish unfurled it with a snap of his wrist.  Fully spread, it was a circle about five feet across, and as it settled to the ground, there was a faint... _twisting_ about it, and then they could see _into_ the cloth, to a space where moments before there had been only the weather-worn bricks of the courtyard. 

“A _portable hole_!” Cal exclaimed. 

“Yes, a small one, I admit, but suitable for our needs.  It does not hold much, I’m afraid, but there’s enough space for both of our elven friends, and perhaps also your roguish comrade there as well, for the few moments that it will take you to transport us to the mountain valley of yours.”

The elves moved readily toward the narrow opening, but Benzan shook his head.  “Hey, it’s your item, why don’t you get inside it?”  He stared at the dark pit suspiciously; they could see that its bottom was only about five feet below the edge, and it already contained some chests, a small barrel, and a few other assorted items.  

Fariq laughed.  “Well, because the hole is mine, and I am familiar with its usage, it seems logical that I be the one to carry it.  Fear not, Benzan!  I will carry you safely, and you will be out and free again in mere moments!”

“It’s the only way, Benzan,” Cal said.  “Dana and I cannot take all of us with our spells, and I do not have sufficient _polymophs_ to use our alternative method.

“Oh very well,” the tiefling grumbled, crawling into the hole along with the elves.  They had to duck to fit, and Fariq immediately ducked to grab the fabric at its edge.  Benzan opened his mouth in sudden protest, but his cry was cut off as Fariq pulled the _portable hole_ into the air, folding it quickly and tucking it back into his pouch.  

“Best be quick, there’s only enough air in there for a few minutes, at best,” Fariq said. 

“I noticed you didn’t bring that up before,” Cal said dryly.  But he turned quickly to Cylyria, who’d waited patiently through the exchange.  

“Thank you again,” he said earnestly. 

“Go with the eyes of the benevolent gods watching your steps,” the Harper said, offering a quick bow.  

Cal nodded, and the four travelers moved to stand in a close knot a few paces away, Fariq beside Cal, and Lok beside Dana.  As one the two spellcasters summoned their power, and within moments the air shimmered, and they were gone.

Cylyria remained a minute longer, watching the empty space where they had been, a solemn expression on her face.  Finally, she sighed, and slowly turned and walked back to Twilight Hall.


----------



## Maldur

Dont worry LB!

Well just wait here for the rest of the story. Its not like we are not used to cliffhangers


----------



## LuYangShih

Is Lok going to become a real Urdunnir with the release of Races Of Faerun?  Of course, it would make him more powerful than the rest of the group.


----------



## Black Bard

We'll be patient... Afterall, they're *only* going to Hell... We can wait!!


----------



## Lazybones

I don't think I'm going to change Lok at this point; in any case he's only _half_ urdunnir, and his plane-touched background seems dominant in terms of defining his physical traits.  

I believe I have enough material for a proper Friday cliffhanger, but first, I need to set it up with a Thursday post:

* * * * * 


Book VIII, Part 15


It did not begin very well. 

Cal and Fariq materialized at the place that the gnome wizard had envisioned, in the open space within the old hobgoblin camp.  They’d chosen this place to give themselves some distance from the underground shrine where the portal was located, both because they’d spent less time there, and because Cal feared that the potent magical currents that still lingered there might interfere with the teleportation.  The camp looked somewhat different than they remembered, with the intervening months continuing the natural process of decay upon the old logs of the stockade and they crude huts that had once housed the hobgoblin shamans.  The mud from before was now packed dirt, and mites swarmed in the air, cool from the altitude even though the rising sun was already well up into the eastern sky.  

Even as Fariq drew out the _portable hole_ and spread it out, Cal looked around for signs of Dana and Lok.  There was no sign of them, although the remnants of the stockade blocked all but a narrow slice of the surrounding valley.  Above them to all sides rose the steep slopes and surrounding peaks of the Sunset Mountains.

Benzan all but leapt out of the _hole_, even as it settled to the ground and took on depth.  “You forgot to mention the lack of air,” he said dryly, but then looked around in alarm.  “Where’s Dana and Lok?”

“They might have teleported off some distance...” Cal began, but Benzan had already cupped his hands to his mouth.

“Dana!”  The cry echoed off of the surrounding peaks, hanging in the air. 

“I wouldn’t do that,” Fariq said from where he was helping the elven scouts from the artificial hole in the packed earth of the camp.  “There’s an ill feeling about this place.”

“Given how far we traveled, they might be ten, fifteen miles off,” Cal reminded him.  He did not mention the other possibility, always there as a unlikely but real danger, that they might have been shunted off to the other side of the world, or suffered a more serious mishap.  Teleportation always bore risks, particularly when the destination was not intimately familiar to the caster. 

“Well, with her spell of flying, they should be able to find us soon enough,” Benzan said, although it sounded like he was trying to reassure himself as he looked about, one hand holding his bow tightly while the other lingered close to his quiver.  

The elven brothers strung their own bows as Fariq took up the magical hole once again, and soon they were moving out of the ruined stockade toward the nearby outcropping that overlooked the valley.  

They had not covered even half that short distance when suddenly they drew up short as a group.  Cal actually clutched at his head, but they all heard it, an angry buzzing like a hundred bees trapped within their skulls, almost painful despite being only just on the edges of their hearing.  

“Gah, what in the hells...” Benzan said, shaking his head as if that could hear the sound. 

“Look!” one of the elven brothers cried, and as one they followed his outstretched arm toward the far end of the vale, toward the narrow cleft that was the only convenient way out to the mountains beyond.  They all saw it instantly, could not miss the huge greenish form, the sweeping wings that balanced the creature as it clambered up higher upon a jutting ridge of piled boulders that rose up off the valley floor like a spear.  

“A dragon...” Benzan breathed. 

“No, look closer!” Fariq said, shielding his brow from the sunlight as stared at the thing.  And they could see that while the beast certainly had the look of a dragon, huge and reptilian, its head was strangely shaped, a jutting protrusion emerging from its forehead like a horn, and it appeared to lack the muscular, clawed forelimbs of the dragons they’d faced before.  Despite those variations, though, it still looked extremely dangerous. 

There was no further time to speculate on the nature of the thing, however, as the buzzing noise ceased, and the creature lurched to the top of the short ridge, spreading its wings wide with obvious intent.  

“Make for the tunnel!” Cal shouted, and they all started quickly for the winding path that led down from the hobgoblin camp to the dark opening in the rear cliff of the valley.  

Behind them, the dragon-thing leapt into the air, beating its wings furiously as it slowly lifted its massive bulk into the air.  It was coming right for them, picking up speed as its powerful wings increased its clearance from the uneven valley floor.  

And then Benzan shouted another warning, drawing their attention ahead of them.  They turned just in time to see another pair of the creatures clear the uneven cliffs high above, and dive straight down toward them.


----------



## Dungannon

Yikes!  If this is just a warmup for Friday's post, then _that_ cliffhanger should be a real doozy.


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 16

“Scatter!” Cal cried, but even as the shout echoed against the cliffs, the companions were leaping to action.  

Benzan drew and fired in the smooth, practiced motion of a veteran of the bow who’d survived dozens of deadly situations.  Even as the long shaft lanced into the air, he was running, nimbly darting over the broken landscape of uneven boulders that fronted both sides of the twisting track.  The elven brothers were also plying their bows, and Fariq was holding his magical rapier in one hand, and a long black wand in the other, from which a pair of magical bolts streaked up into the air to meet the diving creatures. 

Time seemed to slow as everything happened at once.  Benzan’s arrow intersected with the diving arc of the first beast, the enchanted missile flaring with magical flames as it sank into its chest.  The creature twisted its thick neck toward the fleeing tiefling, and then the air seemed to... _shimmer_ in a tight column that momentarily connected the two beings.  Cal, even though he was a good distance away, felt the buzzing in his head return, more penetrating and sharp, as though someone had touched the tip of a dagger to a point inside his skull.  

Benzan, however, the obvious target of the attack, was far worse off.  The tiefling staggered and cried out, and as he turned Cal could see fresh blood trailing down his face from his nostrils.  Other than the faint shimmer, there had been no physical evidence of the attack, yet clearly the creatures possessed some sort of magical power that allowed them to strike from a distance.  

That was confirmed a heartbeat later, as the second creature lowered its head toward the rest of them.  The familiar buzzing returned, but this time was accompanied by a sudden explosion as the ground erupted from under them.  The elves shouted and dove for cover as shards of shattered rock battered them, and Cal staggered as something hard glanced off of his temple.  Gingerly he felt the point of impact, feeling the warm slick of blood.  

The two beasts flew over them in a rush of air, flapping their wings to gain altitude as they began to wing around for another pass.  Cal turned, and as he did, he saw the first creature already swooping into its dive, its claws extended...

“Fariq!” he cried in warning, as he saw the creature’s target. 

The Calishyte spun, but it looked as though there was no way that the man could avoid that snatching claw.  But to Cal’s amazement, the sorcerer darted _into_ the attack, leaping into a flip that barely cleared the snap of the creature’s claw.  As he spun past a flash of silver flared in the sunlight, and when he landed again on the stones, a line of blood trailed from his rapier.  The dragon-beast beat its wings furiously and pulled upward and away to the left, narrowly avoiding the looming cliff, trailing blood from the gash in its leg.  

“On to the cave!” Cal cried.  He paused only a moment to call upon a _haste_ spell, giving him enough of a boost to keep up with his longer-legged friends.  The elves had already joined Benzan, who still looked a bit dazed, with a garish streak of red across his face where he’d wiped the blood trailing from his nose with the back of his hand.  

“Here they come again!” Eloren cried in warning, lifting his bow for another shot.  The first two creatures had turned and were diving again, their huge jaws open in a silent cry.  The buzzing noise returned once more, precursor to another attack.  

“Go!” Cal yelled, not pausing as he rushed past the others toward the black opening in the cliff.  It was still far, too far, but if they stayed out here...

The elves had fired and were already running, and while their arrows were true the tiny missiles failed to divert the huge creatures from their pass.  Another pulse sent up a shower of debris as a cluster of piled stones exploded, but the companions were scattered enough so that only Valdis took a few glancing hits that were not serious.  But as the second creature dove in, swooping deeper toward the valley floor, the elf’s eyes widened in sudden fear.  

“Eloren!” 

The Harper Scout turned too late, and while he tried to dive out of the way of the claw, it snapped hard around his shoulders and drew him struggling into the sky.  Fariq blasted the creature with another pair of _magic missiles_ from his wand, but the creature barely noticed the impacts as it swooped back up and to the side to avoid the sheer cliff face.  Its momentum was too great, however, and abruptly it released its captive, spreading its wings wide and drawing its body back so that its thick legs absorbed the impact of the collision.  With its massive claws clasping the rock it used its momentum to drive it higher.  For a moment the beast seemed to be running up a vertical cliff, then it pushed off and spread its wings again, flapping with powerful strokes to lift its ponderous bulk back into the sky.  

Eloren was driven into the cliff face with a sickening crunch, and for a split instant he hung there, splayed out against the rock.  Then he was falling, plummeting the fifty feet to the hard stones at the base of the cliff, landing just a short distance from the dark opening to the tunnel complex.  

“No!” Valdis cried, reaching his brother’s limp form just moments after he struck, as his body settled into a dip between several protruding rocks. 

“Again!” Fariq warned, and Cal looked up to see another of the creatures diving.  With the companions now closer to the cliffs, the creatures were taking a more circuitous route, sweeping around the valley in a broad circle and coming parallel to the massive stone face to avoid another collision.  All of the creatures bore wounds, now, but none of them, even the one that had suffered the glancing impact on the rock face, appeared to be hindered by their injuries.  

Cal looked over at Fariq, and saw the man’s outline shimmer, then disappear.  Nodding to himself, he continued running toward the fallen elf, the words of a healing song already coming to his lips.  

Even before he reached him, it was clear by the look on his brother’s face that he was too late. 

Benzan cried out in defiance and fired his bow aggressively, scoring another hit before diving behind cover before the inevitable counter from the flying attacker.  The ground erupted where the tiefling had been standing, but he’d apparently avoided the worst of it; as the dragon-creature wheeled off again, Benzan rose from his hiding place and fired another arrow that caught the beast on the hindquarters.  

Another of the creatures was already swooping into another dive, coming lower this time, extending its claws as if to try another grab.  Valdis, his face stricken, carried the limp form of his brother toward the nearby slit in the cliffs, Cal right behind him.  The gnome saw a chance to confuse their foes, and quickly cast an illusion of a swooping roc, its wingspan easily as broad as that of the creature, that flew down from above on a collision course with the diving creature.  

But to his surprise, the creature did not react at all, just flew right through the _silent image_.  There was no time to puzzle out the significance of that, however, for the buzzing had started again, and Cal glanced over his shoulder to see a second creature sweeping down from behind them, starting its own dive.  

“Go!” Benzan shouted, throwing Cal’s own advice back at him, urging the gnome ahead of him as they rushed toward the narrow cavern entrance.  The creatures had spread their wings and slowed, obviously intent now on landing as their prey disappeared into the opening in the cliff face.

Cal and Benzan ran into the darkness, which seemed to swallow them up despite the narrow shaft of diffuse light that penetrated from the opening in the cliff wall.  Valdis had already carried his brother’s corpse further into the cleft, to where the opening of the first dark tunnel waited as a wall of absolute black.  Beyond that, the companions knew, waited the sundered guardians that had warded the complex, and the network of passages and chambers that culminated in the black portal that was their destination.  

“Fariq?” Benzan asked, looking around.  He, of course, was not hindered at all by the darkness.  

“Here,” came a voice from nowhere, close by.  

“We’ve got to get deeper in,” Cal said, already moving toward the dark tunnel.  They could all hear the creatures moving around outside, the noise drawing closer quickly.  

“Eloren?” Fariq’s voice came, softly.  

“He’s dead,” Cal said.  “But Dana should be able to help him, when she finds us.”

“Dana...” Benzan said.  He abruptly stopped, turning back toward the narrow shaft of light behind them.  “We’ve got to kill those things, before she and Lok...”

“I know,” Cal said.  “But we’ve got to have a plan, otherwise they’ll rip us to pieces with those blasts of theirs...”

As if to punctuate his statement, a dark shadow fell over the opening outside, and the evil buzzing filled their heads in a cascade of sudden pain.  The companions staggered as the sonic pulse reverberated off the confined space, until the walls themselves seemed to vibrate around them.  

“Deeper!” Cal shouted over the noise, barely audible but filling their heads from within.  The companions staggered into the tunnel, Fariq calling up a globe of shimmering light that drove back the shadows enough for them to see where they were going.  Benzan turned and with a curse fired an arrow toward the opening outside.  That attack was rewarded by a cracking that was a very real and nasty sound, as the creatures turned their assault upon the stone walls of the cavern itself. 

“They’re trying to collapse the tunnel on us!” Benzan shouted in sudden horror. 

Cracks appeared in the stone ceiling as the vibrations continued to build, and the buzzing turned into a whine that reached a pounding crescendo in their heads.  Dust began to fall, forming a thick cloud that caught in the rays of light that filtered in from outside. 

“We’ve got to—” Benzan cried, staggering back toward the entrance, fumbling for his sword.  

He was cut off as the ceiling exploded, and the world fell in upon him.


----------



## wolff96

Whoa.

What in the world ARE those things? Or is this yet another monster I've never seen because it is from Monsters of Faerun?

Nice update!


----------



## Lazybones

Actually they're in the Monster Manual, and the SRD.  

Hint: Check under "Y".


----------



## Maldur

> _Originally posted
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Lazybones said:
> 
> 
> 
> 
> *Actually they're in the Monster Manual, and the SRD.
> 
> Hint: Check under "Y". *
> 
> Click to expand...
> 
> 
> 
> wow , friday night cliffhanger!!
> 
> and a mystery monster
> 
> thx, LB!_


----------



## Elemental

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Actually they're in the Monster Manual, and the SRD.
> 
> Hint: Check under "Y". *




Yrthrak. I almost certainly spelt that wrong. And I liked the description of the way they killed their prey--very cinematic and wince-inducing.


----------



## Black Bard

A tough fight, that's for sure... I wasn't expecting such a challenge so earlier in their journey... 

What the Hell this _mystery guy_  Fariq is? He's really full of surprises...


----------



## Lazybones

I'll post Fariq's stats on Monday.


----------



## Black Bard

> I'll post Fariq's stats on Monday.



Thanks, Lazy!!! I'm quite curious about him...


----------



## djrdjmsqrd

**smirk**

/delurk

Hey, LB,

great job again, sorry I have not mean posting support for awhile, but, I have been dealing so much personal deamons/bull/drama in the past bit...

...great escape though, this story hour, thanks so very much for keeping it going.

Djordje.

/lurk


----------



## Lazybones

Sorry to hear that things haven't been going so well, Djordje.  Been there, done that, to be sure.  In many ways writing this SH has been theraputic for me as well, as tensions are high here in the office due to a huge crisis in the state budget, programs and projects are being slashed, and everyone is running around scared for their jobs.  

Not to mention the current world situation; we won't talk about that due to the rules here at ENWorld (rules that I agree with wholeheartedly), but suffice it to say it's a good time for a little heroic fantasy.  

Here's Part 17; I've also posted Fariq's stats in the Rogues' Gallery (link in my sig).  

* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 17

“What was that?” Dana shouted, over the constant rushing of the wind.

Lok did not reply, but Dana could feel the slight tensing of his arms as they continued in the direction of the sound, the low rumbling that had risen up out of the mountains.  The noise came from the direction they had been going, and although it faded after a few minutes, the sick feeling of worry in Dana’s gut lingered on longer.  

The two sliced through the air, flying upward over the uneven ground, over jagged ridges and plummeting ravines, averaging about fifty feet in altitude above the rough mountain slope.  At one point they sailed over a deep gorge that stretched a good three hundred paces across, and easily five times that in depths, its bottom lost in shadows.  Dana could feel Lok stiffen, but the genasi did not falter, and within a few moments they were across, and continuing their rapid ascent.  Dana patted Lok’s armored shoulder in reassurance, although she doubted that he could feel the gesture through the thick magical plate.  

She was aware of the genasi’s fear of heights, but there was nothing to be done for it.  The pair had quickly realized what happened when they materialized on a naked bluff of stone surrounded by unfamiliar peaks.  Dana had a powerful spell at her disposal, a new boon granted by the goddess, that would allow them to unerringly _find the path_ to the valley where, presumably, the others waited for them.  Assuming that they, too, had not teleported inaccurately... 

Dana could not attempt another teleport until the following day, but neither was willing to remain apart from the others that long.  Although the evil humanoid tribes that had smashed Asbravn were broken and scattered, the Sunset Mountains were still full of dangers, and apart the companions were far weaker than they were as a team.  

It had been Lok who, despite his obvious reluctance, had suggested the inevitable course.  “Use your _flying_ spell,” he told her, once she had told him of her divination magic.  “It’s the only way to carry us there quickly.”

“I will have to cast it upon you,” she said.  “The spell allows the user to carry aloft a normal burden, for them; I could not possibly lift you, even without all your armor and gear.”

Lok nodded. 

While casting her spells, calling upon the power of her goddess both to guide them to the valley and grant Lok the power of flight, she had covertly added another enchantment; a spell to _remove fear_ from the recipient.  Thus bolstered, the two had lifted off into the air, moving swiftly to the southeast in the direction indicated by Dana’s spell.  Lok carried his shield and axe as if charging into battle, while Dana clung to his back, her arm hooked into the steel ridge at the neck of his breastplate.   

They had been streaking through the mountains for about an hour when the rumbling sound had risen from ahead of them, echoing through the mountains for several minutes before fading.  The distortion wrought by those echoes made it impossible to guess from how far ahead the noises had come, but Dana could not help the dark guesses that kept popping unwelcome into her thoughts.  

Dana thought she recognized one of the peaks that rose up to their left.  Ahead of them rose a tall ridge, a barrier that became almost vertical near its summit.  She reached ahead and gestured upward where Lok could see, but he was already rising, and although she could not see his face, she could almost picture the hard look of determination that he must be wearing. 

Even with the power of Dana’s spell, it took them several minutes to ascend high enough to float over the barrier.  As soon as they reached the crest, Dana recognized immediately, even before she felt the tingle from her still-active divination, that they had reached the valley.  

That wasn’t all that they saw.  The mystic wanderer’s gaze was drawn to the cliffs where the dark opening into the tunnel complex had been.  Had been, for now the cliff face was broken by a jagged tumble of rocks that formed a new hill of debris where the opening had been.  Dust still hung in the air around that sloping mound, indicating that the rumbling they’d heard had been the sound of the cliff collasping.  

Dana sucked in a breath, her heart freezing in her chest.  But there was no time for further consideration, for even as Lok slowed to a hover, they spotted two massive, green-skin dragon-like creatures clambering across the valley floor in the immediate area of the rockfall.  Dana hurriedly scanned the valley floor, but she could detect no sign of Benzan or Cal, or the Harpers they’d brought with them.  There were many places where the rise and fall of the land obscured her view, but somehow she _knew_ that their friends were not hiding down there.  Inexorably, her eyes were drawn back to the rockfall, and the collapsed tunnel beyond.  Had the whole complex caved in when the cliff gave way?  Or had the falling rocks—tons of it, by the size of the mound—just blocked the entrance?

She became aware that Lok was lowering them to the ridge below.  

“We’ve got to get down there!” she yelled, heedless of alerting the creatures below. 

Lok rumbled something in reply, but the words were lost in the rush of wind over the lip of the valley wall.  But as they drifted down to the rocky crest, the genasi lifted his axe and pointed.  

She saw it, cursing herself for her earlier inattention.  A third creature, perched on a rocky outcropping on the far edge of the valley to their left.  It resembled a mighty bird of prey, only with mottled scales rather than feathers covering its muscular frame.  Its dagger-shaped head seemed distorted by some sort of protruding horn, but there was little more that they could make out about it at that distance.  As they watched, the creature spread its massive wings, and pushing off with powerful legs lifted off into the sky above the valley. 

Toward them.


----------



## Black Bard

What a cliffhanger!!
Lok and Dana are really in trouble, and I see no way for them beating those monsters... I hope that a _dimension door_ spell do the trick...


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 18  

Lok looked at her, and at the flying creature as it lifted higher into the air on beats of its massive wings.  The genasi nodded, and said, “Right.  I’ll take care of that overgrown lizard.”  With a grim look on his face, he hefted his axe and began rising into the air. 

“Good luck,” she told him.  “I’ll be right behind you.”

He nodded, and then he was off like a dart, not looking down as the ground dropped out beneath him and the wide expanse of the valley opened up below.  Dana, however, was already opening her mind to the siren song of her goddess’s voice.  

A buzzing sound filled her head, penetrating and annoying, but with a purity of focus she shed the distraction as she called upon the divine power of her patroness to initiate a summoning.  She did not notice as the two creatures on the valley floor below abruptly looked up, and almost immediately started flapping their wings to lift themselves ponderously off of the ground toward the brewing confrontation.  

Lok glided higher to meet the ascending arc of the first yrthak.  Rather than taking the time to draw out his bow from his _bag of holding_ and string it, he simply lifted his axe and swept straight for it.  The creature seemed intent upon the far ridge where Dana waited, and did not even seem to notice the armored figure coming straight for it.  However, as Lok drew nearer, less than a hundred paces off, it suddenly swung its strangely-shaped head toward him.  The air suddenly _hummed_, and Lok was blasted roughly back, as if struck by a giant’s club.  His roar of pain was torn from him, but even as the creature’s flight drew it closer and above him, the doughty genasi spun in mid-air and launched himself straight up to meet it. 

The frost-rimmed axe tore around in a mighty arc, and as the two flying enemies drew apart a spray of red erupted from the deep gash in the yrthak’s abdomen.  It did not cry out, but continued its sweeping pass, its jaws clenching and opening as its slanted head tracked the movement of its painful adversary.  Slowly, it turned for another run. 

Dana finished her spell, and at her calling a giant eagle appeared in the air through a momentary rift in the planes, swooping down to land on the rocks before her.  It regarded her with regal, knowing eyes. 

“Why hast thou summoned me, mistress?”

“I require thine aid against some deadly foes,” Dana said, falling into the eagle’s archaic speech pattern despite herself as she leapt forward and smoothly hopped upon its back.  The eagle settled under her weight, but did not seem troubled by the burden at the least.  

“To battle, then!” the avian cried, uttering a more normal-sounding screech that resounded off of the walls of the valley.  It leapt ahead and as it plunged off of the edge of the plummeting slope, its powerful wings lifted it smoothly into the air.  

The two yrthaks from the valley floor were already winging up to meet her, gathering speed as they rose higher into the air.  

“Verily doth it appear that the odds be stacked against us!” the eagle cried, but it did not waver as it angled into a rapid dive.

Dana, already lost in the casting of another spell, did not respond.  

Lok’s foe, meanwhile, had already completed its arc and was coming once more for the armored warrior.  It blasted him with a second sonic lance as it drew near, and while the warrior was clearly distressed as the focused energy slammed into him, he did not retreat as it swooped at him, claws outsteteched to snatch him out of the sky.  Its claw snapped down and struck him, but at the last moment Lok lurched upward, tearing free from the hold and driving his axe once more into the creature’s belly.  This cut crossed over the gaping wound from the first stroke, and the yrthak faltered as a bloody mess of gore and entrails poured from the terrible wounds.  Its momentum carried it past the warrior, his armor twice splashed now with the blood of his foe.  The yrthak apparently decided it had had enough, what with its wounds from the earlier confrontation and now these twin gashes from this second foe, and flapped haltingly away, still trailing great gobs of blood that plummeted far to splatter on the rocks below.  

Dana dove down to meet the other two yrthaks on the back of the giant eagle, her spear cradled like a lance in one hand.  With the other, she pointed and called forth a blast of _searing light_ that struck the first of the yrthaks solidly in the head.  The blast tore a fiery gash in the side of its jaw, and the wounded creature veered unevenly to the right.

But a moment later, the first sonic lance struck.  

Dana felt it _through_ the body of the eagle, a terrible vibration that tore through the noble creature’s taut frame, sundering flesh and muscle and bone.  The eagle faltered, and for a desperate moment the two were falling together, out of control, until the eagle was able to spread its wings and catch the winds beneath them. 

Shaken, Dana looked up just in time to see the yrthak’s outstretched claws reach for them. 

Without thinking, she thrust upward with her spear.  The electrically-charged head of the magical weapon slammed deep into the yrthak’s body, and she could feel the shudder of its frame down the length of the haft she clutched with desperate strength.  The eagle tried to sweep free, tearing the spear from her grasp, but then the claw snapped down and caught them, and the world spun.  

And then the beast was away, and Dana realized that she’d been knocked from the eagle’s back, and was falling... falling...

The rocks of the valley floor rushed up to meet her.


----------



## Broccli_Head

Great to see you back into the action, LB....

It seems that only Lok is in good shape. 

Pity for the rest, but there's nothing more resilient and scary than a flying dwarfkin with a wicked battle axe!!!!


----------



## Maldur

LB, great cliffhangers , your back in form!!


(It seems your work situation is similar to mine, stinks doesn't it)


Broccli_Head, that not really how I see Lok, but still a nice pic


----------



## Black Bard

Great update... As usual... 



> Broccli_Head, that not really how I see Lok, but still a nice pic



I agree with Maldur... I think Lok is a bit more _stony_ ...


----------



## Lazybones

Thanks guys!  I think we'll have 3 updates this week, including a short but dramatic Friday cliffhanger!  Stay tuned!

* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 19


Dana saw the death rushing up to meet her as she fell, but strangely she felt no fear, only a deep calm that fell over her like a warm cloak.  

Suddenly an iron band locked around her ankle, and she felt a rough jerk as it drew her up.  Pain blossomed down the length of her leg, but she gladly welcomed that, preferable to the alternative of being dashed against the jagged rocks that continued to draw nearer for a moment as she slowed.  Then, barely five feet above the ground, above those eager fingers of stone that would have claimed her life, she stopped.  

Ignoring the pain, she twisted her body up so that she could see Lok, his iron-plated fist locked around her ankle, his axe clutched awkwardly in his shield-hand.  Beyond him, she caught a glimpse of one of the yrthaks, flying in a wide arc overhead.  

“Thanks,” she managed, forcing a smile despite the pain.  Her side ached where the yrthak’s claw had clouted her, but Lok looked far worse off, with streaks of blood running down his head from his nostrils and ears, from blood vessels shattered by the creatures’ sonic lances.  

“Better put me down,” she said.  “Those things...”

Lok nodded, and lowered her gently down to the ground.  Even as he released her he shifted his axe to his weapon-hand, and looked ready to lift back up into the fray, but Dana forestalled him.  

“Wait a moment,” she said.  Ignoring her own hurts, she channeled the power of the goddess into a powerful healing spell, the most potent she had ever cast.  When she touched Lok, his eyes widened in surprise, and she could almost see the injuries fading as the healing energies blasted through his battered frame.  

“Good hunting,” she said, stumbling back as he nodded and shot back up into the air.  One of the yrthaks was already diving to meet him, and the second was flying around the edge of the valley near the cliffs, Dana’s spear still jutting from its chest.  Of the third creature, the one that Lok had driven off, there was no sign, nor did she see the giant eagle.  From the way her side throbbed from just a glancing impact from the creature’s claw, and the pain from that sonic pulse she’d felt through it, she suspected that her ally had been driven back to its otherplanar home.  

She was about to call upon another healing spell, to ease her own pains, when another rumbling noise distracted her and pulled her attention back to the cliffs.  From her current vantage, atop a low rise of jumbled stones, she could clearly see the rockslide blocking the tunnel entrance.  The noise grew louder, and she saw that the second yrthak had sensed it as well, and it was already winging down to investigate, its deadly horn sweeping for possible targets.  

Her own hurts forgotten, Dana was already running toward the cliff, her magical boots carrying her with incredible speed across the uneven terrain.  She was vaguely aware of Lok meeting the first yrthak a hundred paces directly above; the clash was a silent one save for the buzzing noise that bled off of the beast’s sonic attack, and the meaty thud of Lok’s axe cutting deep into reptilian flesh.  

Dana’s attention shifted to the yrthak diving toward the rockslide, only for an instant, and when her gaze returned she saw the massive pile shifting, with rocks pouring down its slope.  At first she thought that the shift was the result of the yrthak’s sonics, but then the top of the pile of stones split open, and a creature emerged from within the mountainside. 

Its appearance was so startling that Dana drew up short, almost stumbling on an uneven patch of loose stones.  The creature was an insectoid monstrosity, its bulbous head flanked by a pair of massive, snapping mandibles, its clawed hands crushing stone as it cleared and widened the opening it had just created.  

It was a familiar sight to the mystic wanderer: an umber hulk. 

For an instant Dana felt a sick feeling of fear in her gut, for the fate of Benzan and the others.  But then, the creature looked up and saw her, and instead of lumbering forward to attack, it waved.  

Silently, she berated herself for a fool.  But then she was running forward again, pointing up to where the massive shadow of the diving yrthak had already fallen over the valley floor, the creature swooping so close to the cliff that its right wing almost brushed the uneven stone.  

The umber hulk turned and saw the danger, but even as it started to move, Dana felt the familiar buzzing in her skull.  The attack was not directed at her, but even so she felt the momentary stab of pain within her skull as the piled debris around the hulk exploded, blasting the hapless creature with hundreds of shards of jagged stone.  

Dana continued to run, while awkwardly clawing at the side of her pack for the crossbow that had hung forgotten there for a good part of their recent journeys.  She knew that she would never get it ready in time, as the yrthak spread its wings and started back up toward the open sky above, either to retreat or to get into position for another attack run.  

The umber hulk had slid forward, out of the way of the opening it had made, and two figures leapt into view from the darkness beyond.  Dana’s heart leapt as she recognized Benzan, and the slender form of one of the elven Harpers.  Both carried their bows with arrows nocked.  The elf drew and fired in a single motion, but the shaft narrowly shot past the departing creature, already a good fifty paces distant and rising quickly.  Benzan drew his own arrow to his cheek, the arrowhead bursting into magical flames as the power of his bow poured into the missile.  Yet he hesitated for a moment, his lips moving soundlessly as he held his aim toward the departing shape of the creature. 

Then, suddenly, he lifted his aim higher, and released. 

The arrow knifed through the air, rising higher, higher... until the yrthak’s rising form finally intersected its course.  The missile caught it solidly in the back of its head, driving through flesh and bone and bursting with eager flames as the head penetrated into its brain.  The yrthak lurched in the air, its wings still beating furiously, and then it began to fall.  Dana felt a moment of hard memory as she watched in plummet, finally to fall with an earth-shattering crash on the valley floor.  

Not ten seconds later, another crash sounded from behind.  Dana spun, thinking it at first to be an echo, but then she caught sight of the second creature, which had fallen to earth near the remnants of the hobgoblin stockade.  Its fate was immediately clear, even before she saw Lok descending rapidly to join them. 

They gathered at the base of the rockfall, the umber hulk sliding awkwardly down, followed by Benzan, and the elf Harper.  Cal came behind, emerging from the dark opening in the cliff to join them, and Lok, the last to arrive, floated down to land safely a few feet away.  

Dana crushed Benzan in a tight hug, and the tiefling eagerly responded.  “When I saw the rockfall, and those... things... I thought...” she said.

“It’s all right,” he reassured her.  “They forced us inside, and then used those pulse attacks to collapse the entrance.  I would have been crushed, if Cal hadn’t dragged me back with the power of his ring.  As it is, they banged us around a bit, but we...”

He trailed off, and she released him, sensing that something was wrong.  She saw it on the faces of the others, on the elf, Cal, even the umber hulk that had to be one of the others, _polymorphed_ by Cal’s magic. 

“What happened?” she heard herself asking. 

“Eloren, he was killed,” Cal said.  Dana saw the pain that the words had upon his brother, who had be Valdis, then.  That would make the hulk Fariq, who regarded them somberly through the alien eyes of his assumed form.  

“Perhaps I can do something for him, on the morrow,” Dana said.  “But I’ll need to rest, and regain my spells.”

“I think we will all need to rest,” Cal said.  He turned to _dispel_ his spell and restore Fariq to his normal form.  

“I will recover your spear, Dana,” Lok said.  He lifted a few feet off the ground and shot out toward where one of the yrthaks had fallen.  

“The entrance was pretty beaten up by those things, as you can see,” Benzan said.  “But the interior tunnels are intact.  We’d probably be safer inside.”  He looked up and surveyed the sky, but there was no sign of the third yrthak, or any other dangers.  

Dana shivered, though she wasn’t cold.  While she did not relish spending a day in that accursed shrine, it was preferable to remaining out here.  And they needed her to be strong; Benzan hadn’t exaggerated, when he said they’d taken a beating in this encounter.  

For her, it only reinforced the importance of them staying together.  Apart...

“All right, let’s go,” she said, trudging toward the mound of rubble that led up to the dark opening.  Her leg was hurting again, but there would be time to deal with all their wounds shortly.  They would rest, restore themselves, prepare their spells...

And then, their next journey would begin.


----------



## Maldur

The image of a waving umberhulk! Hilarious 

Great stuff, LB! Thx!


----------



## wolff96

Sweet, sweet combat. The nectar of the gods.

Great update, LB!  Can't wait to see the final push to liberate Delem.


----------



## Black Bard

I'm sure Fariq was the only one excited with the possibility of being turned into a umber hulk!!!  

Great update, Lazy!!!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 20


 It was two full days later when the companions gathered once more in the dark chamber where the Portal, that strange gateway to the Outer Planes, waited patiently for their coming.  Each of the four friends felt the press of time intently, particularly in this place, where dark dreams came and the face of their lost friend intruded constantly in their thoughts.  Nor did any of them seek to delay what now seemed inevitable, the final passage through the Portal into the dark realm that lay beyond.  

But even with those proddings, there was nothing to be done for it but to use that time, to make the necessary preparations that they had discussed.  The first day Dana had used her divine powers to restore life to Eloren.  The Harper Scout rose gingerly, weakened and drawn from his soul’s brief excursion to the Other Realms, but he responded quickly to healing magic, hot food, and fresh air.  Valdis’s eyes shone with gratitude whenever he saw them, especially Dana, and he swore the service of both him and his brother should the companions ever need their aid in the future. 

Except in their current venture, there would be no more aid, save that which the companions had already mustered. 

They could have begun after that, but Dana and Cal agreed that they would be fools to proceed without Dana recovering the power she’d expended in restoring Eloren.  That night she walked alone out into the valley, the brilliant light of the full moon shining down onto the barren rocks, turning the landscape into an alien sea of rolling gray.  She called to Selûne to grant her the magical power that they would need to see them through, and long hours passed before she returned, a look of calm on her face that did not quite reach her eyes.  Without words she went to Benzan, who had not slept, working the fletching on a bundle of arrows as he awaited her return.  The two faced each other for a long moment, and then silently departed together to a side chamber, to share what little time remained to them before they were cast into the darkness once more.  

Cal spent the night in careful review of his spellbooks.  They had already discussed this in length, how they would choose their spells to best complement their shared abilities and talents.  The gnome had spoken extensively with a number of the Harpers in Twilight Hall, including Cylyria, and had gotten at least a partial understanding of the limitations that his magic would encounter once they had passed through the Portal into the Abyss.  Thus both he and Dana would steer away from summonings, which on the Outer Planes tended to draw the local residents regardless of the caster’s intent, and divinations, which could directly alert the predominant Power of the plane to which they traveled.  In all honesty, the gnome was more troubled than he showed outwardly by the prospects of his magic failing him, but finally he closed his spellbook and slid it into one of the pockets of his magical backpack, and took up his lute, playing a soft melody that seemed to haunt the empty corridors of the underground complex well into morning. 

Lok spent his time preparing his weapons and armor, painstakingly cleaning them of gore from the battle with the yrthaks, testing buckles and edges that did not really require maintenance.  His face was impassive even to his closest friends, like the hard stone of the chambers that surrounded them, and before retiring to sleep he spent some time sitting alone, fingering a small, rounded stone and staring deeply into the darkness.  

Fariq and the elven brothers, sensing the somber mood of their new companions, and understanding what they were about to face, gave them their distance, and when they spoke it was in hushed, respectful tones.  

Finally they awoke on the morning of the second day after their arrival in the valley.  The companions went outside once more, to drink in the fresh, bracing morning air and the bright rays of morning sun that shone down through a gap in the line of peaks to the east.  No words were spoken, but the four travelers took in the day together, drawing strength from each other, trying to banish the dark thoughts that haunted them.  They were ready.  

With the three Harpers in tow, they returned to the dark places under the mountain, and soon stood before the looming Portal.  

“That... that is unnatural,” Valdis said, staring at the Portal, at the inverted U of stacked stones that could not, should not, have been able to stand without toppling.  Within that arch the parchment-thin sheet of black rock waited like an unbroken pool.  The unholy black radiance that somehow allowed them to see despite the blackness seemed to pulse at their arrival, as if greeting them.  In that strange glow the summoning circle graven upon the floor seemed to glow with a silvery radiance, but everything else was just an outline formed of a deeper black.  

To combat the glow, Dana held aloft her torch, the one bearing the _continual flame_, but the light it cast was pale, sickly.  Fariq added a _light_ spell, but it did little more to drive back the enfolding black a scant increment further.  

Slowly, but with determination, they approached the portal.  Once closer they could see the familiar squat pedestal that stood before it, a simple finger of black stone with a squared top.  

The companions stood there for a long minute, staring at the portal, girding their courage close about them.  Finally, as if some unspoken signal had been given, they turned to face each other.  

“So then,” Lok said. 

“One moment,” Cal said.  “Benzan, I meant to give this to you earlier.”  The gnome drew out a slender wand, the one that he’d recently created in Silverymoon.  As the tiefling took the device, Cal said, “It’s fully charged, and casts the _invisibility_ spell.  It does not rely on a command word; you just grasp it and will the effect into being.  Should be useful, given your talent with the sneak attack.”

“At least against the lesser demons,” Benzan said, tucking the wand into his belt.  While he hadn’t paid as much heed as Cal to the information provided by the Harpers, they all knew that the stronger demons possessed the power to neutralize various forms of magic.  

“I have something for you, Cal,” Dana said.  As the gnome turned to her, she drew out a small gemstone from an inner pocket.  The gem was an exquisitely shaped sapphire, which glimmered with a strange radiance in the admixture of blacklight and magical illumination that warred in the chamber.  As she passed it to him, he could _feel_ the power stored within, a tingle that seemed to radiate out from the solidity of the stone.  

“An attuned gem,” he said in query.  

“Yes.  It took... a great effort, to prepare it, but it is very important.  It bears within it the power to _plane shift_ you and whomever you are touching back here, to Faerûn.  Though I cannot say for sure where exactly you would end up.”

Cal nodded, and carefully placed the gem within an inner pocket.  “A wise precaution,” he said.  

Benzan, on the other hand, clearly felt it was anything but, as emotions clearly warred across his face.  But Dana turned to him and smiled weakly, meeting his gaze with a slight nod that seemed to confirm an agreement already made.  Benzan opened his mouth to speak, but then snapped it shut and turned decisively toward the portal. 

“Let’s get this over with already,” he spat.  He bore his bow in one hand, with one sword at his hip and another across his back, with his small shield hanging over one shoulder.  The four carried only light packs, with most of their supplies secured within Cal’s magical haversack and Lok’s _bag of holding_.  Those items, at least, should work normally, according to what Cylyria had told them. 

If not, then this trip might be a lot shorter than they expected.

Cal moved to stand beside Benzan.  “The statue,” he said, softly.  

Benzan nodded and crossed to the small pedestal.  Drawing the bundle out of his pouch, he unwrapped the small statuette of the demon-figure and lowered it cautiously into place.  It fit into the depression atop the pedestal perfectly, settling in with a softly anticlimactic click.  The flat surface within the portal remained quiescent, not reacting in any apparent way to their actions.  

 “Dana,” Cal prodded.  

The woman stepped forward as Benzan gave way, handing her torch and spear to Lok before confronting the doorway with a look of fierce determination on her features.  Her eyes grew vacant as she reached out both within herself and across the universe to the bond that connected her to the power of the goddess Selûne.  Her lips moved as nearly soundless syllables poured from them, each vanishing from the mind before those present could be certain that they’d heard anything at all.  She stood solemn and silent, a statue of a woman, her hands limp at her sides, the only animate parts of her the moving lips and the twitching shifting of her eyes as they sought out things unseen.  The others gathered shuddered, some part of them deep in their subconscious sensing the invisible channels of divine and natural energies that gathered at the woman’s call, intersecting the existing threads that permeated this ancient place of power.  

And then... 

...the portal opened...  

It was not like a door opening, or even a dramatic sundering.  Instead the wall within the arch just melted away into nothing, and then there was _something_ there, a faintly shimmering plane confined within the stacked stones.  It awaited them.  

Dana sagged a bit from the expenditure of energy involved in opening the portal, but she straightened by the time Lok had come forward, and she took her weapon back, tucking the torch into her belt.  The illusory flames flickered against her clothes, but did not burn.  

The companions met each others’ gaze once more.  They did not speak, but nor did they shy away from the cold question that resided in each set of eyes.  As one, they moved toward the portal.  

“Good luck,” Fariq said, his words tight.  

Benzan glanced over his shoulder at the man, flanked by the elven brothers, their own expressions solemn.  

“Don’t forget us,” he said.  

And then the four moved into the gateway, and vanished from the Forgotten Realms.


----------



## Maldur

wow, and with this I am going on vacation!


thx, LB!  Great cliffhanger


----------



## Lazybones

Friday cliffhanger, short and sweet.  And our heroes' ultimate adversary is finally unmasked, as if all of you didn't already know... 

* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 21


The succubus G’hael walked silently down an empty corridor within the vast confines of the Argent Place.  The walls, floor, and ceiling around her were apparently of white marble, clean and pristine, but on closer examination there were textures... _within_ the rock that seemed almost to move when viewed from the corner of one’s eye.  The hall was nearly dark, but occasionally shafts of varicolored light penetrated through narrow and deep slits high along the walls, creating a strange network of shadows that gave the hall an eerie mood.  Even if one wasn’t already familiar with the master of this place.  

G’hael paid little heed to her surroundings, even when two of the shadows shifted and took on solid form before her.  Bodaks, she recognized, as the dark forms loomed over her, then, seeing that she did not have what they wanted, shambled almost absently away.  Other things squirmed deeper in the shadows, but they did not approach as the demoness continued swiftly on her errand.  

The Great Hall was empty, cavernous and silent.  G’hael looked around, somewhat surprised; typically this place was a bedlam of gathered demons, notables from across the Planes, petitioners, and others drawn to the Power that held court from atop the massive white throne that dominated the chamber a good bowshot across from where she entered. 

The throne was empty, at first, but as G’hael quickly crossed the chamber—not quite running, though casual flaps of her wings helped drive her legs faster—something coalesced in the air around the seat, a black envelope that split to reveal... *Him*, seated languidly but with an intent expression upon his perfectly formed features.  

The succubus drew up suddenly, spreading her wings to catch the air as she halted and fell quickly to her knees, her fingertips pressing the floor before her as she lowered her head in supplication. 

“Rise,” the ebon figure atop the throne spoke.  Even that single word was enough to send tremors through the demon, but she quickly obeyed nonetheless.  

“Great Prince, they have arrived,” she said, not meeting the stare of his black eyes.  

The Demon Prince Graz’zt leaned back in his chair, his fingers splayed across the carved ends of the rests, and his lips twisted into a faint smile.  

“Yes, I know.”


----------



## Black Bard

Short and powerful...
Of course I'm referring to the update, not Graz'zt... 

What??!! He's powerful?!!   I should have known...


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 22


“What are wasting time for here, anyway?  We should be looking for him...”

Benzan’s eyes darted throughout the cavern as he spoke, and he kept rubbing his arms, as if plagued by a persistent itch.  His bow was clutched tightly in one fist, and his other kept drifting toward the hilt of his sword.  His old sword—the other, the _planar sword_, jutted up from above his left shoulder, angled for easy access.  

“The Oracle said that we had to stay here, to defend the gateway,” Dana replied.  “Otherwise the demons might be able to break through into our world...”

The cavern wasn’t especially large, perhaps thirty paces or so across.  The ceiling was almost half-again as high, its uneven ceiling lost in shadow even with the combined illumination cast by Dana’s torch and Cal’s _light_ spell.  That light was augmented by the glow that continued to pour from the still-open portal, a shimmering radiance confined with a flat plane bordered by another freestanding archway.  Through that haze, they could almost make out the outlines of forms beyond, distant shadows now more than a world away.  

They had only been here a few minutes, but already it seemed as though hours has passed.  The air was hot and close, wisps of steam rising up in places from cracks in the floor, the breaths they drew in acrid and stinging.  Cal and Benzan were protected from the heat, Cal by his amulet and Benzan by his natural heritage, and Dana had quickly moved to add some measure of divine protection to herself and Lok.  

The companions stood on a broad stone shelf just a few paces out from the portal.  There were numerous cracks and crevices around the perimeter of the room, some large enough to possibly shelter an exit, but for the moment, none of the four moved farther from the still-open lifeline that continued to shimmer invitingly just behind them.  

“So we just stand here then—”

Benzan was cut off by a sudden clatter that drew their attention to the side.  

It was huge, a fat, hairy form that had slid down from a crack running up the wall that apparently concealed a chute from somewhere above.  As the four companions watched in horror the creature slowly and awkwardly rose to its feet, as if shaken.  Standing easily eight feet in height, its body bulged with muscle under dense, greasy gray fur.  Its feet were cloven, its arms thick limbs that ended in jagged claws.  Its face... its face was a thing from a nightmare, a demonic visage flanked by bronze ram’s horns.  Its eyes blazed as it looked at them, with some alien emotion flaring deep within those red orbs.  

It was a nalfeshnee, one of the Greater Demons of the Abyss.


----------



## Lazybones

There's a bit of a twist to this one: a bonus to the reader who figures it out:

* * * * * 


Book VIII, Part 23


The demon roared something incoherent, and took a tentative step forward, and then another. 

“Foul demon!” Dana hissed, her face tight with fear and anger.  Her companions were already moving, with Benzan fitting a long shaft to his bow, Lok hefting his magical axe, and Cal dipping his fingers into his pouch for the components to a spell.  

The demon cried out again, a harsh, guttural sound, but the companions were already moving to the attack, all too aware that even a moment’s pause would give their foe the chance to summon any one of an endless variety of potent spell-powers upon them.  

Benzan’s first arrow caught it solidly upon the shoulder, driving it back against the wall.  The arrow, empowered by Dana’s _greater magic weapon_ spell, pierced the fiend’s defenses and sank deep into its muscled flesh, drawing another violent yell from the demon.  For a moment it glanced back up the chute, as if considering retreat, but as Lok rushed at it, the genasi’s axe cleaving a path before him, the demon shifted its attention back to defense.  The demon slashed out suddenly with its thick arms, and Lok was knocked roughly to the side, his armor grinding against the stone as he rolled.  

With one foe down, the demon staggered forward again.  Cal conjured up an illusion, a complex weaving of a pair of celestials that flew down at the demon, glittering swords flashing.  The demon paid the distraction no heed, instead shifting its attention to Benzan, who was already drawing his second arrow.  The demon lifted a clawed hand and made a small gesture, and a magical _shield_ sprung into being, just in time to deflect the flaming missile.  

For an instant Cal looked at the demon in puzzlement.  That was such a minor spell—didn’t this creature have anything more potent in its arsenal?  

His musings were interrupted as Dana leapt to the attack, lunging with her spear.  The demon adjusted with surprising quickness, narrowly dodging the thrust and grasping the haft of the weapon with a thick claw.   With a twist of its body it slammed the spear across roughly, launching the mystic wanderer halfway across the room.  Dana was able to land in a roll, however, absorbing most of the force of her impact upon the rough stone.   

The demon tossed down the spear and came forward again.  It was clear now that its focus was not on the adventurers, if it ever had been; rather, its fiery stare was fixed on the shimmering surface of the planar gate.  Something flared in those eyes—a hunger?  

It looked down as Benzan leapt into its path, his bow discarded now in favor of his familiar  longsword.  The bronze blade caught the strange mixture of lights in a way that made it seem to blaze with a fire of its own as the tiefling slashed the blade across the demon’s torso.  The sword cut into its side, though not as deeply as it might have fared against a less doughty enemy, and a thick runnel of demonic ichor oozed from the wound.  Benzan nimbly darted back and prepared for another assault, a lunge that would have plunged his sword deep into the demon’s body.  

But even as he started forward, the demon abruptly balled up one muscled hand into a fist and slammed a crushing blow into Benzan’s face.  The impact laid the tiefling out flat on the floor, where he lay there, groaning as he tried to get his bearings.  By the looks of Benzan’s battered face, the blow had broken his nose and possibly his jaw as well.  

The demon could have finished him, perhaps, but again it turned toward the portal, moving forward again, ignoring Cal as the gnome darted out of its path, the speed of his movements demonstrating that he was once again moving with _haste_.  It looked as though nothing could stop it now, but then Dana, having bounced back up to a ready crouch, launched her manriki-gusari in a spiraling cast that caught the demon’s fat legs in a tangled knot.  The demon fell, landing hard with enough force that the companions could feel it through the floor.  The demon roared again, now clearly frustrated, and clawed at the thick mithral links with its powerful but clumsy hands.  Lok was up again, and Cal was helping Benzan, while Dana was already moving to recover her spear.  

Lok came forward, but before he could reach the demon, it lifted a clawed hand, and a huge wall of hot, hungry flames roared into being between them.  The companions drew back, feeling the heat even through their magical protections.  

Cal helped Benzan to his feet, the tiefling still a bit wobbly despite himself.  “The planar blade would be more effective,” the gnome prodded, and Benzan glanced down at the bronze sword still dangling in his grasp, as if he’d forgotten it.  

While Benzan got his bearings, Cal turned back to the _wall of fire_, a frown deepening on his face.  The words of a _dispel magic_ spell were already on his tongue, but he hesitated.  Around him, everything seemed to slow down slightly, as if the world around him was submerged in water.  It was a familiar side-effect of the _haste_ spell, a trick of the mind that he was used to.  But something nagged at him in the spinning whirlwind of his own thoughts, something not... _right_.  It went beyond the inherent wrongness of this place, every little aspect of which shouted inconsistencies at him, threatening to undermine his very sanity if he stopped to ponder it too deeply.  

One a few seconds had passed, when he finally cast his spell.  But instead of the _dispel_ that he’d been going to cast, he instead channeled his mind through the intricate spirals of a divination.  

Immediately, Cal felt a wave crashing down upon him, a deluge of cackling, driving, tormenting thoughts, penetrating all of his defenses and blasting through every corner of his mind.  His awareness of the world around him disappeared as he fell away inside himself, trying to hold onto some shred of his identity against the hostile forces invading his mind. 

Cylyria had been right; here in the Abyss, divination magic opened a door to a power that was too dangerous to control...

But even as he took a shuddering breath, even as he managed to hold on and break the link, end the spell, he cast out in the direction that he’d originally intended.  The connection only lasted a fraction of a second, far less than the time usually needed to draw any useful information through the spell, but somehow, even that momentary brush was enough. 

“Cal!  Are you all right?”  

Cal looked up and saw Benzan crouched over him, concern written in his eyes.  The gnome realized that he’d fallen to his knees, only Benzan’s steadying hand keeping him from collapsing entirely.  The gnome looked around, restoring himself to the moment—the smoky cavern, the wall of fire, Dana and Lok standing nearby, their weapons ready, facing the flames...

“Delem...” he said. 

“What?” 

“Delem,” Cal repeated.  “It’s Delem, the demon, it’s Delem!”

“What... but, how...”

Cal could not offer explanation, did not understand himself.  He only knew that there was no time.  

“We can’t let him reach the Portal,” he said, each word a hiss.  

Only moments had passed in that interval of mental struggle, but Cal knew that even those seconds could cost them now.  Suddenly he shot up, dragging on Benzan’s arm to pull himself up, ignoring the protests of his head as sharp daggers of pain shot through his skull.  Still affected by his _haste_ spell, he called upon the spell he’d originally planned to cast, its words still fresh in his mind despite the ordeal he’d drawn upon himself through the _detect thoughts_ spell.  His magic knifed through the weavings of the _wall of fire_—so familiar, now—and the flames wavered and vanished. 

The demon had used the delay to free itself from its bonds, and had already covered half the distance to the portal.  It glanced back at them as its spell was sundered, then turned and lumbered forward with purpose.  There was no way they could catch it before it reached the gateway...

But Dana had already cast her own spell, and even as the others started after it, she opened a _dimension door_ and stepped through it, reappearing directly in front of the shimmering portal, blocking the demon, her spear clutched tightly in both hands, its head pointed at its breast with a jagged nimbus of electrical energy a storm around the blade.   

The demon lifted its hand as if to crush this human female that blocked its path to its destination, but hesitated.  She, in turn, stared up into that alien visage, fighting the surge of feelings that threatened to drown her as well.  She’d heard Cal’s words, and had seen enough to understand the cruel depths of the trick that had been played upon them by the masters of this place, by the evil thing that had enslaved their friend.  The words of the Oracle—her warning—echoed in her head, and she could sense the desire in the demon even through its unfathomable appearance, could almost _feel_ the way it craved the release offered by the portal.  

But that could not happen, for if the demon touched the portal, it would secure a gateway into their world that could spell destruction for the Western Heartlands, if not the rest of Faerûn with it...

Dana felt her heart beat, pounding once like a drum.  She felt frozen in time, as the two confronted each other. 

The demon uttered something, a harsh string of broken syllables without meaning.  Dana could see what lay beyond the dark surface of its eyes, past the outer shell that was the demon, and understood.  

Through her tears, she nodded,  “I know... and I’m sorry.”

The spear bit as she thrust its gleaming head deep into the demon’s body.  She could feel the resistance as its thick flesh resisted the thrust, absorbing the impact.  She felt as if it was tearing her, as well, but she forced herself to follow as it staggered back a step, driving the weapon deeper into its massive body, twisting the weapon savagely as if she were striking at the source of all her pain, rather than into the body of her friend. 

Benzan and Lok struck nearly simultaneously, Lok driving his axe into the base of the demon’s spine, Benzan sliding his sword—now the _sword of planes_—into the demon’s back just below the shoulder.  The fiend went down, the demonic body crumpling as the stolen life that filled it fled, although it managed to look up once, fixing its dark eyes on Dana’s tear-streaked face...

The companions drew back as the demon’s body dissolved, leaving nothing but a noxious stain that spread slowly across the cracked floor where it had fallen.  

For a moment, they only stared at that spot, too overcome even to speak.  Then a faint hiss drew their attention back behind them, to the Portal.  The shimmering plane within the arch flickered, and then drew in upon itself in a sudden rush, finally fading into nothing.


----------



## Reg Dword

That deserves a WOW! Skillful use of the knife as you twisted it in our guts Lazybones. Sorry I havn't posted in a while. Still loving it.


----------



## wolff96

I really, really like how the real fight with the group by Delem is similar to his demonic "training".

He was tested, tested, and re-tested by being forced to attack his friends repeatedly and try to get past them to an arch of power that would get him out of the Abyss... and then, in reality, he had to fight them to get to the portal out of the Abyss -- which would have let the demons win.

That's just mean, LB.  Inspired, but mean.


----------



## Maldur

frwllbb.

* brain oozing from my ears *

Thx for the updates , LB!


----------



## Elemental

Good stuff....but seriously, haven't these people ever heard of subdual damage?


----------



## Lazybones

An interesting question... are demons with high DR even subject to subdual damage?  Of course, even if they did get ahold of Delem, it would matter little; they had him under control at the end of Book VII, but the current owner of his soul can apparently draw him back at will.  No, they're going to have to go to the "source," as it were.  

Now, how a group of four ECL13 characters is going to force a Demon Prince to hand him over... well, that's the question we're going to face here in the upcoming chapters... 

Here's the Friday update, not really a cliffhanger per se, but our heroes are getting into some pretty serious stuff now:

* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 24

It took them more than six hours to make their way out of the caverns to the surface.  Beyond the chamber of the Portal a dizzying maze of tunnels, caverns, and shafts burrowed through the rock, reft with fissures and vents that continued to pour hot, noxious gases onto them until even Lok was light-headed from their effects.  By the end of the first hour they were all soaked in sweat even through their magical protections, and their exposed skin itched and burned from the effects of the vapors.  But they persevered, with Dana treating the worst of it and Cal fortifying them with a quiet but constant melody from his lyre.  

By the time they finally made their way up a long, spiraling shaft into the open air, the four of them were all at the edges of their endurance, and for a long moment they just stood there at the lip of the shaft, staring at the landscape around them. 

The world was a vast, open, barren expanse, the ground cracked and blackened, with each step calling up a small puff of fine dust.  A hot blue sun hung low in the sky, baking the land and making each breath feel like a wisp of flame.  Its radiance transformed “normal” sights into a medley of garish colors and vivid shadows, making even their own faces seeming strange and alien to their eyes.  Far to the south, the rough outline of some hills could be seen, and over them intermittent flashes that might be lightning, except that there were no clouds to be seen anywhere along the endless horizon.  From that direction wound a river, a glowing aqua in the light of the blue sun, twisting its way through the landscape until it intersected, a few leagues to the west...

“By the gods...” Benzan breathed.  

It was a city, its walls rising up like sheer cliffs out of the landscape.  Jagged towers rose up above the walls at seemingly random intervals, each slightly different than the last in size and form.  Beyond the walls the tops of what had to be thousands of buildings could be seen, likewise of incredibly varying form and style.  A few specks could be seen in the air higher above, either birds or some other kind of flying creature, too far to be made out even by Benzan’s keen eyes.  

“It has to be the size of Iriaebor, if not larger,” Lok commented, holding a muscled hand over his eyes to shade them from the penetrating sun.  In the light his gray skin looked sickly, the color of rotten meat.

Cal took a deep draught from one of the waterskins he kept in his magical _haversack_, then handed it to Benzan. The tiefling took it absently, handing it to Dana without drinking.   

“Well, it looks like a good walk.  We’d better get started,” the gnome said, putting his words into action as he started trudging across the barren plain. 

The others followed.

* * * * * 

The better part of a day later, the companions finally found themselves drawing near to the great stone walls of the city.  Through the long trek the blue sun had only shifted slightly in the sky above, indicating that the days here clearly rather longer than those back on Toril.  The four wore their cloaks with their hoods up to provide shelter from that orb’s penetrating rays, and covered in the gray dust of the plains they looked almost like wraiths that drifted silently across the surface of a silent world. 

Cal drew up tiredly; with his short legs, he’d had to work twice as hard to set a pace that was reasonable for the others.  Dana had offered to lend him her magical boots, but he’d refused, arguing that she’d need the mobility if they ran into a hostile encounter.  Now, as he felt his muscles burn with the sudden change from movement to pause, he started to regret that decision.  

“Gods, this place is bleak,” Benzan said, adjusting the strap that held his second sword across his back.  Under his cowl, his hair was slicked back with sweat and dust, and his lips were chapped and broken. 

“Drink some more water,” Dana said, handing him a skin.  

“No offense, Dana, but this water you created tastes awful.”  But he drank deeply, handing back the skin with only a small amount left sloshing inside.  Grimacing, he wiped his mouth and spat.  

Cal nodded to himself absently.  The problem with the water was just another prompt that they should not dally here.  Dana’s spell had worked, and while she’d insisted that the water was safe—and absolutely necessary, given the amount they were sweating away—it had a greasy taste that made it almost undrinkable.  Yet another reminder that this entire world, this entire plane, was hostile to their very presence.  

Before them stretched the vastness of the city, warded by the massive wall of gray stone that they could now see rose up a good forty feet above the surface of the plain.  While they could make out more details now that they were close, the structures that rose up above the wall maintained a certain... _indistinct_ quality, as if there was something about their construction that didn’t seem quite right.  The shadowy forms that flapped through the sky between those towers were likewise things that didn’t invite too close a scrutiny, lest the viewer recognize something that he did not wish to contemplate.  Also, this close, they could make out the noise of the city, a faint din that was equal parts voices and noises blended together.  

“I don’t like going in unprepared,” Dana said.  “Most of our magical protections are expired, and we need rest.  And a quiet place... to pray.”  The last words were almost a whisper, as if she thought that the city itself might be listening. 

_Perhaps it is,_ Cal thought grimly, as he turned to face the taller human woman.  “I don’t think we’ll find much rest out here,” he said, glancing up at the blazing blue sun.  “We need shelter, and information, and we won’t find either out here.”  

“At the very least, you’ll need to conceal that,” Benzan said, nodding toward the _moon mote_ that Dana wore about her neck.  Her mouth tightened, but she didn’t respond; she didn’t like it, but knew he was right. 

“I’ve already got an idea for that,” Cal said.  He closed his eyes for a moment, clearing his thoughts for a powerful spell, one that he’d only recently added to his inventory.  It was an illusion, a more potent version of a spell he’d known from his days as an apprentice.  The others shifted as he wove his dweomer around them, touching each of them with its concealing shroud.  The gnome felt a sudden surge of energy, a strange feeling he couldn’t quite identify, but it did not disrupt his casting, and a moment later he was finished.  

“There, that should do it,” he said.  “The _seeming_ is just an illusion, not a physical change, so I’ve tried not to change too much that could be revealed by an accidental contact.  I’ll change it every day, I think; it’s not impenetrable, of course, but it should hold up to casual observation.”

The companions looked at each other, and started in surprise.  While their outward appearance remained unchanged at first glance—tired frames, dusty cloaks, armor and weapons—it quickly became evident that the details had dramatically shifted under the shadowed cowls of their cloaks.  Benzan’s skin was a deep tinge of red, his forehead marked by thick ridges of bone, his teeth sharp and black.  Dana was still attractive, but several subtle changes made her face different, and the small horns jutting from her head were not subtle at all.  Lok’s armor had changed subtly, looking more malevolent with sharp spikes and a deeper, grayer coloration, and within his helm his stone-like skin had deepened to almost black, his eyes gleaming red orbs that seemed to shine in the reflected sunlight.  

Cal, meanwhile, had transformed himself into a sinister-looking imp, lacking wings and a tail, true, but with an evil visage with skin the color of yellow ochre, wiry red hair, and eyes like black pebbles.    

“You’ve got a lot of strange things crawling around inside that little head of yours,” Benzan said, adjusting his baldric yet again.  

“How long?” Lok asked. 

“Twelve hours,” Cal said.  “As I said, I’ll renew it each day, but we should try to find someplace safe, where we can hole up and regain our strength.  Relatively safe, at least,” he added. 

“Well, let’s get this over with, then,” Benzan said, starting toward the wall, and the gate they’d spotted as they approached the city.  The heavy portals of black wood banded with iron stood partly open, and as they drew near they spotted their first clear occupant of the city.  The tiefling, striding in the lead, hesitated as he caught sight of the humanoid demon that stood a good nine feet tall, standing just inside the doors.  The creature seemed to have had the muscles of two or three normal creatures poured into its frame, the whole tightly covered in skin that was the color of obsidian.  It was clad in a breastplate and greaves of metal the same color, and bore a sword that almost matched its height.  Its face was dominated by a mouth that looked wide enough to swallow Cal’s head entire. 

Benzan stood there, at a loss for words, but the demon seemed to take no notice of them.  Cal quickly came forward, and said, “We are travelers, seeking entrance into the city, ser guard.”

The black guardian did not respond for a moment, and Cal almost thought that they’d been mistaken, that the creature was in fact a statue carved from an inconceivably massive block of jet.  Then it flexed its muscles, a slight movement that was sufficient to betray that it did in fact live, and each of them heard a voice within their heads.  

_By the will of the Master, outsiders are currently welcome to pass the gates of Zelatar.  But ware your steps, for if you cross His will, your lives and souls are forfeit._ 

Cal recovered quickly enough to offer a curt bow, and started in through the doors.  As Dana drew toward the opening, however, she drew back in sudden surprise, and let out a strangled hiss.  Benzan spun around, his hand darting to the hilt of his sword. 

“Dana, what is it?”

The mystic wanderer’s gaze was fixed on the black wood of the gate, her eye wide with horror.  “Faces... faces, in the wood... in torment.”  At least she kept her voice low, but now that he had delivered his message, the stony guardian seemed content to return to its watch in silent immobility.  

Benzan followed her gaze to the gate, but he could only see the thick grain of the heavy boards.  Still, he shuddered.  

“They were there,” Dana said, trembling slightly as she clutched at the haft of her spear with white-knuckled hands.  

“This place is fashioned from corruption, it reeks from the very stones,” Lok said softly.  Cal, meanwhile, stood in the narrow entry, looking back at them with impatience clear on the evil face he wore.  

“Come on,” he said.  

And so the four passed into the city of Zelatar.


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 25


As soon as the four companions passed through the thick gate in the city walls, it was as if the full weight of Zelatar descended down upon them.  Outside the walls they had only seen the tops of structures that rose above its forty-foot height; inside the saw that those towers only hinted at the crowded medley of structures that lay within.  Beyond the gate lay a long avenue that penetrated deep into the city directly ahead of them, crossed by dozens of sidestreets, alleys, and alcoves even in the short distance that they could see.  Buildings two, three, or more stories loomed over those streets, extending all the way to the wall.

The street was crowded with people and animals of all shapes and sizes, a dizzying variety of demons, cambions, alu-fiends, tieflings, and others that defied categorization.  It was strange to see a robed figure that resembled an elf, only with huge bat-wings that sprouted from his back, in conversation with a vrock demon in front of a merchant’s stall manned by a humanoid figure that looked like a cross between a fish and a reptile.  A few paces away a merchant with red skin and black horns drove a wagon pulled by a quartet of creatures that looked like fat, giant cats, only with scales and forked tongues that tasted the air as they pressed through the crowded street.  Occasionally they could see people who might have been natives of any of a dozen races or nations from across Faerûn, with no clues as to how or why they had gotten to this place.  There was no order to any of it, an overwhelming combination of sensations that slammed into the four travelers like a physical blow.  They had been to many places, seen many things, but they had never seen anything like the streets of Zelatar.  

Over it all hung a heady din, a blending of voices and other sounds that sounded normal at first, like the noise of any big city that they had visited.  Only other things underlay that background, ruined that impression: the haunting, trilling cries of strange beasts; sudden screams of pain that echoed briefly in the distance and then vanished.  

“Chaos,” Dana breathed.  “Pure chaos...”

“Hey, hello, strangers!  You’re new here, right?”

They turned as one to note the source of the voice, to face a small form half-hidden in the shadow of a building huddled up against the city wall near the gate.  The speaker was a child, looking perhaps ten years old, clad in a ragged shift of thick gray cloth.  His heritage was clear in the garish red tinge to his skin, and the twin rows of small gray horns, little more than nubs, that ran up his forehead and back along the curve of his skull.  His arms seemed to flail loosely at his side, but as he came forward, the companions saw that they were not arms at all... but a pair of gray-scaled _snakes_ that twisted as the boy moved, their forked tongues tasting the air...

“Um... greetings,” Cal replied, trying to cover for his companions’ surprise.  Perhaps already overcome by the strange sights of the city, they seemed able to control their reactions to the terrible appearance of this youth.  “Yes, we just arrived,” he added, as though they weren’t standing right in front of the gate, staring about them as if they’d never seen an Abyssal city before...

_I’ll be we look like tourists,_ popped a thought into his mind, and he almost laughed at the ludicrousness of this, of the whole situation.  

“Thought so,” the boy said. His voice sounded like any other child one might find in a city anywhere in the West, and Cal briefly wondered how they could understand each other, as he seriously doubted that this kid had been raised speaking the Common Speech of Faerûn.

“Name’s Jannis,” the youth continued.  “For a few coins, I can show you to anywhere in the city, know all the festhalls, the gathering places, the markets, the pleasure dens...  Few grown-ups know the city as well as I do, and I won’t steer you wrong, no sir.”

Benzan laughed, a short harsh sound that fit perfectly with the tone of the city.  “Gotta respect the entrepreneurial spirit,” he muttered, digging a coin out from somewhere and tossing it to the child.  One of the snake heads darted out and snapped on the coin, but just as quickly spat it out, right back at Benzan.  The tiefling, caught off guard, was barely able to catch it. 

The boy grimaced, and shook his head in a gesture of disapproval.  “You won’t want to be showing silver here,” the boy said.  “Well, like’n there’s some places you can spend that, but you’ll be wantin’ coins o’ fever-iron, or blackore, or platinum... but not silver.  Some’ll take it real personal, like.”

“Noted,” Cal said, digging a fat platinum piece out of his pouch and holding it up for the boy to see before he handed it to him.  His skin crawled as the snake's mouth brushed him, taking the coin and tucking into a fold in the boy's tunic.  “Well then, I suppose our first goal is to find a nice inn in a quiet neighborhood, Jannis.  We’ve walked a long way, and we’d like to rest before attending to our business.”

The boy nodded, “I know just such a place, sir.”  He started down the street, but Dana grabbed Cal’s shoulder and leaned low to speak into his ear. 

“So we’re just going to treat this like a visit to a normal city?”

The gnome shrugged.  “What else can we do?  Look around, Dana—I don’t like it any more than you do, but clearly we have to keep a low profile.  If it comes to trouble, how many here do you think will take our side?”

Dana shook her head in frustration, but there was nothing she could say in the face of Cal’s inescapable logic.  Jannis had turned to wait for them, clearly not minding the delay now that the promise of a reward had been met, and he smiled as Cal rejoined them and they continued down the street deeper into the city.  They left the gate behind them and followed the avenue as it curved ahead up a gentle slope to the right, passing more side streets from which different noises, sounds, and smells arose.  Every few blocks the architecture changed subtly, forming abrupt and jarring transitions into different “neighborhoods” that all swirled together into a confusing mess.  At one point they were walking past leaning three-story buildings with walls of scarlet red wood with decorative trim in a pasty olive color, with roofs of black slate; upon crossing the street they found themselves in the shadow of expansive structures of faded white stone with tile roofs that glowed violet in the light of the blue sun.  Through and around it all walked the city’s demonic inhabitants, but they appeared to give the companions little heed as they went about their own business.  

At one point they passed an alleyway in which several slumped forms were lying in the shadows, wretched figures that emitted a constant chorus of low moans.  Dana took a step in that direction, but Benzan grasped her arm and shook his head. 

“No,” he said.  

“Benzan...”

“Dana,” he said, his voice toned low so that it wouldn’t carry, “Remember what we’re doing here.  Remember that were are outsiders here... I don’t trust _anything_ to be as it seems, and you shouldn’t either.  I know it’s not easy for you, but we have to be strong.”

She looked at him, then at Lok, who’d been bringing up the rear of their group and who’d stopped at their pause.  She looked into his eyes—transformed into malevolent red orbs by Cal’s illusion—and saw the same confirmation there.  She knew it had to be hard for him, too, as she understood Lok’s good heart and his intent to help those unable to help themselves.  Nodding, she turned around and continued after Cal and Jannis, without a word, forcing Benzan to hurry to keep up.  

Cal continued to chat up the boy, engaging in seemingly harmless chatter that nonetheless was revealing a lot of basic information about the city and its operations.  While the companions had a general idea of what they were up against, in that Delem’s captor was a major Power among demonkind, the knowledge they had been able to draw from their own divinations and the lore of the Harpers had been spotty at best.  From what they’d learned at the gate, and what Cal was drawing out of their guide, it was clear that the city’s ruler seemed willing to tolerate outside presences within his/her/its city, at least insofar as it drew trade and prosperity along with it.  

“So, Jannis, what can you tell me about...” Cal was saying, when they turned a corner and they got a look at something dramatic that took the question right out of his mind.  

It was a massive structure, a palace and castle combined, looming over the city and making the myriad buildings beneath it seem squalid by contrast.  The palace was larger than any of the keeps of the lords of the Western Heartlands, with literally dozens of shining towers rising up hundreds of feet into the sky.  The place seemed fashioned of white marble, which glowed with a blue sheen in the bright light of the sun.  

“The Argent Palace,” Jannis said with a smug smile.  “The Prince has some swell digs, eh?”

“Indeed,” Cal said.  He glanced back at his companions, but they were caught up in the same spell that he had been on first looking at the place, too stunned to comment.  A dozen more questions sprung to Cal’s mind, but before he could pose them to their companion, Jannis glanced down the street ahead and suddenly shifted to the side.  

“Um... I think it would be better if we took the next street over.  Come on, there’s an alley that cuts through here...”

He was already moving in that direction, clearly agitated, but Cal forestalled him.  “Why?  What’s the matter?”

But he and the others could see it themselves, now.  A commotion was developing further down the street, and a group was approaching down the boulevard from that direction.  The pedestrians that crowded the street were moving to get out of the way, and the drivers of the carts of wagons were likewise driving their vehicles to the side to allow someone or something to pass.  

“What’s that?” Benzan asked.  

“The Argent Guard,” Jannis hissed.  “The Prince’s elite troops... c’mon, let’s go over to the next street.”

“I don’t understand,” Dana said.  “We haven’t done anything—why should we be worried about the authorities?”  But even through the words, her face had drawn noticeably white.  

“Trust me, even when they’re not after you personally, you don’t want to mess with them!  I once saw one of them take down a pair of hezrous in a market square once... nobody with any brains crosses them!”

The crowd down the street had parted enough for the companions to get their first look at the oncoming guards.  There were a half-dozen of them or thereabouts, tall women clad in gleaming plate armor that somehow managed to hang together despite copious amount of flesh that it revealed.  Even at a distance, it was evident that the woman were of a demonic origin, with skin the color of beaten copper and short black horns jutting from holes in their open-faced helms.  Huge greatswords were naked in their hands, each blazing with an eager halo of flickering flames.  One did not carry a blade, but rather held a thick length of chain... the far end of which was fastened to the collar of a great, two-headed hound, as large as a dire wolf with four beads of flame for eyes.  

“Hm... perhaps the kid’s right,” Benzan commented, and they quickly followed Jannis into the alley.  Their flight didn’t draw attention; half of the population of the street had already made a like choice to get out of the way of the Guard patrol.  

The companions had barely entered the alley when it seemed to swallow them up, the busy bustle of the street behind them dropping away with unnatural swiftness.  Tall, two-story buildings of unremarkable gray stone crowded to either side of the alley, drifting together until only a narrow sliver of open sky above remained.  The sun had fallen far enough in the sky that the alley was plunged into deep shadows, leaving only enough light to hint at filth and the occasional hint of movements that might be rats.  

That they _hoped_ was rats, anyway.  

Jannis was only a shadow, darting ahead down the alley.  Cal called out for him to wait, but he ignored them, vanishing around a bend as the alley turned around a squat structure ahead.  

“I don’t like this,” Benzan said. 

“Let’s get back out into a major street,” Cal said, leading them quickly ahead.  Soft things squished under their boots as they made their way forward.  There were a few recessed doors in the sides of the alley as they passed, but all looked quite secure, and there were no windows.  They quickly reached the turning where they’d seen Jannis disappear, and found that the alley split into two directions, with passages continuing straight ahead and veering sharply off to the right.  Both were dark and quiet.    

“Sounds like another avenue this way,” Cal said, pointing to the right fork.  

They headed in that direction, wary of any signs of trouble.  After about twenty paces, though, they could see that the alley did seem to open up into a wider area ahead, and they could all hear what Cal had heard; the familiar sounds of a busy thoroughfare.  

“Ah, there it is...”

A scrape on the flagstones drew their attention back around, to the fork they’d just left.  There, as they watched, a pair of creatures moved into view.  To Dana they were just hulking shadows, but the others, with their superior vision, their identity was immediately evident.  At first glance they seemed like huge, feral apes, with terrible visages punctuated with a huge set of jaws with sharp teeth that jutted outward in an eager ring.  The companions knew better, however, having faced a bar-lgura demon once before, in the early days of their adventuring career.  

And that encounter had left Cal dead.  

“Um... maybe we’d better get out of here...” Benzan began, but even as he turned, he let out a groan, not surprised to see another pair of the creatures blocking the exit of the alley ahead of them.  

“Watch it, they’re fast, and they have magic as well,” Lok said, calmly unlimbering his axe and shield.  Dana and Cal were already preparing spells, and Benzan fitting a long shaft to his bow, he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye, drawing his attention upward, where the roofs of the two buildings that fronted the alley drew close together across a narrow gap of blue sky.  

“More above!” he cried in warning, but even as the words left his mouth, both groups of demons at the ends of the alley abruptly vanished, and the alley was filled with a cacophony of hoots and cries that could not drown out the sound of claws pounding on the greasy stone as the now-_invisible_ demons charged toward the surrounded companions.


----------



## Broccli_Head

Ill met in Zeltar!

What supplements are you using, LB?

I am thinking that you might have the one where the heroes try and rescue Waukeen?


----------



## Lazybones

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> *Ill met in Zeltar!
> 
> What supplements are you using, LB?
> 
> I am thinking that you might have the one where the heroes try and rescue Waukeen? *



Indeed; my sources for this section include _For Duty and Deity_ (the aforementioned module), the _Manual of the Planes_, and _The Book of Vile Darkness_.  I'm also using some house rules for the Abyss that are a blend of the extremely harsh 1e/2e penalties to spells and items, and the extremely minor 3e effects.  Divination and summoning spells are particularly dicey in Azaggrat (the three planes that make up Prince G's realm).  More details will come out in the narrative.  

The calendar for the 3e Realms is 30 years or so after 2nd edition, of course (including the events of FD&D), but I would like to remind you of the opening scene of Part 14, where the companions receive a strange gift:



> “The symbol is that of the goddess Waukeen,” Cylyria said. “The blade is a _sword of the planes,_ a weapon of great power that is of particular effectiveness against those not native to the Prime. I can honestly say that I have never seen its like. Although why it would be given to you... that I do not know.”



Seems like someone bears a grudge...


----------



## Broccli_Head

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Seems like someone bears a grudge...   *




Nice tie-in to Realms history, LB!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 26


Cal did not hesitate; even as the demons began their charge he called upon the power of one of his most reliable spells, the always-useful _haste_.  He lost himself in the familiar gestures and words of arcane power, but before he could finish the final invocation that would fill his body with the power of the spell, something hard exploded against his head.  Immersed in the casting, he never saw the heavy paving stone that shot down from above, glancing off his temple, dropping him like a sack of potatoes to the soiled ground of the alley.  Nor did he hear the screech of triumph from the bar-lgura demon as it raised its claws to the sky, leaping in joy at the pain it had inflicted.  

“Cal!” Dana cried.  She was already turning to the fallen gnome, while Benzan drew and fired at the demon in one smooth motion.  The arrow hit the demon with a solid thunk, but it did not erupt with the magical flame that normally was produced by Benzan’s bow, nor did it sink more than an inch or so into the demon’s tough flesh.  The tiefling cursed as the demon casually plucked out the missile and tossed it aside, but there was no time for a second shot; his keen ears were full of the sound of the invisible demons charging down the alley and he quickly tossed his bow aside and drew out his _sword of the planes_.  The gifted blade flared uncannily in the faint blue light that filtered down from the narrow opening high above.  

Dana saw that Cal was merely stunned.  Fortunately for him the heavy stone, its edge smeared with the gnome’s blood, had caught him a glancing blow instead of full on; had it struck true, there was no doubt that it would have crushed his skull like a ripe melon.  Quickly she called upon the goddess—but before she could access the power of Selûne and her link augmented through the power of her Harper pin, she felt a shudder of fear pass through her.  Her mental defenses, born of her strength of purpose and of her training, clicked into place by reflex, and the demonfear washed over her impotently.  While there was little chance that they could affect her, however, she knew that Benzan and Lok lacked her defense...

_I’m sorry, Cal,_ she thought, altering her casting as she summoned forth a protective ward over her and her companions.  Selûne granted her petition and she felt the ward flow in and around her, shrouding all of them with a potent counter to the evil demonfear.  

The hoots and cries of the charging demons sounded a roar, building off the walls of the confined space, and she spun around, raising her spear to meet the attack. 

She’d made it halfway around when a heavy form tore into her.  

Lok could not see his adversaries, but he could hear them coming, a pair of vicious demons whose heavy steps shook the pavement with the sounds of their rush.  He remembered well that fierce battle in the dark chambers under Lord Evan Rathman’s estate in Elturel, though several years and hundreds of battles had come between.  But his blood pounded with the heat of battle, and he held his ground, setting his feet to meet the charge with the finality of the dwarven defender.  And once he’d chosen to make his stand, there were few forces capable of moving him.  

Instinct warned him an instant before the first demon hit, the hulking ape-demon launching itself through the air to blast into him with incredible force.  Lok absorbed the force of the charge, his thick legs bending as the creature’s weight and momentum threatened to crush him under its assault.  The creature became visible as its claws and fangs lashed out at the armored genasi, tearing and gnashing and trying to find a vulnerable opening somewhere in the warrior’s skin of steel.  From within the rush of his battle fury Lok felt pain as a solid impact rocked his side—the second demon had joined the fray, harrying him with another series of attacks.  For an instant sharp jaws snapped on his weapon arm, threatening to tear away his axe and perhaps the limb with it, but Lok tore free before the demon could get a firm grip.  With a roar that cut through the insane chatter of the demons, he drove the first back with a powerful thrust of his shield, and tore into the second with a powerful stroke of his axe.  The enchanted blade cut deep, and while the demon’s innate resistance protected it from the nimbus of cold that wreathed the weapon, its thick hide couldn’t prevent the flood of hot ichor that erupted from the gash that the weapon clove in its fat belly.  The demon screamed, redoubling its assault in a rush of fury.  

Dana staggered as the demon slammed into her, pain erupting on both sides of her torso as its claws dug long gashes in her sides.  She felt its hot breath on her face and jerked back just in time to avoid having half her face torn off by its jaws.  Her feet slipped on the filth of the alley and she nearly fell as she crumpled back against the unyielding stone wall behind her.  She looked up to see those vicious claws sweeping once more toward her face, and barely ducked in time as they tore runnels in the stone from the force of the impact.  She rolled forward, trying to get some distance from the wild but powerful rush.  Somehow she’d kept her grip on her spear, but there was neither time nor room to bring it to bear.  She had a sickening feeling that none of her other weapons would have any effect upon the demon, however.  

Just a pace or two away, Benzan was having his own problems.  He saw the demon tear into Dana, and leapt forward with his _sword of the planes_ ready to beat her attacker off.  But even as he started his thrust he sensed the faint shimmer that rose up into the air, materializing into the second demon as it pounced upon him.  Something hard caught him on the side of his head, and the world spun as he staggered back, the taste of his own blood salty in his mouth.  He tried to get his bearings as the demon pressed him further; he could see Cal, the prone form of the gnome wizard barely distinguishable from the scattered lumps of trash and debris that littered the alley, and Lok, holding the opposite side of the alley against a pair of bar-lgura that were unleashing a storm of attacks upon him.  Something buzzed in his head momentarily, a sudden tinge of stark, unrelenting terror that fled as quickly as it had come.  A magical attack, no doubt, turned with the help of Dana’s spell.  But there was no time for anything now except his current foe.  He could sense it coming on again, lunging with another series of attacks, and reflex honed by dozens of confrontations as violent and chaotic as this one took over.  Darting to the side, he barely felt the force of a claw as it glanced off of his mithral chainmail.  As he turned he drove his blade out and under, blindly striking out at the source of the attack.  The demon was there, its jaws fully open as it pressed yet another attack, and the blade bit deep as its enchanted steel, forged specifically for the purpose of slaying creatures such as this one, slipped through hide and magic and muscle and organs beneath.  The demon’s expression of fury transformed into a mask of pain, but it did not hesitate, immediately ripping upward at Benzan with its claws with enough force to drive him back two paces, the solidity of the alley wall against his side the only thing that kept him from going down.  

He was barely able to get his sword up before the bar-lgura leapt at him again. 

As the battle raged desperately around him, Cal tried to get up, despite the way that the world seemed to waver and blur around him.  He rose to his knees, even that effort almost causing him to lose consciousness.  He could hear the clash of arms and the cries of his friends superimposed on the guttural hooting and cackling of the demon apes, and that noise drove him to action.  Gritting his teeth, he tried to get up, but only managed to stagger and fall back onto his seat despite his best efforts.  He looked up, at the sliver of daylight between the two looming walls of the buildings that rose up high above him like sheer cliffs.  As he stared up at that narrow window, he caught sight of two ugly, uneven forms, one of which had to be the bar-lgura that had struck him down.  They were staring down at him from opposite sides of the gap, and while he could not see their eyes, could not distinguish anything more than the vague outlines of their bodies silhouetted against the sky, he thought he could feel the malevolence focused upon him. 

And then, without warning, both creatures leapt down from their perch, claws outstretched. 

Straight toward him.


----------



## wolff96

Poor Cal!

Now that's a spicy cliffhanger...


----------



## Maldur

oh frag!!!


----------



## Lazybones

We are approaching the end...

* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 27


Cal lifted his hand reflexively, ignoring the pain that swam through his injured skull at the sudden movement.  The gnome’s gesture seemed a pathetic effort to deny the death diving down toward him, but on his hand he bore a ring, and that ring possessed a power that he called upon now.  

The first demon cried out in surprise as the force of the ring latched onto it, penetrating its inherent resistance and driving it roughly into its fellow.  The two demons tumbled awkwardly back in a jumble, landing hard toward the mouth of the alley a good ten paces behind the furious melee between Lok and his adversaries.  The impact shook the flagstones, but the demons were not injured seriously; even as Cal slumped back, barely clinging to consciousness, they thrashed apart and rose quickly to charge back into the battle.  

Had they taken Lok four to one, the might have overrun even the durable genasi.  But Lok had not spent those moments idly.  One of his foes, its body savaged by two heavy blows from the axe, drew back a pace from the reach of that axe, calling upon its dark magic to overwhelm its foe with demonfear.  But Lok, bolstered by Dana’s earlier spell, shook off that cold touch of incipient terror, and when the demon’s fellow hurled itself at him with another sequence of attacks, Lok met the fiend’s charge with another powerful stroke from his axe.  Demon and genasi exchanged a fierce series of blows, ending with an incredible overhand stroke that clove deeply into the demon’s shoulder at the point where it joined with its neck.  Black blood fountained into the air, and the demon fell back, its limbs flailing.  

He barely had a chance to lift his axe again before the pair that Cal had cast down leapt into the fray, joined by the injured one frustrated by the failure of its magic.  Two of the three leapt at the genasi, trying once more to overcome him with raw ferocity, while the last, the one that Cal had hit with his _telekinesis_, launched itself up over the melee with a powerful heave of its thick legs, coming down just a pace from where Cal was leaning against the alley wall, staring up at the vicious brute that loomed over him with death shining in its eyes. 

Just a few steps away, Dana and Benzan were still fighting for their lives against their own adversaries.  Realizing that they could not rely on help from their companions, each fought on with a fury borne of desperation, with the understanding that these foes would not cease or retreat until they were made unable to continue their attacks.  

Dana, her speed enhanced by her magical boots, had been able to draw her foe further down the alley, trying to give herself some space to use her spear effectively.  The demon, incredibly quick for its size, responded swiftly, pressing her as it hopped forward in great bounds, slashing out with its deadly claws.  She was already bleeding from several cuts and gashes, and her face was pale.  Thus far, she had not managed to hurt the demon at all.  She could outrun it, perhaps, or draw away far enough to summon the power to _fly_ away from it.  But she knew that if she did manage to get away, the demon would just turn on her companions, on Benzan, whom she could _sense_ fighting for his life against his own foe...

_Stand fast, daughter..._

The voice was just a whisper, a message from very far, but it fortified her as the demon rushed in at her again, claws sweeping.  She met its charge with a short leap, and the claws swept empty space under her.  Dana snapped her leg around, connecting with the demon’s face with a sharp, solid kick.  The blow did no damage to the demon, but the exchange of momentum drove her backward.  She landed in a smooth roll and came back up into a defensive position, her spear set to receive the demon’s next charge.  

The demon reared back and roared a challenge, pausing only a moment before coming at her again.  But in that moment, Dana opened her mind to the sweet flood of power that had been inherent in that simple whispered message, drawing the _divine power_ of Selûne across the planes into her physical body.  She seemed to shimmer as that energy filled her muscles, and guided her shaft as she plunged the spear deep into the body of the charging demon.  The bar-lgura twisted and tore itself off of the spearhead, ignoring the blood that erupted from the wound, but Dana did not hesitate, thrusting again and again before the demon could recover and launch another attack.  The demon staggered, the three penetrating thrusts pouring its lifesblood out upon the stones.  It managed one more weak swipe that Dana dodged easily, coming back with another thrust that ended it.  

Benzan had nowhere to run to, so he traded blows with his foe, scoring deep cuts with his magical _sword of the planes_ while the demon’s punishing counters ripped into him.  His mail kept him from being torn apart, but those mithral links could not save him from the impacts that savaged his insides until he felt like a single massive bruise.  The magic of his gifted blade, however, was having an impact, slicing through the demon’s flesh with startling ease, and the fiend was starting to feel the effects of its several wounds.  With a howl it surged forward again, claws outstretched.  Benzan dodged, expecting another assault against his already battered body, but the demon instead focused its attack upon the hateful weapon that had so hurt it.  Too late the tiefling realized what it was doing; he tried to draw the weapon back, but the demon’s claws clamped roughly on his wrist, twisting and crushing.  The bar-lgura took a nasty cut to one claw as its muscled fingers closed momentarily upon the blade, but then the sword was spinning out of Benzan’s grasp, to clatter noisily upon the flagstones a few paces away.  

Benzan was able to break away as the demon roared in triumph.  As it started forward to renew its attack, however, the tiefling shook his head grimly. 

“Unlucky for you that I’ve got another one, pal.”

Even as the demon lunged, Benzan’s bronze sword sliced up out of its scabbard as his waist, and he drew its edge across the demon’s chest as it leapt onto him.  His intelligent sword seemed somehow... _diminished_, its gleam faded in the strange blue light, but it still cut, the demon’s momentum dragging the blade deeper as it finished its stroke by tearing across its thick neck.  Blood gurgled from the wound as the demon struck Benzan once more before staggering drunkenly against the wall of the alley.  It recovered just in time to receive the killing thrust as Benzan plunged his blade to the hilt in its side.  

Cal felt a tremor of fear as the demon hurtled over Lok and landed right in front of him, but having regained his equilibrium, he was far too experienced to give into hesitation.  The demon’s claws reached down for him, but they tore with futility against the just-enacted defense of the gnome’s _stoneskin_.  Frustrated, the demon’s eyes flared as it called upon its inherent magic, but before it could invoke the power, Cal lifted a wand and fired it into the demon’s face.  

Demons have a potent resistance against most forms of energy.  But their weakness is sonics, and Alera’s gift, the sonically-substituted _Melf’s arrows_ stored in the wand, exploited that fact.  The _sonic arrow_ pulsed with energy as it blasted into side of the demon’s head, the vibrations blasting away flesh as the missile bored inward, continuing its work mercilessly.  The demon roared in pain, unleashing its power in an attempt to _dispel_ the penetrating hurt, but it failed.  

“You’ve got the violent carnage thing down, demon, but when it comes to magic, you’re an amateur,” Cal said coldly, firing another blast into its torso.

Lok, meanwhile, was turning the tide in his own battle as well.  He’d taken several serious blows that had hurt him through his armor, but they were little enough against the terrible wounds he was inflicting with his axe.  He struck down the demon that he’d already injured, and turned to unleash a series of attacks on his remaining foe.  The demon tried a final gambit, trying use its own _telekinesis_ power to knock the genasi down and leave him open to an assault, but it might as well have tried to knock down the city walls as dislodge a dwarven defender in his _defensive stance_.  Unfortunately for the demon it had not moved out of Lok’s reach before trying its tactic, and it quickly succumbed to a final devastating series of blows.  

Quiet returned to the alley as the final demon fell.  None had retreated, and the alley was full of the stench of hot blood and ruined flesh.  Six ruined heaps lay crowded in the narrow space.  A short distance away, at the mouth of the alley where it met another busy avenue, the noise of the city returned, its residents unaware or uncaring about the violence that had just been wrought.  

Lok tried to clean his axe, although it was a mostly futile gesture, as all of them were sprayed with the blood of their foes mixed in with their own.  Dana quickly attended to their more serious injuries, but none of them wanted to linger her longer than was necessary. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Cal said, and the others quickly agreed. 

With that, they returned to the streets of Zelatar.


----------



## Maldur

But the end of what?


Great update, LB!


----------



## Black Bard

*The number of the beast...*

Lazy, your story just attained the 666th post with Maldur... Isn't it strange that it came just as our heroes traverse the infernal plane... 
Maybe Grazz't is watching you...


----------



## Lazybones

Strange, I'd never really considered the similarities between Azzagrat and my workplace before, but now that you mention it...

* * * * *

Book VIII, Part 28

At first glance, the common room of The Fallen Angel looked like just another example of the untold numbers of run-down taverns that sprawled across the many places wherever sentient beings gathered to eat, drink, talk, fight, and play.  The floor of chalky gray rock, occasionally half-heartedly covered by a threadbare rug, wore the marks of endless progressions of feet, tens of thousands of spilled drinks, and even the occasional bloodstain left half-scrubbed.  Dozens of flickering flames in old, tarnished brass lamps dangling from the ceiling on short chains glowed in the polished wood paneling that covered the walls.  The ceiling sagged a bit under the weight of the two stories above, and the many thick wooden beams that supported it carved the copious open chamber into little side areas where individual stories were wrought out in ale and argument and occasionally, violence.  

Just another run-down tavern in some nameless city that had seen better days...  Except for the patrons, which identified this place as something quite different indeed.  

The broad front door to the Angel opened reluctantly, admitting another knot of patrons.  Beyond, had anyone inside cared to look, they would have seen the blue glow of another hot day in Zelatar.  The four newcomers entered quickly and shut the door behind them, pausing briefly to scan the smoky chamber.  

They were a mixed group of fiends, an unusual variety, perhaps, but not unduly so.  Their leader, by the way that the others clustered around her protectively, was a tall, statuesque fiendess, perhaps an alu-demon, attractive by any standard even with the small horns that jutted out from among her black locks.  She bore a heavy spear that crackled with magic.  Looming beside her like a shadow was a muscular guardian clad in mail links that caught the light of the lamps and gleamed brightly.  He was clearly of mixed heritage, demon blood mixed with some otherplanar source, his skin a fiery red, his skull bare and marked with a dozen or more old scars.  He carried a pair of longswords, one at his hip and one across his back, with an ease of familiarity, and a longbow strung and ready to draw.  

The other two were smaller creatures, clearly hangers-on.  Before the pair was a small demon that barely came to the waist of the tall tiefling.  Dressed in robes worn with travel, this figure wore a face that was all hard angles and sharp edges, as if molded by some insane sculptor.  The little fiend’s eyes were sharp, however, and they scanned the room warily, while his hands, hidden within the folds of the robe, no doubt were clutched around some kind of surprise for anyone who would seek to trouble his masters. 

The final newcomer remained in the rear.  He was a short but thick figure, clad entirely in heavy plate that seemed almost grafted onto his form.  Enough of the light penetrated his full helm to reveal skin the color of coal, and eyes that were twin points of flame.  When he moved, the ground felt it, and even without the wicked axe that rode at his side, he looked dangerous.  

The four moved into the crowded room, drawing their share of attention.  Though the residents of Zelatar were masters of minding their own business, only a fool ignored what went on around him, in this place.  Most of the customers were demons or part-demons of an incredible diversity of appearance, although at one table a pair of elves—a winged fey’ri and a drow priestess—were engaged in deep conversation, and at another a derro savant sat poring over an ancient scroll, apparently oblivious to the goings-on, although his three bodyguards missed nothing.  An attractive vampiress shot the tiefling a suggestive look as they passed, then chuckled at the hard look that the lady fiend returned.   

The four reached the back of the place, where the long bar was being worked by a full dozen tieflings.  Their master was a fat human named Ugo Bross, owner of the Angel, a planewalker who was well known to be far more dangerous than he looked.  He gave the four newcomers an appraising look as the short robed one toddled over to his perch at the end of the bar.  

“What can I do for you?” he said, not unfriendly but not promising anything, either.  

“We’re looking for Kargan Tsorok,” the short demon said.  

The tavernkeeper jerked a thumb to his right, where an even denser cloud of smoke shrouded the exit to a small side room.  Cloth hangings had once offered some privacy from the common room, but they had been allowed to degenerate until now only thin wisps hung down across the entry, like dangling vines hanging over the entrance of some ancient forgotten tomb.  

The four fiends headed into the smaller room.  Behind them, the sounds of the common room fell off noticeably as the walls closed in around them.  Around the perimeter were a number of semi-private booths, most of which contained small groups of beings, some drinking from tall mugs, others smoking off of communal pipes that continuously emitted thin streamers of smoke into the room.  The air here was thick and cloying, full of a thousand smells and promises of temporary distraction from the everyday realities of life in the Abyss.    

“My head’s starting to swim already,” Benzan said, quietly so that his voice wouldn’t carry beyond his companions. 

“Shh,” Dana returned, as the smoke cleared ahead to reveal a final wide booth at the rear of the room. 

The booth was occupied by a short figure about Lok’s size, except that where the genasi was all muscle, this individual was layer upon layer of thick fat and greasy hair.  His demonic heritage was obvious in the twin ridges of bone that ran down his bald skull from above his eyebrows to the back of his neck.  He wore an expansive kimono of what might have been silk, open so that it revealed his fat chest and fat belly.  Several chains of gold, silver, and other unidentifiable metals hung from his neck and tangled in the thick hair that covered his chest like a pelt of fur.  A pair of lithe females, also clearly at least part-demon, hung off of him to either side, each clad in just enough to make what they offered suggestive rather than blatantly obvious.  A houka, ignored for the moment, sat on the small table before them, along with a half-consumed platter of food that could have been anything. 

The fat man looked up as the companions materialized out of the smoky atmosphere of the antechamber.  “Yes?” he said, his voice containing an undertone of mirth. 

“Kargan Tsorok?” Cal asked.  

“Indeed, none other,” he replied, with a wave of his hand.  “What can I do for you?” His words were directed at the group of them, but his eyes remained fixed on Dana, and his mouth twisted in such a way that made Benzan’s jaw tighten.  The demon noticed this, of course, and his amusement deepened.  

“We have a business proposal for you, that we’d like to discuss in private, if you don’t mind.”

Kargan’s eyes glittered, and he stirred like a mountain shaking under an earthquake.  This dislodged the two females, who pouted until Kargan passed each a thick coin of fever-iron and sent them on their way with a noisy slap to the rear.  Once they had departed, he laughed and gestured for them to sit. 

“Ah, females!  Hardly worth the effort it seems, sometimes.  Other times they are what drives us to the efforts we go to, don’t they!  You know what I mean, I think,” he added, with a wink toward Benzan.  

“Ser Tsorok,” Cal began. 

“Call me Kargan.  It is better than the other name they have for me, the Wordwyrm.  Not that this is such a bad thing to be known as, either... words are very important here, you see.  Or you have learned that yourselves by now, neh?”

His look suddenly became very penetrating, and the companions shared a quick glance.  “What do you—” Cal said.

“Oh, don’t worry, your disguises are good enough for most... a _seeming?_” Without waiting for confirmation, he went on, “But you don’t _smell_ of this place, though given long enough, anyone takes on that odor, regardless of where they are from.  Though I do not know why you bother; plenty of Primes here—our good tavernkeeper, for one.  Nobody cares who you are or why you are here, unless you’re weak enough or strong enough for it to make a difference.”

“And which are you, Kargan?” Benzan asked. 

“I am right in the middle,” the demon replied without hesitation.  “The safest place to be.  Neh, though most of the wretched things of this realm dream only of endless power, they are fools.  Power, at least in the quantities they crave, only draws the attention of others to you, others who want that same power for themselves.”  

“We are not looking for power,” Cal said.  

The demon turned to regard him with a penetrating look.  “No?  And yet I can taste the promise of it about you, about all of you.”

He leaned back, his flabby torso jiggling even with that abbreviated movement.  “A few days ago, in the _Square of Judgment_, in that part of the city that resides on the Forty-Sixth layer, a vrock seized a little being from his friends, a being from Outside smelling of the hint of power I mentioned.  No doubt the demon thought it could get away with its prize before the friends could react.  From what I heard, the result was quite dramatic.”

“You seem remarkably well-informed about events in the city,” Cal noted.

“One vrock the fewer is of no great concern.  But when powerful outsiders come to the city, many take note.  And the longer such beings stay, the more dangerous their situation becomes.”

“We want nothing more to complete our business and be on our way,” Cal replied.

“And so we come again to why you are here.  You have found me, which says that you are resourceful as well as powerful.”

“It wasn’t that difficult; your reputation has traveled farther than you expect, perhaps.”

“Perhaps, or perhaps it was only fortune that led you to hear of me, and not another who specializes in... in problem solving.”

The moment drew out for a few heartbeats, the two sides sizing each other up.  Finally, Cal said, “We need information.”

“A commodity frequently traded here, to be sure.”

“More specifically, we need a divination.  Or at least, the ability to conduct a divination, without the... side effects... one encounters in this place.  We can cast the spell ourselves, if we can avoid the attendant consequences.”

“Ah,” Kargan said, lifting a fat finger to his chin.  “So you require an answer, to a question that is powerful enough to drive you all the way from the safety and security of your world, to a place such as this.”  With a wave of his hand, he managed to encapsulate it all—the smoky room, the inn, the city, the plane, and the entire Abyss.  He let that hang for a moment, then said, “I may be able to direct you to one for whom it would be possible—possible, mind you, for I cannot make any guarantees on such a matter—to do as you wish.  His nature is unique, in that he is both of this place and apart from it, and he has certain... talents... that are not bound by those regulations that govern ‘common’ magic.  Now, since this will be the first question he will ask, I must query... what is the objective of this seeking that you require?”

The companions shared a long look, and Kargan just sat there, his hands crossed over his ample belly, apparently unperturbed by the delay.  Finally, however, a resolution seemed to be met in that silent exchange, and Cal turned back to the demon. 

“We are seeking a soul.”


----------



## Maldur

hehehm nasty !


thx, LB!


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 29


“Neh, those are plentiful here, at least,” Kargan said, “although finding a particular one can be a challenge.  Friend or foe, this one you seek?”

“Friend,” Dana said, the first word she’d contributed to the interview.  Even through her disguise she looked haggard; the last few days had not been easy ones for any of them.  Her divine magic, kept fully potent through the power of the special pin that Cylyria had given her, kept them all healthy and hale in the corruption of this place, but it seemed that each day drained a little more from her, until at some point all that would be left would be a hollow shell.  

“Neh, your friend, he got himself lost, no?  No, that would be too easy, perhaps not lost then, but taken?”  Seeing the answer in their faces, he did not wait for a reply, but went on, “Well, then that is a matter for you; I do not conduct negotiations, nor involve myself in disputes over property.”

Benzan opened his mouth to speak, but Cal forestalled him with a quick look.  “All we wish is the divination; we will handle any other part of the issue ourselves.”

“Indeed, indeed... I make it a point not to pry too deeply into the personal affairs of my clients.  If you would like, then, I can arrange a meeting with my contact; it will take a few days to make arrangements, but if there is a place in the city where you may be reached...”

“Perhaps it would be best if we contacted you,” Cal said.  

“As you wish.  Now, while you will not be required to submit payment until after it is determined whether my contact will be able to help you, a small gift will go a long way toward winning his approval of a meeting.  And, of course, I myself would take a small concession for arranging such a rendezvous.”

Cal’s hand dipped into his pouch, and withdrew a small bundle of tightly-wound scrolls, the whole wrapped with a thin leather cord.  He handed them to the demon, who scanned the titles written on the outside of the parchments, then drew them up to his splayed nostrils, as if sampling the aroma of a choice dish.  

“Ah.... neh, potent magics indeed.  Yours... or the work of a close relation, perhaps?  Her smell is a sweet one indeed...”

Cal looked momentarily flustered, and Benzan’s hand had drifted back to the hilt of his sword.  The demon laughed, and waves his hand dismissively.  “Come now, no need to take offense!  These will do; I will use one as the greeting-gift and keep the others as my fee.  Let us meet in three days’ time at highsun bell, I will either be here, or I will leave word with Ugo as to where I can be found.”

* * * * * 

“I should be with her,” the tiefling said, distracted. 

“She’ll be fine, and Lok will see that she doesn’t come to any harm,” Cal replied.  In truth, he wanted to keep Benzan away from Dana, afraid that he might do something foolish.  Dana did seem to be recovering, although it was clear that the strain that was taking its toll on the woman was becoming increasingly reflected in Benzan.  The tiefling was irritable, uncertain, and Cal realized that unless they could commit to a plan of action soon, Benzan might feel driven to try something rash and desperate for her sake.  

Around them the activity of the city continued with little regard for their personal quandaries.  Here, though, in the shadow of the massive white walls of the Argent Palace, the din seemed muted, as though the residents in this quarter wished to avoid drawing notice from the entities that dwelled within.  In any case, the walls that rose up above them like a great cliff dominated the surrounding structures that seemed like puny things by contrast.  Above those walls rose the pinnacles of numerous spires, a forest of towers that testified to the might and grandeur of the Lord of this realm.  

It was two days since their meeting with Kargan.  Two days by the measure of this place, at least; although they lacked a means for making an accurate reckoning, by Cal’s estimate they had spent at least six days in Faerûn-time looking for answers, and an alternative to treating with the demon.  Cal had insisted that they needed to keep a low profile, and Kargan’s comment about the vrock incident were evidence that they’d already drawn too much intention to themselves.  Cal remembered the feel of the demon’s claws as they snatched him up from the square where they’d been walking, and shuddered.  They had not had further trouble with the city’s residents other than that seemingly random attack and their battle with the bar-lgura on their first entry into the city, eight days of Zelatar-time past.  They’d learned that the appearance of power was critically important to survival here, and Cal had noticed how all of them, even he himself, had started behaving more aggressively, quick to respond to a threatening gesture or sideways glance with a hand to a weapon hilt, or a drawn wand.  He’d even drawn his wand of _sonic arrows_ on an old woman in the Abrithar Market earlier that day, and felt ashamed of himself when the woman, cowed, drew back and fled.  

_This place is changing us,_ he thought grimly.  _We’ve got to finish this and return home._ 

The others no doubt felt the strange way.  Maybe that was why Dana had tried what she had last night, without warning them in advance.  It was foolish; even with their limited information, Cal could have told her that.  But she had tried nonetheless, attempting a _dimension door_ to pass directly into the walls of the Argent Palace.  The spell had rebounded on her in some way, and she’d been unconscious for the better part of an hour.  She seemed to be recovering, but despite his relief, Cal knew that he’d have to watch her more closely from now on.  Which was why Lok was with her now, and Benzan was at his side.  

Cal didn’t really expect to learn anything new on this reconnaissance.  Through a trick of this place—and there were many, he’d found—the Argent Palace was visible from almost every point in the city, even in places where simple geography suggested such a thing was impossible.  The Abyss was clearly a mutable place, dangerous to those who didn’t know its rules.  If there were even rules to learn, for this place was the epitome of chaos, mutable and often unpredictable. 

A shadow passed over them, causing them to reflexively lower their hoods and huddle in the shadow of an adjacent building.  When it passed, they looked up and saw a flight of vrocks high overhead, departing the Palace on some errand.  

Benzan sighed.  “I’m starting to think this is hopeless,” he said quietly.  

Cal shook his head, refusing to give betray his own doubts to his companion.  “Well, we’re not done yet; we’ve got a few tricks left up our sleeves.”

The tiefling turned to face him.  “This place... it’s sucking the life right out of us.  Even our weapons aren’t working properly.”

It was true, Cal knew.  He’d noticed it during the battle with the bar-lgura, and again in the brief but violent confrontation with the vrock.  Benzan’s bow didn’t work at all, now, at least not its magical properties that caused otherwise mundane arrows to burst into magical flame.  Dana was using her clerical power to enhance several of their weapons at the start of each day, but like Cal’s _seeming_ and their other long-duration enhancements, that only lasted for about twelve hours before the magic faded.  And many demons had the power to dispel magic, Cal thought, reflecting back again to the battle in the alley, although he didn’t feel the need to tell Benzan that just now. 

Cal glanced around to make sure there was no one listening nearby.  “You have your sword,” he said quietly, indicating the hilt jutting above Benzan’s shoulder.  “And we have each other.”

Benzan turned to face the wall, his body stiff and betraying the emotion that gripped him.  Cal knew that something else was bothering him, but knew his friend well enough not to prod, to give him his own time to decide whether to share his pain.  

Finally, after a long minute, the tiefling shifted and looked back at him again.  “A short time ago...” he started, haltingly.  “Dana... she thought she was with child.  She wasn’t... we learned just before we decided to come here...”

Cal didn’t know what to say.  “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.  After seeing this place...  We’re being careful, now...”  He looked around, at the blue sun in the sky above, the buildings familiar and yet so different, the looming white walls of the Palace.  In a voice little more than a whisper, he said, “Anything born of this place is an abomination...”

“Benzan...” Cal stepped forward, his hand outstretched to take Benzan’s, but before he could reach him the tiefling turned suddenly.  “We’d better get back.  We’re not going to find anything out here.  Looks like we’re going to have to try this ‘contact’ of Kargan’s...”

He strode off, not waiting to see if Cal was accompanying him.  With a sigh, the gnome strode after his friend.


----------



## Maldur

Nasty bit of self reflection there by Benzan!

Thx, LB!


----------



## Lazybones

It's Friday!

* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 30


The walls pressed close in around them as the companions traversed the long, narrow, stair that spiraled down deep into the stone foundations of the city.  The torch in Dana’s hand flickered and wavered and cast dancing shadows that made the descent a treacherous thing.  The brand was mundane; Dana’s magical one had gone out as soon as they’d entered the building above, just as Kargan had said.  The magical enhancements that they cast daily now had faded, as well, which was more than a little disconcerting to the companions.  But having come this far, they could not back down now.  

“It’s cold here,” Benzan said, from the lead. 

“It will get colder, but not enough to harm you, if you do not dally,” Kargan said from behind, just ahead of Lok who brought up the rear of their small column.  The demon’s tone was tinged with a hint of pique; he’d not wanted to come down with them, had intended to bring them to the site of their meeting and depart.  Cal, however, had suggested that the agent accompany them at least until they met with his contact.  Kargan had demurred, insisting that the contact—a creature he only named “The Silent,” did not enjoy his personal company. 

Benzan had quashed that with a deliberate grip upon the hilt of his _sword of the planes,_ and a curt, “We insist.”  After that, Kargan had come along, if not without complaint.  

The structure above was little more than a one-story blockhouse, most of which was comprised of a single large, windowless room.  The servants that greeted them were minor demons—quasits, Kargan called them—who ushered them through the chamber and into a cellar that in turn gave access to this staircase that they now traversed.

“This ‘Silent’ clearly doesn’t like to be bothered,” Benzan said.  “How far down are we, anyway?”

“Approximately two hundred feet,” Lok replied from the rear.  

Benzan opened his mouth to say something else, but at that point they could see that the stairs finally came to an end just ahead, at a landing little larger than the confined space of the stairs.  A heavy stone door was set into one wall, the only apparent route to continue.  

Benzan hesitated, and glanced back at the others.  “Go ahead,” Kargan exclaimed impatiently.  “He’s expecting you, as I said.”

Benzan turned and opened the door.  Despite its apparent size and thickness it opened easily at his tug.  As he did a deep, violet light poured out from the chamber beyond, enough to see clearly, once they had adjusted to the strangeness of the radiance.  

The room was clearly some sort of laboratory, looking smaller than its actual size due to the crowded collection of stone tables, shelves, racks, and other furnishings that filled much of its space.  The skins—or in a few cases, the entire carcass—of at least two dozen creatures dangled from racks of hooks attached to the low ceiling, alongside various oddly-shaped tools with unclear function.  The tables were jumbled with vials, beakers, flasks, bowls, and other containers filled with a hundred different substances, along with the occasional open tome or bleached skull.  A few mixtures were boiling over low flames from portable stoves, their vapors filling the room with a thick, cloying scent, and a quartet of fat, bulbous lamps emitted the bright purple flames that cast the light they had seen earlier.  

For a long moment, they just stood there, taking it all in.  Then Kargan prodded them forward.  “There, go,” he said, gesturing toward a portal they had missed in their initial perception, a narrow threshold half-sheltered behind a heavy bookcase that led into another chamber beyond.  Warily, his eyes darting into every crevice and shadow, Benzan led them through the room and through the doorway into the next room.  

This room was smaller, but seemed more spacious due to the lack of clutter.  There was only a pair of tables, one with several drawers underneath, and large diagram patterned on the floor that took up three-quarters of the floor space.  The design was etched in a silvery substance that glistened in the light of Dana’s torch, like a snail’s tracings, and it was all spirals and loops and circles that seemed to flow in and around each other until it started a headache if you looked at it for too long.  There were two other exits, narrow open doorways like the one they had just traversed.   

A shadow appeared in one of the doorways, materializing into a tall, white form that entered the room and regarded them coldly. 

It was nude, the size of a tall man and roughly the same shape, but lacking the gendered organs that set most humanoids apart.  Its skin was a pasty white, stretched tightly over its frame, and it was so thin that it looked as though a slight stumble might break it in two.  Its face was a grim mask, its mouth a tight slit that formed an inverted “V”, its nose just two smaller slits above that, and its eyes a pair of dark orbs recessed deep within its skull.  It had no other features, no ears that they could see, no hair, nothing that might give it even the slightest air of normalcy.  

It fixed them with a hard look, then made a gesture with one hand, its fingers easily half-again as long as theirs, with an extra joint to each.  Although it made no sound, and they heard nothing, _somehow_ they understood the meaning behind that gesture as though it had spoken clearly to them. 

_I did not invite you here, Tsorok_

“Indeed ser, and I apologize for the trespass,” he said, with a curt bow.  “But these who sought your wisdom insisted that I guide them, at least to the meeting with you.”

_They have met me.  You may go._

Kargan bowed again, and quickly—with a last look at the companions that might have meant anything—turned and departed.  As he left they could hear the outer door sliding shut, a very grim sound indeed given their current surroundings.  

Cal stepped forward.  “Silent One, we have come...”

The creature cut him off with another gesture.   _I know of your need.  Let us begin._

Cal was surprised, expecting from their earlier interactions with demons some preliminaries, at the very least a negotiation over the price that would be required for the creature’s assistance.  He was under no illusion that the few scrolls he’d given to Kargan would be sufficient, but the Silent was apparently not waiting, gesturing them toward the intricate pattern etched out on the surface of the floor.  

 _Do not touch the scrathings.  Step over, into the silver circles._

The companions watched dubiously as the creature itself moved around the border of the diagram and stepped into place at its far side.  They could see that there were five large empty circles within the pattern near its edge, connected to the others by intricate weaves and spirals.  Each was perhaps two feet across, sufficient space for someone to stand if they were still.  The demon—if, in fact, that was what the Silent was—now occupied one of the circles, and it regarded them with an intent stare.  

_If you do not wish to do this, you may depart now._  The gesture was a simple, curt slash of its hand, yet someone the full meaning of the statement was imparted to them.  

“We do not wish to appear untrusting,” Cal began, “but only fools leap into a strange situation without knowledge...”

The creature imparted another series of gestures, moving its head, hands, and body in a sinuous rhythm.  _You will not be harmed.  The Weave is only a focus, that will allow you to cast out your mind without drawing the attention of those who See.  I myself will energize the matrix, and will shield you from sight.  It is not unlike your illusions, Balander Calloran._

The companions exchanged a look.  “We need answers, Cal,” Dana finally said, the pleading clear in her voice.  

_You possess the connection to that which you seek.  Enter the Weave, and do what you came here to do._

Dana was the first, stepping boldly into place, but Cal could see the way she trembled.  Cal, Benzan, and Lok followed, taking their positions within the open bubbles of space within the Weave.  Benzan fixed the Silent with a hard look.  “You’d better not play us false, demon.”

The demon’s gesture was barely a flicker of its head.  _Hope instead that you are not false to yourselves._

Dana reached into her pouch, and drew out a scroll.  Inscribed therein was a potent weaving, a gift from her friend, the elvish high priest of Selûne, Seral.  She had tried the spell back home in Faerûn; it was among the first things she had thought to try.  But even the incredible power of the _discern location_ enchantment had proven of little use.  Here, without protection, its casting would instantly alert the one whose notice they were trying above all to avoid.  So now they had to trust that the strange power of the Silent would be enough to cloak them...

Dana unrolled the scroll.  She had gained in power since the last time that Seral had guided her through the enchantment, but there was still a chance that she would not be able to work the difficult and potent dweomer.  It was not their only option; she and Cal had prepared other spells, divinations and scryings and even the powerful ability granted to Dana from her goddess to _find the path_ to a desired destination.  But even that would be of little use, if they could not find where Delem was.  

The mystic wanderer looked across the Weave at the Silent.  The creature nodded, and lowered itself into what looked like an awkward and uncomfortable crouch, its knees protruding out over the borders of its circle just above the spirals of the Weave.  Its penetrating eyes grew distant, and it began to emit a faint sound, a buzzing that grew slowly and steadily louder until it seemed to fill them with its cadence.  The silvery trails that made up the pattern began to glow, until they were all that was, an endless spiral that folded in upon itself in ever-deeper swirls.  Within that matrix the four companions stood, the three men watching their comrade as she drew upon the fullness of a power that was alien to this dark place.  

The words poured out of her; there was no doubt, no hesitation.  The others could feel the power building, could feel the very fastness of reality shifting around them as Dana cast out her mind, a mouse creeping through the vastness of a house built of shadows.  They could not see what she was seeking, but each of them was drawn into the casting nonetheless, a part of what she was doing...

A presence suddenly appeared.  

It was cold, black, powerful, eternal.  

A face appeared out of the shadows.  

Laughter.

And then they were falling, all of them, still together, plummeting, as everything fragmented into a thousand shards...

Pain...

Then Nothing.


----------



## Maldur

Frak!

NO Im not gonna comment on the nastynessof this cliffhanger!

thx, LB!


----------



## Elemental

> *
> A shadow appeared in one of the doorways, materializing into a tall, white form that entered the room and regarded them coldly.
> 
> It was nude, the size of a tall man and roughly the same shape, but lacking the gendered organs that set most humanoids apart.  Its skin was a pasty white, stretched tightly over its frame, and it was so thin that it looked as though a slight stumble might break it in two.  Its face was a grim mask, its mouth a tight slit that formed an inverted “V”, its nose just two smaller slits above that, and its eyes a pair of dark orbs recessed deep within its skull.  It had no other features, no ears that they could see, no hair, nothing that might give it even the slightest air of normalcy.
> *




It's Marilyn Manson!


----------



## Broccli_Head

Elemental said:
			
		

> *
> 
> It's Marilyn Manson!  *




LOL! 

It seems appropriate also!  

Note to Heroes:_ Don't mess with Demon Prince on his own plane!_


----------



## Lazybones

Hoo, boy.  

Not to spam my own thread excessively, but it was a slow work day today and I managed to pound out a draft of the final climax scene of _Travels_.  I'm far from done, and I hope it all manages to come together with the drama and impact of some of my earlier Book-ending posts. 

But first things first.  Next week is not going to be a good one for the travelers.  I think I may be able to manage a post-a-day, ending with... of course... a big Friday cliffhanger to set up that final confrontation!

Have a great weekend all, and thanks for your reading and comments!

Lazy


----------



## Lazybones

Thus begins the Week of Travail...

* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 31  


The warrior ran down the narrow corridor.  For a moment he found himself disoriented—where was this place?  Why was he here?  Then the sound of the alarms, the thrumming that permeated the living stone all around, reminded him, and he rushed onward. 

The corridor split, and he hurried to the left before he could remember to be confused.  The passage widened, and opened onto a chamber where lamps cast a ruddy illumination upon a stone table around which a number of dwarves were crowded.  They were old creatures, these dwarves, their skin as crannoged as the wrinkled stone of the chamber walls, and they wore their weight clear on their tired faces.  

They looked up as he entered.  “What word, young Dura?”

Dura.  Yes, that was his name.  Only another name brushed against the edges of his consciousness.  _Lok..._  No.  He shook his head, and that distracting voice faded.  

“They have bypassed the Shield Wall, elders.  They come up from below, through the Harvest Halls.”

“Blast!” one of the elders cursed, slamming his fist down upon the table.  

“We must draw back, adjust our forces,” another said.  

“The warriors are already moving to block the enemy,” Dura said.  “The stones have spoken to us... they will not catch us unawares.”

“You have done well, young Dura,” one said.  “Our strength is depleted... but we shall stand bravely, and defend our people as best we can.”

Dura stepped forward, drawing himself up.  “I request the honor of leading our people against their enemies,” he said.  

The elders regarded him.  “Your courage honors you, Dura.  But you are young...”

“My father is dead six turnings of the world stone past, slain by the duergar in captivity.  I am the eldest of my House, and I stood by the Hero in the rush of the gibberlings.  I am blooded, honored ones.”  _And there is no other,_ he added inwardly, in his thoughts.

They knew, heard the unspoken words.  “Aye,” spoke the Eldest.  “Would that our arms still bore the strength that yours do, Warrior.  You shall lead us, serve as the Stone against which our enemies shall falter.”

Dura nodded, but remained a moment longer.  “I ask one more boon.  I claim the armor and weapon of the Hero, left behind by him, that their use may fortify the People.”

One of the elders shook his head.  “Nay, Warrior... those items are not for you... they were left by the Hero, against the day of his return.”

The pounding of the alarm drove Dura to recklessness in his speech.  “Elders...  I mean no disrespect, but Lok cannot help us now.  The Hero has abandoned us...”  He saw the anger his words provoked in the elders, but he pressed on.  “I apologize... I am as grateful for our deliverance from bondage as any, and respect the legacy that Lok left us, but the fact remains that our very existence is once more under threat... we must defend ourselves with all of the resources that remain to us!”

The elders hesitated, then finally, the Eldest nodded.  

* * * * * 

The faint thrumming of the alarm persisted a short while later, as Dura entered the largest of the Harvest Halls.  The chamber rose up to a height of upwards of fifty feet, the ceiling a maze of stalactites.  The floor was more even, deliberately leveled to better accommodate the neatly ordered patches where the harvests grew.  A harvest had recently been completed just a few days ago, so the growing patches were largely empty, although the rich smell of the cultures was still evident in the air, and throughout the chamber the tiny bulbs of the next harvest’s mushrooms were already evident.   

The clank of mail accompanied the movements of the young dwarf.  Clad in the magical plate left by Lok, and carrying his axe, Dura was followed by a phalanx of two dozen fellow urdunnir.  Only a handful wore armor as heavy as his; most were clad in heavy coats of working leather sewn with metal studs, here and there supplemented by a breastplate or set of greaves.  Their weapons looked imposing enough, but in truth most were craftsmen, not warriors.  The People had not had time to fully recover from their ordeal at the hands of the duergar.  

There would be no more time, Dura mused, glancing back over his “army.”  The stones had spoken.  The enemy was here. 

As if called by his thoughts, movement became evident in one of the corridors that exited from the far side of the chamber.  The dwarves came forward even as those shadows grew distinct, hulking forms that moved swiftly forward.  The only light in the chamber was a weird, pale glow that came from some of the lichens that clung to the walls of the place and flourished in the musty air, but the dwarves needed no torch to mark their foes.  

Bugbears.  At least two score, well armored and armed.  

The humanoids saw the dwarves, and immediately formed a disorganized line, moving steadily across the expanse of the chamber, hefting spears and axes and clubs high above their heads, treading carelessly upon the budding heads of the next harvest.  

“Defensive wedge!” Dura growled, moving into position at the lead point.  His head was filled with memory, and his blood sang with the bravery of that day when he, the Hero, had stood in this same place, and held the line against the gibberling rush.  Now it was he, Dura, who would enter the annals of his people...

Behind Dura, the dwarves formed into a tight formation, a spearhead bristling with steel forged in many cases by the Hero himself.  He was not there to help them this time, not there to defend the People from their foes, but at least they held his weapons, and the example that he had set for them in their hearts.  

“Fire!” he shouted, when the bugbears reached the center of the cavern.  

Thick bolts shrieked out from within the wedge, hurled by the heavy crossbows of the urdunnir defenders.  Several missed their targets, but those that hit punched through metal plate and thick leather alike, driving deeply into the bodies of the onrushing humanoids.  The bolts were followed by oblong stones shaped by the potent hands of the stone-dwarves, simple rocks that had been fashioned through the urdunnir’s special lore into dense, heavy missiles.  Fired by simple slings, these missiles as well struck hard and deadly, crushing bones.  

Six of the initial forty were down, and others staggered by violent hits.  But the bugbears continued their approach, picking up speed as they came on.  There was no time to reload the heavy crossbows, but the slingers managed a few more hits, and another foe went down, his skull cracked by a direct hit.  

The bugbears in the vanguard hurled a few spears as they came, but they glanced off of the armor of the dwarves.  The pause cost one attacker, as a hurled hammer caught him solidly in the shoulder, crushing his arm.  The bugbear shifted his axe to his good arm, and came on.  

The bugbears hurtled themselves into the defenders with a ferocity born of hard years spent in the fierce realm of the Underdark.  

“For the People!” cried Dura, smashing his axe into the chest of the first attacker.  The magical axe clove through its breastplate, and it crumpled backward, replaced an instant later by another pair that smashed at the dwarf warrior with heavy maces.  Lok’s plate armor absorbed the force of the impacts, although Dura could feel their force shudder through his body.  “Never again slaves!” he cried, bringing the heavy axe around in a blow that dug deeply into the first bugbear’s hip.  

“Never again slaves!” echoed the other dwarves, as they fought and killed and died in the violent melee.  The line held, however, and the bugbears, for all their size and strength, could not break through.  Each time a dwarf fell the others closed to fill the gap, dealing out death.  

Dura hacked and blocked and hacked again.  He felt as though his hands were guided by an outside force, for he’d never felt so alive with his strength and skill.  He somehow managed to defend against attackers he’d barely seen, and even as his arms grew tired he drove through the bugbears’ defenses to land telling blows.  Already he’d slain four, their corpses scattered around his position at the point, and the others that continued to attack were clearly wary, surprised by the ferocity of this lone dwarf’s defense.  He’d taken a wound, a spear thrust that had crunched through the armor at his right hip, but the young dwarf barely felt it. 

And then the bugbears were falling back, retreating across the chamber from whence they had come.  Nearly half their number had been slain in the brief battle, and many of those that retreated bore serious wounds.  

Dura’s blood was singing, and his head pounded with the excitement of the fray.  He lifted his bloody axe in triumph, and behind him the other dwarves roared.  

_No, do not, it’s a trap..._

“After the dogs!” he cried, and rushed forward, the others close on his heels.  They would teach these invaders a lesson, send a message throughout the Underdark that the urdunnir could and would defend themselves, that they were no longer victims...

The bugbears had retreated all the way to the far side of the chamber, near the corridor mouth where they had appeared.  Their leaders had drawn them around, ready for a final stand, apparently, but Dura and his dwarves, flush with victory, seemed unstoppable.

And then, suddenly, everything went dark.  

A forest of dense, sticky strands sprang up around the dwarves, snaring them in the mess of a magical _web_.  The twang of crossbows could be heard, from the corridor, from the cracks along the walls, from above, amidst the stalactites.  A few dwarves staggered from the _darkness_, webs clinging to them, only to crumple as several of the tiny crossbow bolts worked their grim purpose.  

Dura, calling upon a last reserve of strength, tore free of the webs, and lurched out of the darkness.  Realization came belatedly, along with a crushing despair that threatened to clamp down on his heart as he watched his companions fall beside him, or struggle uselessly against the clinging webs, or thrash about blind in the sphere of darkness.  

The bugbears waited at the edge of the webs, making no move to attack.  Dura lifted his axe and charged toward them, but the strands snared his legs, and he nearly fell.  Thrashing violently he chopped at the webbing, but his progress was too slow.  The bugbears pointed at him, and a few even laughed.  

And then he sensed a dark presence above him.  He looked up to see a lean, tall form descending slowly from the shadowed forest amidst the stalactites.  His heart sank as he recognized the figure, clad in chain links as black as her skin.  

“Come down here and face me, bitch!” 

The drow priestess regarded him with an almost amused expression.  With a wave of her hand, Dura felt his muscles stiffening, and he fell, as helpless as a babe.  As helpless as they had all been, taken as slaves by the urdunnir.  

Unable to even turn his head to look, the sticky webs clinging to his face and making it difficult even to breathe, he could still hear the laughter of the drow, and the bugbears.  

“Never again slaves...” he mumbled...

“Kill the warriors, and take the rest.  But leave this one, he might provide some... amusement, before we offer his soul to the Spider Queen.”

Dura tried to scream, but it only came out as a gurgled hiss.  

_Why did you abandon us, Hero..._

Blackness.


----------



## Maldur

Not a cliffhanger, But still cruel!!


----------



## Lazybones

Maldur said:
			
		

> *Not a cliffhanger, But still cruel!! *




Oh, it gets worse!  Muwhahahahaha!

* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 32


Cal stirred.  The first thing he was aware of was pain, but it was a subdued, familiar pain, like an old companion.  The pain was brother to a deep feeling of emptiness, a hollow pit that seemed to fill him deep inside the core of his being. 

He tried to get up, but found that he could not.  It was as if a heavy weight lay upon him, although he could feel nothing more than an thick blanket that felt scratchy against his skin.  He looked around, but couldn’t see much; he was in a small chamber, with a single exit blocked by a hanging curtain.  The furnishings were spartan, just the hard bed on which he lay, a side table, and a chair shoved into a corner.  The walls were old stone, cracked and worn.  

“Where am I?” he asked, but there was no one to hear him.  His own voice felt strange, tenuous and scratchy.  Again he tried to get up, with no more luck than his first effort.  He wasn’t wearing his rings or other arcane items, and when he tried to recall the words of a spell, his head only spun and the room grew out of focus.  

A noise drew his attention to the side of the room just before the curtain flapped back and a man entered the room.  He was a human, once tall but now bent, maybe sixty years or so old, with little more than a fringe of white hair and a face that was a maze of hills and valleys.  He was carrying a flask and a wooden bowl, and his brows tightened when he saw that Cal was conscious.  

“So, yer awake.  Might’a been better if yer’d stayed out... I’m afraid the corruption’s spread, and yer goin’ have to lose them legs, I think.  Maybe yer life, but I’m thinkin’ I can save that, mayhaps.”

“Get... a cleric...” Cal managed to groan.  

The man looked at him incredulously.  “A cleric?  For you?”  He laughed, but it was a cold, bitter sound, with no mirth in it.

Cal closed his eyes and tried to call upon his own inherent magic, the healing song of the bard, but that discordant jumble in his mind was the only response.  “Where am I?” he asked. 

“Ah, so yer forgettin’, is that the way of it?  Can’t say I’m surprised, what with the fever you’ve had since they brought you in here.  Dumped you, more like.  I don’t know why I’ve bothered to help you, once I learned who—and what—you are.”

“I... I don’t understand...”

The old man leaned over, close enough so that Cal could smell the stale onions on his breath.  “I should turn you in.  The Lords’ Alliance has increased the bounty to ten thousand crowns, I hear.  Not that it matters.  Not that anything matters anymore...”  He drew back, a wasted and broken expression on his face.  

“What did I do?” 

The man fixed him with a hard look.  “The fever’s truly taken your mind, then?  Well, that rich, truly.  The gods love their ironies, they do...”

“My friends... there’s one, a cleric, she can help me...”

“Weren’t you listening?  NO CLERIC CAN HELP YOU!  You and your friends, you’re all forsaken!  What you did... you don’t even know, do you!”  The man paced violently through the small room, shaking with the emotion that had stirred in him.  “I should drag you outside, and show you!  You can still see the smoke rising from the pyre that was Elturel, if the day’s clear enough.  Not that we get many clear days left...  Or maybe we could go visit the other ruins; Iriaebor, Berdusk, Scornubel?  How about the hell-pit that is Baldur’s Gate?  The scorched wasteland that was once the Greenfields?  The ribbon of black ooze that was once the blue Chionthar!”  He was now screaming, spittle blasting from his lips as he hurled each statement like an accusation at the helpless gnome.  

“I’m sorry,” Cal said.  “I don’t remember.”

“You brought them,” the old man said, his voice now calm and cold as ice.  “You opened the door, let them into Faerûn.  You and your friends.”

“Who?” Cal said, though his heart had suddenly gone cold and his breath caught in his throat with the word. 

The old man leaned over him again, his lips tight over his uneven teeth.  “The demons.  You brought the demons.”

Cal shook his head.  “No.  We waited, we did as the Oracle commanded, we waited until the Portal closed...”

“I wasn’t there,” he said, “but I knew some who were, at the conclave called at Harper Hall shortly after your return.  From what I understand, it started soon after you returned, with your friend.  He was the one that carried the link, that burst the barriers that separate our realm from the Abyss... But by the time the High Ones realized it, and destroyed him, it was too late...”

“Delem?  They killed Delem?  I... but we had to bring him back, to free him...”  Cal’s head spun, and he felt the world swimming out of focus around him again.  

“You freed him.  And condemned the West to death and destruction.  By the time we realized what was happening, thousands of demons had already come through the first portal, and others were opening throughout the region.  Demons, and other beings—uncontrollable elementals, half-fiends, undead...  They poured into our land, and although the Lords rallied the defenders of Faerûn to stop them, they could only slow the devastation, could not undo it.”

“But... the gods...”

“I don’t know how or why it happened.  But when you sundered the link between the Planes, you disrupted the contact between Faerûn and the Outer Realms.  Oh, it wasn’t as bad as the Time of Troubles, but it was bad still.  Wizards, too—they say that the presence of so many demons at once in our reality tore the Weave, threatened to unravel it altogether.  If it hadn’t been for the intervention of the Chosen, it might have been Armageddon.  As it is, it will take centuries for the West to recover, if it ever does.  Tens of thousands... hundreds of thousands, perhaps, have been killed.  Cities ruined.  Demons still lurk by the hundreds in the dark places, scattered across the land.  The Portals have been closed, but the cost... oh, the cost...”

Cal started at him, his eyes wide in horror.  The man seemed to have forgotten him, lost in his despair, sobs wracking his lean frame.  He was holding something, a wooden symbol dangling from a thin chain around his neck.  As the man shifted, Cal caught sight of it—a familiar sigil, carved in the shape of two hands bound by cords.  

“Ilmater,” he breathed.  

The word broke through the man’s grief, and he looked up again at Cal.  “Yes.  The Suffering One has been given no shortage of grief.  My oaths bind me to care for you... they are all that I have left.  But my magic cannot touch you, the gods have abandoned the ones who unleashed this hell upon their people.  I will care for you... I will save your life, but it will cost you your legs.”  He rose, and turned to leave, pausing the glance at the flask that he’d laid on the table near the bed, close enough for Cal to reach it.  “I would drink that, if I were you.  It will make you sleep throughout.  I will return shortly, and we will begin.”

“No, please... there’s got to be another way!  Don’t go!”  But the man had already departed, the curtain swaying shut behind him.  “Wait!  Don’t take my legs!  Please!  I’m sorry!  I’m sorry.... we didn’t want to... please...”

Blackness.


----------



## Broccli_Head

you are right!

It is getting more and more wicked !


----------



## wolff96

That is just viciously evil.

I love it.  Now I just have to find a way to do it to my players...


----------



## Lazybones

We're back!  It's not the Friday cliffhanger that I originally envisioned before the crash, but I think you'll enjoy this installment...

* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 33


Benzan looked around at his surroundings.  He had no memory of how he had come to be here; when he tried to think on it, he felt a pounding deep within his skull, so he turned his attention outward.  

He was standing in a narrow city street.  The place had the look of any of a million streets in a thousand unnamed cities, yet it was instantly familiar to the tiefling warrior.  The sights, the smells—they instantly hit him with a barrage of memories, despite the fact that when he’d last been here, the place had not been empty as it was now.  There was a void of sound, not even the whisper of a breeze off the bay or the scuttle of rats in the shadowy alleys that darted off of the winding thoroughfare.  In those days when his dreams had taken him back to Unthalass, they had always been filled with the constant rush of sound that was a part of the city, a medley of voices and noises that grew and redoubled in the tight spaces that were these slums where he’d grown up.  

Only now, the city was vacant, without even the buzzing of an insect to shatter the emptiness.   

He didn’t immediately recognize this street; a veritable maze twisted and wove through the slums that sat like a fat boil upon the wealthier central districts where the quarters of the merchants, priests, and the palace of the God-King occupied the choice spaces along the bay.  As a youth, he’d known that maze intricately, as many of the fatherless and hopeless urchins who crowded the slums did, but it had been many, many years.

He looked up.  The sky was bright, and the heat was familiar, that oppressive, wrenching heat that literally sucked the sweat from the body until it ran down your skin in currents.  But there was something wrong in that, as well... he realized that he could not see the sun, the golden orb that brightened Toril was just... gone.  

He realized belatedly that _he_ had changed as well.  Instead of his mithril chainmail he was clad in a flowing cotton tunic, of the sort common in Unthalass.  His other gear was missing as well, save for his accustomed bronze longsword, which rested in its usual position upon his hip.  It was a reassuring presence, something tangible in this familiar and yet alien place.  

“Once again you return to the place of your origin,” a voice said, from behind.

Benzan spun swiftly, for all that he hadn’t heard the stranger approach.  As he pivoted his blade hissed out from its scabbard, leaping readily into his hand.  

The stranger stood calmly ten paces distant, regarding him with a cold but intent expression.  He was humanoid, muscular, his skin a perfect ebon, with a polish that caught the light like smooth obsidian.  He looked human at first glance, handsome in a regal sort of way, but on closer examination his pointed ears and slanted brows betrayed his otherworldly heritage.  He was clad in a richly cut garment of soft black silk that highlighted the muscular outlines of his frame, and carried a massive bastard sword whose hilt jutted up above his right shoulder.  

“This isn’t Unthalass,” Benzan said, gesturing with his blade at the empty streets and alleys that surrounded them. 

The black man strode forward.  “No, but my statement is true nonetheless,” he said with the faintest hint of a smirk twisting his perfect features.   

Benzan lifted the sword so that it stood as a barrier between them.  But if the ebon man seemed threatened by the long blade that stood three paces from his heart, he gave no sign of it.  “Who are you?”

“Benzan, Benzan.  You carry my likeness around with you every day for three years, and you have no knowledge of me?  Perhaps I should be insulted...”

“Prince Graz’zt,” he breathed.  The Prince fixed him with a hard stare, held him with those black eyes, until there could be no doubt.  

“Where are the others?  Have you harmed... any of them?”  He’d hesitated, almost said, “Dana,” but he’d been able to catch himself.  There was no way that he was going to give this... _creature_ any advantage, if he could help it...

But then he looked into those eyes again, and felt despair.  Graz’zt already knew.  He knew it all.  He knew _everything_.  

“It was all one big trap, wasn’t it?”

Graz’zt strode out into the empty street, his boots crunching on the shattered flagstones.  Even before the war with Mulhorand that had driven Benzan and his mother, along with thousands of other refugees, from Unther, the back avenues and side alleys of the city had never been kept in good repair, the revenues of the city going instead to enrich the priest caste and those elite warriors close to the retinue of the god-king.  Benzan thought he could even smell the familiar odors of the open-air markets, stimulating a rush of memories he’d thought forgotten. 

_It’s just an illusion_, he told himself firmly, forcing himself to draw his full attention upon the foe—for this was a foe, and a deadly one, for all his apparent ease now—as he turned once more to face him. 

“I will not try to turn you against your friends, Benzan—I can see the bond that exists between you, and while it might be an entertaining project to snap that bond, or perhaps to warp it, you and your fellow Faerûnites are not my primary concern at the moment.  Still, it is rare to encounter one of the Blood who has gone out from us, lived his life on another plane, and has returned to the Homeland as you have.  Have you ever considered what you are, Benzan?  What am I saying—of course you are.  It consumes you, doesn’t it?  You’ve been _trained_ by the weaklings of that world, this world,” he indicated the deserted streets with a casual toss of his hands, “This world that hates you and all that you are.”

“I have accepted what I am,” Benzan said.  

Graz’zt’s lips twisted into that familiar half-amused, half-mocking smile.  “Indeed?”  He waved his hand, and a gust of wind swirled in the street, and in that wind they could hear a voice, faint, an echo of words spoken before.

“Anything born of this place is an abomination...” came Benzan’s voice on that breeze.  

“Your words, I believe?” Graz’zt said to him.  

“You’re not the first to try to torment me with my own identity,” Benzan shot back.  

“Torment you?  No, Benzan.  I want to _free_ you.  Have you never considered the possibility that who you are—what you are—sets you _above_ those that surround you?  Look at you.  You are faster, smarter; though you seek to hide that behind that layer of sarcasm and ‘wit’ that you cultivate.  You have chosen not to develop greatly the innate magical talents that flow within your blood, but those skills you have refined make you powerful, nonetheless.  Your heritage makes you adaptable, resistant to the hot touch of the flame and the numbing chill of ice alike.”

“I know what I can do,” Benzan said.  “Why don’t you just tell me what you want and be done with it?  I’m getting bored with all this chatter.”

Graz’zt’s eyes narrowed the slightest fraction, but then he laughed.  “Ah, Benzan.  Would that I had the time to turn you; you would make a great addition to the ranks of my minions, I suspect.  But since you insist, I will get to the point.  I have come to make you an offer, Benzan.  For all your self-loathing and petty denials, your ancestry is core to what you are, central to the construct of your identity.  I can give you insight, Benzan.”

“Have you never wondered, Benzan?  Of course, your mother never told you, but I can.”

“Your father...”

Benzan tried to hide his reaction, but he knew that the demon Prince could see through him as though he were shaped from Cormyrian crystal.  “My father?”

“Yes.  Have you never wondered, from what source you sprang?  Did you think it all happenstance, boy?  Your wanderings, drawn to the Western Heartlands, finding the statuette, the device that led you, ultimately, to me...”

“You?” Benzan breathed.  His heart seemed to have frozen in his chest.  “You... my father...”

Graz’zt laughed again, this time a deep, throaty sound that echoed off of the close press of buildings around them.  “Me!  Ah, you certainly have a high opinion of yourself after all, it seems!  Nay, Benzan, while it’s true that I’ve shared around my seed on more than a few occasions, if you possessed my blood, believe me, you would know it...”

Benzan heard the scraping sound behind him this time, even as he _sensed_ the presence approach.  He looked up at Graz’zt, but the Demon Prince only watched him, a faint hint of a smirk on his features.  

Reluctantly, Benzan turned around.  

The creature—and that was the most he could define of it, at first—was large, half-again his height, its bulbous form clearly several times his mass.  It had the look of a fat, ugly, massive toad, except that it stood on two legs, and a demonic intelligence shone in its dull yellow eyes.  Fat gobs of slobber dripped from jaws that stretched at least three feet across, smoking where they landed on the uneven paving stones of the street.  Its mottled hide was coated with an oily sheen, and as it drew nearer, the stench of it hit Benzan like a hammer blow.  It was only with some difficulty that he held his ground, although his stomach continued to roil in protest as the creature closed to within ten paces, sinking into a crouch on its thick legs, ready to spring.   

Graz’zt’s voice came over his shoulder.  “This is the hezrou, Mul’guk’lak,” he said.  “A fairly recent addition to the ranks of my minions.  He’s made a few visits to your Faerûn... no doubt you have heard about the rituals conducted by the priests of Unther?  Quite... stimulating... wouldn’t you agree, Mul’guk?” 

The hezrou’s huge jaws twisted into a ferocious grin, and it emitted a sour, fetid croak.  

Benzan could not take his eyes off of the hezrou, though he turned his body back toward Graz’zt.  “What... what are you saying...”

“Benzan, allow me to introduce your father.”  

“No.  No, you’re lying...”

The Demon Prince laughed.  “Why would I lie?  Ah, I take that back—I’m sure there’s a thousand reasons why I might lie... But in this case, my words are truth... and did you not yourself just say that you have accepted what you are?  Surely the family resemblance is obvious?”

“No...”  Benzan found himself kneeling in the dusty street, although he hadn’t remembered falling.  Looking up, all he saw was the hulking demon, looming over him.  Its stench filled his nostrils, seeping into his pores.  “No, this is just an illusion, a lie...”

Graz’zt’s laughter came to him once again, echoed by the creature before him.  Its jaws opened, and from deep within its throat came a hissing mockery of human speech.  

“My son.”

Benzan clutched his head, pressing his arms against his ears.  His stomach finally gave over, and he felt hot bile in his throat as he purged upon the dusty stones.  

Blackness.


----------



## Maldur

You are a cruel man LB!

thx for the update.


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## Broccli_Head

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *The Demon Prince laughed.  “Why would I lie?  Ah, I take that back—I’m sure there’s a thousand reasons why I might lie... But in this case, my words are truth... and did you not yourself just say that you have accepted what you are?  Surely the family resemblance is obvious?”
> 
> . *




I love that line!


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## Dungannon

I shudder to think what evil tortures LB has in mind for Dana....

This is a truly awesome setup for the finale.


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## Lazybones

Thanks, guys!  

I had hoped to wrap up the story this week, but the board shutdown last week threw that timeline off.  I'm taking some time off over the holiday weekend, and will be gone 5/22 through 5/27.  Rest assured I'll leave you with a cliffhanger before I go...

* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 34


Dana’s heart pounded in her chest as she ran.  All around her the forest seemed to press in like a malignant, conscious entity, with low branches swiping at her face as she passed, bushes clinging at her leggings, and roots jutting up from the carpet of damp, rotting leaves just waiting to snag a careless boot.  

She could not remember how she had come to be in this place, or even what this place was.  But she knew that enemies pursued her, and that other evil things lurked in the shadows all around.  Those shadows were deep; only a pale, diffuse light filtered down from between the boughs high above, casting everything into a faded gloom that only added to the malevolent feel of this place.  

A sound behind; a twig cracked loud.  The noise distracted her for just an instant, and a root caught her foot, and she was rolling through the damp leaves.  She was up quickly, and running again, but even in that brief interval she thought she could feel the sounds of others approaching, a wedge closing behind her.  

She had to run on.  She could stand and fight; she had her skills, and the power that came at her command, but even though she had no solid memory of what it was that pursued, something deep within told her that she could not battle these foes.  She lacked her weapons, and her gear; she only wore her light traveling clothes, flowing loose about her body as she ran.  Something blazed against her chest, a pinprick of echoed power, but when she lifted her hand to touch it, there was nothing there.  

She came to an abrupt halt as her foot sank into a soft, yielding surface.  She drew back, the ground making a sucking sound as it released her boot.  

Ahead stretched a bog, with the muddy flat ahead giving way within a dozen paces to a broad, stagnant pool thick with floating leaves and other detritus.  Through the shadows she could make out the slanted forms of ugly, misshapen trees, though she could not make out a clear path that would take her safely across the bog. 

She started to turn to the side, to move parallel to this new obstacle, but even as she shifted she could hear them coming, the sounds of her enemies moving through the wood.  On three sides, now, clearly.  

There was only one way left to go. 

Something buzzed at the edges of her mind, a stray thought not quite conscious, strangely similar to that disjoined presence hanging just above her breast.  She tried to clear her thoughts enough to bring into clarity those twin warnings, but before she could draw them into focus a loud crashing erupted in the wood along the way she had just come.  

Too late.  No time. 

She crashed ahead awkwardly, stumbling through the bog.  The water was cold, the mud deep and clinging.  She sank first up to her hips, and then her chest, but thankfully no deeper than that as she pushed on.  She reached the first tree, a half-submerged willow, its roots jutting out of the water to form a cage around its base.  

_Something... not right..._ came a whisper, but it was nothing against the fear that pounded in her chest, and the sounds that continued behind her.  Then splashing—her enemies were following her into the bog. 

She hurried onward, pressing blindly through the swamp.  Ahead, she could see a low rise, a mound that rose up out of the waters, covered with dense plant growth.  From one side of the mound a tree jutted at an awkward angle, its long drooping branches reaching down to touch the water below.  Atop the rise, its summit only ten feet or so above the level of the surrounding mirk, she could just make out the outline of a blockish structure.  A building?  Sanctuary?  

She was already pushing in that direction, but the bog seemed almost willful in its efforts to stop her.  The mud grew deeper, causing her to nearly founder with each step.  She felt a boot sliding off, but before she could stop she’d stumbled and it was gone, lost.  The reeds and the muck that covered the surface of the bog like a carpet clung to her clothes and skin, until she felt as though she was wearing a woolen dress that dragged out behind her.  Her arms churned at the surface, until the sound of her own passage drowned out the noise made by her pursuers.  She refused to look back, filled with the irrational yet powerful premonition that if she did, they would be right behind her, reaching for her...

She stumbled up out of the water, onto the edge of the mound.  Her body was coated in a mess of mud and decaying plant matter.  Exhausted, she tried to lift herself up the slope, but only slid back into the water.  

She looked down at her arm, a pale white outline that contrasted starkly with the black all around.  She turned up the limb, revealing a fat, ugly leech that seemed to swell with her blood as she watched it.  No doubt there were more of them on her legs and torso, sucking the life out of her greedily.

The sight of it filled her with disgust, and an anger that reenergized her enough to lift herself up decisively from the bog.  She crushed the leech, barely able to feel the tiny jolt of pain as it tore free from her arm.  She found a few more and killed them likewise even as she slipped and slid her way up the short but treacherous slope, toward the outline she’d spotted earlier.  

It wasn’t a building after all, she saw as she drew nearer, but rather a single solid mass of stone, a boulder that someone or something had fashioned into a rectangular bier.  It was easily five feet high, and at least twice that in length.  

Shadows moved all around, emerging out of the bog.  She fell back against the stone, watching with horror as they crawled up out of the mud and started up the sides of the mound.  She didn’t need to look around the stone to know that they were coming up from the far side of the mound as well; she was surrounded.  There was no escape, now.  

A steely determination fired in her and she forced herself to stand free of the reassuring strength of the stone.  Very well, then.  She would not go down without a fight.  

Her enemies slowed as they neared the summit, comfortable now that they had driven their prey to ground.  The shadowy figures resolved into humanoid forms, blackened with mud and dripping wet from their chase.  And then, as they came close enough for her to distinguish their faces...

“No,” Dana whispered.  “No, not you.  Why...”

There were over a dozen of them, with more creeping around the stone from behind to join them.  She recognized each and every one, though the harsh, almost feral looks that graced their faces were alien to those that shone in her memory.  Servants, from her household when she’d been just a child.  The kindly monks from the monastery of the Sun Soul where she’d been fostered.  Clerics from her Order, some still clad in the remnants of what had once been vestments emblazoned with the sigil of the Moon Lady.  Others whom she’d known for a time, friends...

One of them came forward.  Dana felt a sob choke her throat as she saw him, his smooth features now twisted into something almost unrecognizable. 

“Seral, my teacher, my friend.  Why are you doing this?”

The elf’s grim smile was ferocious, cruel.  “We have come to take you back, Dana.  Too long have you been away from us, your true people.”

“You betrayed us, Dana,” came another voice to the side, a familiar voice that stabbed into her like a dagger.  “You deserted us.”

Reluctantly, she turned to face this final speaker.  “No, father.  No, that’s not how it was.”  The buzzing in her head from before had redoubled, now a furious cacophony that filled her head and caused everything around her to grow fuzzy, indistinct.  For a moment, there was another presence there, something familiar but not in the warped, terrible way that those around her were.  She reached for it, but it was as if her mental probe slid off an invisible wall with no cracks or weaknesses.  

“This isn’t right,” she said, decisively.  But her father only laughed, a cruel song echoed by the others.  

“You are right, my child.  But that knowledge will not save you, not here.”

With that, he began to change, his features twisting in an unnatural transformation.  The others were shifting as well, but her eyes were filled with whatever it was that was in the shape of her father.  A lie, she knew, but he was right about one thing.  

There was no escape.  

Still, she tried.  With a desperate cry she hurled herself backward, trying to leap up atop the slab, to flee the circle that had closed around her.  Her limbs felt leaden, refusing to follow her commands, but she’d still nearly managed to pull herself up atop the slick rock when the first blast of pain exploded through her back.  And then the claws were tearing at her, drawing her back.  She screamed and lashed out desperately at her attackers, but they only laughed.  The familiar faces were gone, replaced now with hairy, bestial visages—wolves, rats, boars.  Werecreatures.  Lyncanthropes.  Shapeshifters.  

They drew her into their midst, and they piled onto her, slashing with long, bloody claws, grasping, tearing.  

It took a long time, and she felt every moment, even her body finally betraying her as it refused to let her fall into the comforting bliss of unconsciousness.  Finally, though, there wasn’t anything left but tears and a haze of blood and pain.  Oh, the pain.  

Finally one of them loomed over her face, and its jaws opened wide, wider, until all she could see was the black pit of its throat.  

Blackness.


----------



## Maldur

Nasty, nasty, nasty

thx fo rthe update LB!


----------



## Lazybones

Heh took a while to find where my thread had gone... 

Anyway, just got back from vacation, and here's the cliffhanger I was *going* to post last week, but couldn't because of the board crashes.  

* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 35


Lok fought alone in the center of a dark cavern, surrounded by the bodies of slain urdunnir.  He slashed weakly but desperately at the closing ring of dark elves, and they were laughing at his efforts, darting into to sting him with the tips of their blades until his shirt was soaked with red.  The genasi wore the body of an elder of the urdunnir, this time, no match for even one of his nimble attackers.  

“Take him alive, this one,” the drow priestess said as she watched from the side of the room.  “He will give us some sport, before the Spider Mother finally takes him.  Certainly these others gave us no challenge.”

Lok cried out—it came out only as a croak—and rushed forward, intent upon the ebon-skinned woman.  But one of the warriors almost casually tripped him, and he fell hard, his sword clattering uselessly out of his hand.  

Blackness. 

* * * * * 

Cal squirmed within his bonds atop the dais, but the ropes that held him were secure.  For the tenth time he scanned the faces that filled the room around him, seeking some small shred of support, of pity.  But he found only scorn, hatred, sadness.  

“Balander Calloran, you stand accused of the crime of unleashing a horde of fiends upon the peaceful and goodly people of Faerûn.”  Cylyria’s words rang out in the crowded confines of the hall, each word hitting him like a hammer’s blow.  It wasn’t Twilight Hall—from what his advocate had told him, that lay in scorched ruin—but it was big enough to hold the hundred or so witnesses gathered to see his trial.  

“How does the accused plead?”

Cal caught a new hint of motion out of the corner of his eyes.  Looking to his right, he saw a small figure enter the hall.  As he recognized the newcomer, he redoubled his efforts, trying unsuccessfully to rise off the bench where they’d placed him.  

“Alera!” he cried.  “Alera, help me!”

The elder gnome nodded to Cylyria, then moved to join the others gathered at the table where the prosecution were seated.  Too late, he saw the look in his aunt’s face, a look that burned him with a cold despair deep within the core of him.  

A look of absolute contempt. 

“No,” he whimpered.  “No, it wasn’t our fault.  We didn’t mean to hurt anyone...”

“Put the defendant down for a plea of ‘guilty,’” Cylyria said.  

Cal slumped down onto the bench, caught in the pattern of lines along the polished wood.  He was barely aware of the shouting that filled the room, but he could still feel the hatred, all directed at him. 

Blackness.

* * * * * 

Benzan stumbled through a dark, noxious place, a room thick with vapors that burned his throat and filled his eyes with stinging tears.  It was hot, a clinging heat born of the bodies that writhed on the floor all around him.  Demons, rutting with other creatures of their ilk, a hundred different forms, some distinguishable as human or human-like, others so alien that even to look at them twisted something deep inside of him.  The humans, perhaps, were worse, and he staggered away from a nubile copper-skinned woman who looked to be perhaps twenty, cavorting with a glabrezu many times her size.  

A form rose up to block his way.  “Come, join us, brother,” it croaked from a mouth that was not even close to human.  “Come, enjoy the pleasures of our kin!”

“No!” he cried, turning and plummeting out of the room, into another much like it.  This one, however, was filled with demons enjoying a different sort of pleasure, and the place was thick with the screams of the creatures being tormented to sounds of their infernal laughter.  One of the demons, a feathered vrock, turned to greet him as he entered. 

“Ah, just in time, brother,” it hissed.  “We’ve caught a new one... would you like to be the first to open the fun?”

The demon moved aside, to reveal a figure stretched out upon a rack.  Benzan felt his gorge rising again as he recognized her, and the terror in her wide eyes seemed to fill him as he screamed.  

“Elly!”

“Ah, even better,” cackled the demon.  Benzan hurled himself forward, pounding at the demons with his bare hands, but they only laughed and turned back to the helpless woman.  He tried to get to her, but a demonic wing clipped his head, and he fell back, the room spinning around him as he landed hard on the floor.  

Then the screaming started, and his world exploded. 

Blackness. 

* * * * * 

Dana splashed through a vile pit of black filth, fleeing desperately from a knot of dretches that chased eagerly after her.  The muck rose up to her hips, sucking at her and keeping her from escaping the smaller demons, who simply slid through the mess almost effortlessly.  Every now and then she spun to drive back one that had gotten close enough to strike at her, and even though she drove them back, she already bore several bloody gashes that dripped splashes of bright red into the black mire.  

On they chased her, tearing her apart one piece at a time.  Finally one came up from below, latching onto her ankles before she was aware of its presence.  She fell, sinking up to her neck in the muck, and by the time she was able to tear free, a half-dozen of the creatures had reached her.  

She screamed, and that part of the pit quickly became a sea of red.  

Blackness.

* * * * * 

“Your friends, they suffer.”

The voice cut through Delem’s awareness like a knife, mercifully distracting him from the horrors that he was forced to view through the observation portal.  

Slowly, he drew his head up to regard the face of his tormentor.  Even that limited movement was difficult.  Delem’s body was an ugly mess of black bruises and dried blood caked over a dozen assorted wounds.  His arms were spread wide and pinned within the grasp of a pair of glabrezu, their pincers crushing the limbs with no heed of the damage done to him.  Delem spat, and saw the fresh blood where the spittle landed on the smooth gloss of the stone floor.  He wasn’t particularly preoccupied about any damage done to him; he knew that the Prince could have him restored easily if it was necessary to prepare him for new torments.  

“I told them not to come for me,” Delem said, his voice slurring slightly as his broken jaw mangled the words.  

“It seems that your friends are not good at listening, then.”  The Prince strode up the steps to the dais where Delem was held, overlooking the swirling green fire that blazed up from the oval hole in the center of the room.  Those flames reflected off of the sheer walls of black stone, adding a sense of immensity to the chamber and bathing the place in their unnatural light.  Within the core of the pit wisps of living flame circled the portal through which scenes of his friends’ torment continued to flash.  

“Why are you doing this?” Delem asked.  “Surely there’s not something else you want from me—I’ve given you everything you sought, betrayed my friends and my people, served your every freakish whim.  I am still your slave, your ‘property’ to do with as you desire.  What more do you want?”

“Perhaps I wish merely to punish you, for your failure.  I invested a great deal of time and energy in you, Delem, and all for naught.”

Delem laughed, though it clearly cost him some effort as his body was wracked by a painful shudder.  “There’s no shortage of sadism in you, m’lord, but I don’t believe you.  You’re up to something, and my friends are right in the middle of it.”

Graz’zt’s expression tightened for the barest instant, but then he smiled, that familiar dark smile that Delem knew all too well.  “I have trained you too well, it seems.”  He walked across the face of the dais, and the glabrezu straightened at his coming, drawing Delem up between them.  The sorcerer groaned as the movement added a new strain to his already tight muscles.  

“What do you want?” Delem repeated, forcing himself to hold his head up before the penetrating gaze of his master.   

“From you?  What left do you have to give me, Delem?  I have driven you to the brink of madness, broken down all that you are and rebuilt you in an image that *I* desired.  And yet, what are you, truly?  What secrets do you still hide from me, deep down inside of that soul that belongs to me?”

Delem did not answer.  What could he say?  

“You and your friends—you have given me no little quantity of amusement, but other projects demand my time, and I cannot waste more of it playing with you Primes.  Let us be done with the games, then, and finish this, right here, right now.”

Graz’zt waved his hand, and the green flames flickered and dissolved, leaving only a much fainter light from smaller flames in sconces around the perimeter of the chamber.  In their place now stood a shallow, empty pit, stretching out before them in a wide oval.  The Prince did something—Delem still had little understanding of Graz’zt’s powers, except to know that they flowed a source other than the conventional magic that he knew—and the air shimmered there, took on a solidity that resolved into a quartet of figures that huddled, broken, on the stone.  

Cal, Lok, Benzan and Dana looked clearly the worse for wear.  For a heartbeat it did not appear that they even lived; then Lok stirred, pulling himself slowly up to rest on his thick arms.  

Delem felt his throat tightened, but he forced himself to chuckle.  “Your best illusion yet, I’d have to say.”

Graz’zt froze him with a look.  “Oh, it’s no illusion.”  And he knew it was true, that these battered forms were his friends, their actual physical selves, and that they had come here to rescue _him_.  

For a moment Delem felt a surge of blind, untargeted anger.  Why did they do this?  He told them not to come, he knew what the inevitable end would be!  They did not know, could not know, how things were here.  They were fools, and now they had found their destruction.

One of the glabrezu growled, and he realized that his muscles were tensed, his whole body stiff with resistance.  It was futile, of course; even were he at his full strength even one of the demons would be able to handle him like some child’s doll.  

The four companions were all stirring, now, slowly recovering from their ordeals.  Their bodies were intact, of course—Delem had learned through experience that most of Graz’zt’s “trials” took place entirely within the mind, but they moved as though each had taken a fierce beating.  Their armor, weapons, equipment, were all gone, and they were clad only in soft white tunics that hung limply over their bodies.  Not that it would have mattered, even if they’d had all of their items of power...

_Run, you fools_ he thought.  But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words, knew that they would be a futile as anything else he could do. 

Graz’zt had crossed to the side of the dais, and started down the curving stair that would take him to the lower half of the room that contained the pit.  The companions had recovered enough to gain some awareness of their surroundings, although none had spotted Delem and his guards as of yet.  Cal, however, looked up and spotted Graz’zt coming down to them, and shouted something to his companions.  Tried to shout—his mouth opened, but only a strangled hiss came out.  

Graz’zt waved his hand idly, and a green light flared within the confines of the pit.  The light formed tendrils of energy that spiraled up like snakes out of the stone, wrapping around the four companions and dragging roughly back against the sides of the pit.  The four of them were pinned within an eyeblink, helpless, facing each other across the open space.      

Graz’zt gestured, and the glabrezu dragged him forward to the edge of the dais, giving him an even clearer view of the pit fifteen feet below.  Now his companions did see him, but again they were unable to do more than open their mouths and struggle uselessly against their bonds.  All but Dana—while she could see her friends, she was attached to the side of the pit facing away and could not look up to see him atop the dais.  He could see her, though, and he felt a great sadness fall over him.  He was beyond despair now, and the feeling felt strange... almost a sense of peace as the end drew near. 

Graz’zt reached the edge of the pit and stared down at the helpless companions, the travelers who had come so far together.  _It’s all over,_ Delem thought. 

Graz’zt looked down at them, and they looked up at him.  The demon did not speak, did not offer any last taunt or challenge, only raised his hand...

But then his gaze shifted to Delem once more, for a brief instant, and his mouth twisted into a smile.  

“Perhaps, before I take my leave of you...”  He stepped forward into the pit, drifting down easily the three paces to its curving floor.  He strode forward, past the struggling forms of Lok and Benzan, toward Dana.  He lifted his fingers in a beckoning gesture, and the stone under her rose up, lifting her toward him until she rested on a stone bier that tilted upward at an angle.  Her eyes were now wide with a new terror as she looked into the face of the Prince, although the bonds of green fire may as well have been of steel for all the use her struggles did her.  

Graz’zt smiled again, a sinister smile, but his eyes were on Delem once more as he spoke.  “It has been some while since I have consorted with a mortal from the Primes.  Perhaps I will keep this one for a time... I will give her the worthy gift of bearing one of my offspring, a child of the Argent Lord!”  Graz’zt lifted his hand into a fist, and laughed.  Behind him, Benzan’s face was a mask of fury and pain, but despite his efforts the best he could manage was a sick hacking noise.  

Graz’zt turned to face the tiefling briefly.  “Better I than you,” he said with a smirk.  “At least my blood is pure.” 

He turned back to the dais, where Delem looked on in horror.  “Yes, a child... the idea grows on me with each passing moment.  A scion... perhaps he—or she—shall someday walk upon the soil of your pathetic world, a titan among scurrying rats, the bane of nations!”  

The shout of the Demon Prince filled the room, and with Cal, Lok, Benzan, and Delem watching helplessly, he started toward Dana.


----------



## Maldur

oh, man!

I so hope eric grandma is not around!

thx, LB!!


----------



## Broccli_Head

Very sinister, indeed!


----------



## Dungannon

Excellent, LB.



> _originally posted by Lazybones_
> He turned back to the dais, where Delem looked on in horror. “Yes, a child... the idea grows on me with each passing moment. A scion... perhaps he—or she—shall someday walk upon the soil of your pathetic world, a titan among scurrying rats, the bane of nations!”



 Now where have we heard that last little bit before?


----------



## Lazybones

Well, we're nearing the end now, so it's time for a revelation--and since it's Friday, a cliffhanger to boot.  Monday's post will be the conclusion of the story, with an epilogue coming later in the week to wrap up some loose ends, and then that's it, as _Travels_ comes to an end. 

* * * * * 

Book VIII, Part 36


Delem saw the Prince approach the woman that he loved, but his head was echoing with a memory, triggered by the words of Graz’zt.  The Prince’s words were eerily similar to the words of a prophecy that he’d heard years ago, on the docks of the city of Baldur’s Gate, worlds and planes away.  The strange seeress had promised that one of them would _“produce a scion that will prove the bane of nations...”_  The part of his mind that could still think whispered that the witch’s words had been for the four of them, the four original companions that had met on that lonely road in the West at the very beginning.  Dana hadn’t even been with them, at the time.  But that wasn’t what filled his thoughts.  Rather, the words he heard echoing inside his skull were different ones within that same passage, words he’d often dreaded...

_One will be forever destroyed, his soul consumed in the fire_

As he’d come into his power over the course of their journeys, he’d feared those words, feared the fire that sprang from within.  His birthright, born of the Firelord’s touch upon him.  But Kossuth had abandoned him...

No. 

Realization flooded through him with a force that nearly unbalanced him.  No.  Graz’zt had torn everything from him, had filled his head with lies and illusions and even the pure force of his dark power, purging him of nearly everything that had made him human.  He’d driven him to bond with a demonic skin, dangling the promise of escape before him, but in reality only cementing the link that held him captive.  Now, suddenly, he knew that he’d been wrong, that his despair had been rooted in a false hope.  

He reached down inside himself, to a place where he’d never gone, a different place from the fire that fueled his magic.  To get there, he opened himself to a bond that he’d forgotten, a link to a power that he’d believed had deserted him, but in fact it had been _him_ that had turned away from its light, deceived and betrayed by the evil lies of his captor.  

Graz’zt stood over Dana, drinking in her fear with amusement in his dark eyes.  Thus occupied, he did not detect the change to come over Delem at first.  His hands dropped slowly to his belt...

A white flash of pure light erupted from Delem’s hands, spreading outward in a blaze of fire.  The flames, as bright as the fires of Toril’s sun, tore into the glabrezu, burning through their innate resistances in a flash, incinerating the pincers that held him, immolating both demons as they collapsed backward, screaming as their corrupt flesh melted before the heat of the flames.  

As the demons fell, Delem stood there, teetering, wreathed in a halo of white fire that filled the room with an almost painful intensity of light.  His face was a mask of anger as he looked down at the pit below. 

Graz’zt stared up at him, but the look on his face was not anger, nor fear.  Rather, the Prince’s expression was one of triumph... and naked avarice. 

“I knew you could do it,” he said, each syllable fat with gloating.  “I knew it was within you, Delem... my Delem...”

“Release them,” Delem said, his voice like the edge of a knife.  His body crackled with the intensity of the flames that surrounded him, but he did not burn.  Within the flames, his body was still clearly battered, but within his eyes burned an intensity that sustained him beyond the physical needs of his corporeal form. 

The Demon walked almost casually toward the edge of the pit, lifting himself up out of it with another casual gesture.  He did not take his eyes off of Delem.  

“To be honest, my little sorcerer, I was almost at a loss for a time.  You had resisted everything I did to you... Oh, your allegiance was won fairly swiftly, as such things go, but you had a remarkable resistance to unleashing your inner secrets...  The fire that burned deep within you... the thing that I saw in you right away, the moment that you first came to my attention, that night in that dirty roadside tavern in that flyspeck village...”

Delem betrayed his surprise even within the nimbus of fire, and for a moment the white flames flickered.  Graz’zt pressed his advantage, laughing.  “Ah, did you think it was all an accident, then?  Perhaps in a larger sense it was, in that I did not expect to find you where I did.  That little statue that your ‘friend’ there lugged around all those years was a conduit in more ways than one, just one of the many eyes that I have, in a thousand different worlds...”

“You cannot understand, for all that you’ve learned, Delem.  You are still bound to your material existence, to the limits of your own mortal perceptions.  I have seen the shores of nigh-countless realities, spanning the width and breadth of the Planes.  I have visited Primes as different from Faerûn as your Forgotten Realms are different from my Azzagrat.  My name is reverenced—and feared—in places you have never even dreamed of: Mahragzar, Pak-rothas, Assyria, Greyhawk, Obros’saar, Wyre...”

“I am done with your lies,” Delem said.

“No,” the Prince said, his eyes narrowing.  “No, you shall never be done with me, my Delem.  This discovery changes nothing, as you will see.  I will have the power you possess... the power that brought you to me, the one gift of Faerûn that I have sought for so long, a gift unique to that place, a gift that I have not found anywhere else, for all of my searching.” 

“Spellfire.”

Delem screamed and lifted his hand in a sudden gesture, unleashing a stream of liquid flame that slashed through the air and tore into the Demon.  Graz’zt was ready, however, and his own palm came up to meet the assault.  The white flames struck black flesh in an ugly swirl of colors that briefly flared in the space between them, and then the flames were deflected to the side.  Where they struck the wall, the abyssal stone smoked and hissed and melted away, leaving a deep gouge in the rock when Delem halted their flow. 

Graz’zt shook out his smoking hand.  “Excellent.  More than I had imagined, even.”

“Release them,” Delem repeated.  

“No.  They are mine, as are you.”

Delem launched another attack, but even as Graz’zt again moved to deflect the stream of energy, the sorcerer lifted his other hand and hurled a bolt of spellfire into the ceiling.  The blast sliced through stone as though it was parchment, and a huge slab fell down from the ceiling, toward the Demon Prince. 

But Graz’zt wasn’t there when it hit.  In that instant he’d... _changed_ space and time, and when the smoke and dust cleared, the Prince was standing atop the edge of the dais, facing Delem.  An ugly black slash of raw fire-scorched flesh ran across the Demon Prince’s shoulder, his tunic burned away where the spellfire had briefly penetrated his defenses.  But in turn, the sorcerer had staggered as his latest assault faded, and nearly fell to his knees, the flames now just a faint halo around him. 

“I see that there is some of that other fire left in you as well,” Graz’zt said.  “But as for the spellfire... it exacts a high price.  I am not such a fool as to be ignorant of what the power that I seek can do.  Even for all your rage, and the righteous hatred that burns within you, you cannot defeat me.  You could even burn yourself out, toying with powers that you don’t understand... but I will not let that happen, of course.” 

The Prince stepped forward, without fear.  

Delem screamed, a pure, primal sound.  Lunging forward with arms outstretched, he unleashed a final torrent of spellfire, a stream that lasted only a heartbeat before burning out.  Graz’zt didn’t even bother to dodge this time, accepting the blast that splashed against his shield in another chaotic burst of roiling, confused color.  When it was done Delem cried out and sagged to his knees, barely able to keep from falling on his face against the cold stone.  The halo of fire that had surrounded him was gone. 

“It is not so bad, my Delem.  You will be the progenitor of a new race of demons, a race armed with a power that will bend first the Abyss, and then other worlds, to me.  You are more than a mere thrall, Delem.  Your place will be one of honor, and once more you will serve as an ambassador of my will.”

Delem did not look up, his body heaving with the effort of breathing, propping himself up with both hands against the stone floor.  “Never,” he managed to say.

Graz’zt now loomed over him, a mere three paces away, his power surrounding him in a tangible aura.  

“It is over, Delem.  You are done.”


----------



## Maldur

Holy crap!!!


thx, LB!


----------



## Broccli_Head

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *My name is reverenced—and feared—in places you have never even dreamed of: Mahragzar, Pak-rothas, Assyria, Greyhawk, Obros’saar, Wyre...”
> 
> *




Funny...

Can't wait for the conclusion!


----------



## Rugger

Out- freaking -standing.

I don't want to wait for more....  Want now!

-Rugger
"I lurk!"


----------



## wolff96

Lazybones said:
			
		

> *Wyre...*




Hehe...  Nice touch!  Though Eadric may get to Grazzt before the heroes get away...  

-----------------------

I'm going to be sorry to see this story hour end. It's been on heck of a good read... and it just keeps getting better.


----------



## djrdjmsqrd

**Claps**

Yes LB!  I am still here and reading the SH, great, just great.  I do so hope when you finish with Travels that you...

...a. start another story hour shortly after...

...b. dm a pbp on enworld, in which I could be a part (  - worth a try, eh?)

Djordje


----------



## Lazybones

Book VIII, Part 37


“It is over, Delem.  You are done.”

Delem’s head came up slowly.  As his gaze met the cold stare of the Demon Prince flames burned in his eyes, a raging torrent stronger even than the halo of spellfire energy that had briefly surrounded the sorcerer.  

“No,” Delem said.  “The power within me flows from another source, demon, one that you cannot quench.”

Graz’zt’s surprise was only betrayed by a slight narrowing of his eyes.  But as the demon opened his mouth to speak, a white light erupted from around Delem, blazing out in an arc to strike the Prince in the chest.  Graz’zt roared and reared back, his own shields blazing fiercely in a storm of chaos that warred with the deluge unleashed by the human.  Delem, rose to his feet, still unsteady, but not letting up with his assault.  Graz’zt, now just a tall shadow within the tempest of blazing energy, hurled his own counterattack, calling down black tendrils of energy that twined into existence from all around Delem, from the ceiling, floor, and the very air about him.  Those snaking filaments of negative energy lashed out at him, but as they contacted the white fire, they shriveled and died.  

Finally, Delem’s strike faded, leaving a flaring afterimage that hung in the air for a few moments before dissipating.  The floor where Graz’zt had stood was cratered and scored where stray blasts of spellfire had struck it.  The Prince himself had given ground, his retreat carrying him back five paces, and smoke rose from his torso and arms where at least some of the barrage had gotten through. 

“Worm,” Graz’zt hissed, all of his earlier calm demeanor gone now, replaced by a stark hatred that now focused entirely upon Delem.  “This is my realm, you cannot...”

The attack came suddenly, in the middle of his words, as an envelope of pure blackness formed and closed in around Delem.  For a moment the room grew suddenly dark as the white fire was surrounded, but then, in a sudden blaze of light, the black cocoon shattered, and Delem stood there still, standing within a white sun.  

“This changes nothing!” the Demon shouted.  “You are mine, Delem... you cannot escape this place!”

Delem regarded the Prince solemnly, his skin pale in the glow of the white flames that enshrouded him.  In that aura of light he formed a stark contrast with the Prince, the one figure a blaze of white, the other a pure black.  He nodded, and said, “I know—escape was not my plan.”

The flames streaked out again in a twinned stream, probing, streaking.  Graz’zt called up a wall of amorphous black energy that held the spellfire at bay for all of a second before collapsing.  Delem poured more power into the energy blast, but even that brief delay was enough for the Prince, whose tall form narrowed into a thin line that abruptly vanished.  The flames streaked through the place just vacated by the demon lord, until they blasted through the wall with a loud crash of vaporized stone.  Delem scanned the room warily for any sign of his foe, but as the dust from the impact settled, silence returned to the chamber. 

The flames continued to blaze around him as he ambled awkwardly to the stairs at the edge of the dais and made his way down to the lip of the pit.  The companions, still unable to speak through the glamour that Graz’zt had laid upon them, stared up at him with expressions of hope and wonder warring on their faces.  Dana, still secured to the bier, looked pleadingly up at him, tears streaming uncontrolled down her face. 

Delem looked down at her, and smiled.  It was a soft smile, heavily laden with sadness.  

“My friends.”  He lifted his hands, and the white light flashed brightly around him, forcing the companions to avert their eyes.  When the light faded, the green tendrils of energy that had held them had vanished, and the companions warily rose, their bodies still moving tentatively in the aftermath of what they had suffered.  Delem stood wavering at the edge of the pit, the glow around him gone, leaving him looking worn, exhausted, and... normal.  The sad smile lingered, though there was something of distraction about him, and his eyes continued to drift around the edges of the room.  

Benzan was the first on his feet, crossing to the bier to help Dana.  The mystic wanderer wore a haunted expression, but she seemed physically unharmed.  “Delem—what, what just happened?” the tiefling asked.  “Did you just defeat a demon prince?”

“Or is this perhaps just another illusion?” Lok said, tensing his muscles as he tested his footing.  His hands clenched, as if seeking the reassurance of his missing weapons.  

“If it is real, I don’t think we’ve seen the last of Graz’zt,” Cal said.  “You beat him off, Delem, but we’d be fools to think he isn’t getting ready to come back, with help.”

Dana’s reply was the most basic.  He eyes fixed on her friend, the tears still flowing, she said, “Delem...”

The sorcerer lowered his head and for a moment he looked the essence of physical weariness.   “I know,” he said simply.  “He’s preparing even as we speak, I can feel it...”  He lifted his eyes and looked at Dana, piercing her with a slow sad stare.  “That is why you have to leave.”

Dana, leaning now against Benzan for support, shook her head, while Cal said, “We’ve come to bring you back, Delem.  We’re not leaving without you.”

The sorcerer looked at the gnome, and while the sadness was still there in his eyes, there was also a calm, a feeling of peace that seemed so incongruous in this place of darkness.  “No, my friend.  Graz’zt is a creature of lies and deceptions, but in this, he had the truth of it.  Here, at least, my soul is his, and it cannot be pried from him without his consent, or defeat.”

“Then let’s defeat him,” Lok said, forming a fist, the picture of defiance even unarmored and unarmed as he was.  

“No,” Delem said.  “No, you must go.  Dana, your link to Selûne remains intact—he could not sunder that connection, though he could mask it with his illusions.  Activate your _plane shift_, and return to Faerûn with the others.”

“Wait a minute,” Benzan said.  “How do we know this isn’t another trick?  What if the big G _wants_ us to do this... open the way home, and then follow with a million demons?”

Delem couldn’t help but smile.  “Ah, you never change, Benzan.  Dana can tell you the truth, even if I cannot.”

Dana looked up at her lover, tears giving her eyes a glossy sheen in the dim light.  “It’s him, Benzan.  It’s Delem, I know, I feel it... and he’s telling the truth, I can feel the connection now, I can feel the touch of the goddess, weak as it is in this place...”  She turned back to Delem.  “But we can’t leave you here, leave you to... him...”

“You won’t,” Delem said.  “Graz’zt has had all he can get out of me—no longer, no more.”  Abruptly he tilted his head, as if listening to a distant voice.  “You must go, now.  They are coming.”

“No, Delem,” Dana insisted.  “I won’t—”

“You must,” the sorcerer said.  “You have already saved me, Dana, all of you.  Coming here... You reminded me of what I had forgotten, that even here, even in the depths of despair, there is always a choice.   Go, now.  Go.”

He rose, with difficulty, leaving them staring after him as he crossed back to the steps that led up to the top of the dais.  He waited there, though, his body too worn down to advance further.  As they watched, his body began to glow again, slowly building, until the white fire flared once more into being around him.

“We can’t leave him,” Dana said. 

“We can’t help him, not without our weapons, our items, our spell components,” Benzan said.  “Even one of those demons could tear us all to pieces without breaking a sweat.”

“He means to die,” Lok said.  

Even as the genasi spoke, the air... _rippled_ and a pair of demons, hopping, vulpine vrocks, materialized around the perimeter of the room.  Even as they appeared they were leaping to attack, one hurling a magical effect at Delem, while the other hurled itself at him with its wings flapping madly, claws outstretched.  Delem caught that one with a blast of spellfire that drove it back into the wall, the flames ripping through its body as though its limbs were oiled kindling.  The magical attack of the first faltered against Delem’s defenses, and a moment later it, too, took a streaking pulse of flame that sent it screaming to the floor.  

“Go!” Delem cried.  “He’s coming!”  Even as his cry sounded through the chamber, there were other distortions, accompanied by sick popping sounds, as other demons _teleported_ into the chamber.  

“Dana!” Cal cried, rushing over to her. 

“No,” the woman sobbed, but she was already reaching inward, and a silvery glow flared against her chest as she called upon her link to the power of Selûne.  

“Ah!” Benzan cried in surprise, turning as a lumbering bar-lgura charged forward and leapt into the pit toward them, claws outstretched.  The tiefling had no hope of reacting in time, and could only cringe as a blast of spellfire streaked over the pit and caught the demon in mid-leap, driving it roughly backward.  Delem could not spare the time to finish it, however, as he was forced to turn to another several attackers rushing at him, even as more popping disruptions heralded the arrival of more demons.  

A sick voice filled the chamber, disembodied but heavy with power.  

_*Take *_*him alive.  Destroy the others.*

“Go!” Delem cried out, but then the light surrounding him intensified into a blazing intensity, forcing the companions to look away.  All save Dana, but her eyes were already directed inward, her consciousness traveling across the Planes through the link to her goddess.

“Take hold of me,” she said, her voice hollow, as if she were speaking from some great distance.  

Cal and Lok joined Benzan, clasping themselves to her.  And for a moment, another light flared in the chamber, lost within the radiance surrounding the sorcerer. 

When it was gone, only Delem and the demons remained.  

Within his shield of spellfire, Delem wavered.  A few of the demons had gotten to him, before his counters had blasted them back.  Dark scratches marred the pale glow of his skin, and his own blood was pooling at his feet before it was blasted into dust by the white flames.  The demons hovered back, regarding him now with fear, and respect, wishing to avoid the fate that a dozen of their fellows had suffered, but likewise unable to defy the command of their Master.  

Delem looked around the room, looking for _Him_, but there was no sign of Graz’zt, of course.  No, the Prince would not return until he had been defeated, and secured.  

That was not going to happen.  

Delem raised his arms wide, and the demons drew back warily.  The glow that surrounded him brightened, until he shone with the radiance of a star.  The demons cried out, the light penetrating their eyes even behind closed lids and raised arms.  

Delem knew that he could not sustain the power, knew that the essence of what he was could not channel the pureness of Kossuth’s divine fire for much longer.  But he did not have to.  Within the flames, he felt... _life_, could feel the subtle vibrations of every tiny concentration of matter within him.  His body, his soul... here, in this place, they were one.  Even as his consciousness began to waver, he reached down into that core of himself, and drew the fire with him.  

At some point in that process, Delem ceased to be.  

And then the chain reaction started.


----------



## Maldur

Intense spellfire. I never really liked the idea, But this is fitting 

Thx, Lb!!


----------



## Broccli_Head

That's it!!!!!??

What an ending!

But why you gotta leave us hangin'?

I guess I'll have to wait until the Epilogue...


----------



## wolff96

I think you just redefined the phrase "going out with a bang".

That's one heck of an ending, LB... so what's coming up for you after the Epilogue?


----------



## Black Bard

It seems that I arrived just in time for the gran finale...
I wonder what's all about....
Will this "chain reaction" destroy Azzagrat??
I just hope Kossuth's cleansing flame be at least able to purify Delem's soul, and finally give him some rest....

Congratulations, Lazy... That's some wonderful piece of work... Unfortunately, all things must come to an end...sniff...sniff...


----------



## Lazybones

To my readers:

Thanks for your positive comments, and support throughout the telling of _Travels through the Wild West_. 

As for what's next... I don't know.  I still feel the impetus to write, and am not sure if I will channel that into more "professional" stuff or continue to write this sort of fanfic.  I do have plenty of ideas, including the possibility of running a group through the new Adventure Path coming out in Dungeon Magazine, but set in the Realms.  True to form, I was jotting down ideas at a work-related meeting last week.  I may be back in a few weeks with more stories to tell, or go on to different things altogether.    

I will be producing a version of the complete story in Microsoft Reader format (*.lit), as well as a PDF (probably in chunks, since my work computer can't seem to distill such a large file).  I'll post here when they are ready (currently I'm rereading the whole story for edits, and finding a lot of mistakes that need fixing).  The full story, Books I-VIII, came to 462,000 words (_War and Peace_ was 562k  ). 

It's been fun.  

Lazybones



Here's the epilogue:

* * * * * 

Epilogue


They called the region the Fields of the Dead, after ancient battles between nations whose names were now forgotten.  It was a cheerless name for a land still sparsely settled, bracketed by the Troll Claws to the north and the Wood of Sharp Teeth to the south, both full of dangers that frequently spilled out onto the plains.  

And yet civilized folk did pass through this region, traveling on the trade roads or along the River Chionthar, plying the trade that was the lifesblood of the Western Heartlands between the Sword Coast and the busy city-states of the inland regions.  And as the sun set on the day in this part of Faerûn, its rays struck the roofs of a small but growing settlement that was giving lie to the region’s name.  Around this community, at least, the fields were very much alive. 

It didn’t look like much at first glance, not more than a village, really, grown up around a place where several of the many roads that crisscrossed the region met.   The most substantial structure sat atop a gentle rise overlooking the settlement.  Stone from an old ruin at the crossroads had been refashioned into a slender, solitary tower, its battlements rising some thirty feet above the plain.  The structure was clearly recent, but rather than having the look of most of the hastily-built fortifications common in this untamed region, its lines were smooth and sleek, its construction of obvious masterwork quality, with an air of permanence about it.  A quick study of the ground around this sentinel hinted at future expansions, for the area around the mound was staked with markers, and tarps near its base covered what was already a fair collection of building materials.  

The village itself also showed signs of recent building, with more than half the roofs missing the inevitable subtle marks of wear that showed that they’d survived the winter storms that blew in off the aptly named Sea of Storms.  Most were the simple single-story structures common to farmers throughout the region, with just a few rooms covered by a sloped shingle roof.  All were stoutly built, with heavy wooden shutters that could be secured over the windows, and thick doors that currently stood open more often than not, but which could be closed and barred at a moment’s notice.   There was also about a half-dozen barns, a two-story wooden edifice that had the look of an inn, a small stone house with an open smithy, complete with a forge, attached, and a small, roofless structure that was clearly a shrine, sacred to the goddess Selûne from to the crescent moon carved above its lintel.  Almost every home had a garden beside or behind it, and most also had pens where chickens, goats, cows, and other domestic animals were frequently visible.  Neatly tilled plots radiated out from the village, fed by several streams that had been augmented by irrigation ditches and still ponds.  The village itself contained a pair of wells, situated in the open space in the central commons before the inn.  

As the sun set there was a fair amount of activity about the village, as its residents returned home from the fields, or finished their other chores in preparation for the evening meal.  The whole place had the look of peace and prosperity, although its folk clearly paid heed to the dangers of the region, both through the solidity of their buildings and the wary watchman whose head could occasionally be seen above the battlements of the tower.  Vigilance was a constant and necessary part of life in the West, if less necessary here than in some places.  Those who might have sought to prey upon communities like this one had already learned the lesson that here, at least, there would be no easy marks.  Word had gotten out about the several special residents who called this place home, and those seeking trouble went elsewhere.  

One of the farmhouses seemed a bit smaller than the others, with low windows and an unusual front door, which had a smaller portal built into the frame of the full-sized door.  The roof jutted out over the front of the building, sheltering a wide porch.  Seated on that porch, in a small, comfortable chair, sat a rock gnome clad in a simple tunic and breeches.  The gnome was still a young man, by the look of him, although his eyes looked older, seasoned with experiences that had clearly had a heavy impact upon him.  He sat looking forward, his thoughts clearly elsewhere this evening, a leather-bound journal sitting closed and forgotten in his lap.  

The gnome looked up when a stout figure emerged from the shadowy recesses of the now-quiet forge and headed toward his house.  The figure was also shorter than most of the inhabitants of the village, although he more than made up for it in his breadth.  He wore simple workman’s garb, although the axe he wore casually was clearly no farmer’s tool.  All of the villagers he passed greeted him warmly, and he returned each salutation with a friendly nod.  

Cal smiled as Lok came up to his porch, and stood there before the step, waiting.  

“Come on in, my friend.”

Cal rose himself as the genasi came up and pulled over a second chair to join his friend.  The gnome reached through the open window behind him, where a small cask had been laid upon the broad sill.  He made a gesture and soon procured a pair of mugs from somewhere within, which he filled with a rich, dark brew.  

“Hmm, not cold,” he said.  “Easily fixed, though.”  He made another gesture and uttered a brief incantation, and shortly a noticeable frost covered the two mugs.  Sipping one to test it, he smiled and handed the other to his friend. 

“Have you heard anything from Dana or Benzan?” the genasi queried, as he sat into the chair, the thick wood settling under his weight. 

“No,” Cal said, retaking his own chair.  “But they’ll be here.  It’s been five years now—they haven’t missed the anniversary once yet, and I don’t think they will now.”

Lok nodded, drinking his beer.   

Cal glanced over at his friend.  Lok seemed unchanged, even now clad in simple farmer’s garb rather than the heavy mail that had been his uniform for those years they had traveled together.  He still carried his axe, and his armor was always close at hand in his _bag of holding_.  Cal had seen a new side of him over the last few years, a part of his friend that he’d caught glimpses of before, but never seen developed.  Now he saw it frequently, when Lok was playing with children of the village, or leading a group of men in raising a barn or repairing a roof.  Lok had done as much as anyone—more than even he himself, Cal thought—in creating this settlement, and the genasi’s skills continued to contribute to its growth and success.  And he was still only a part-time resident; Lok split his time between the community here and the home of his people back in the Ice Mountains, with Cal transporting him there via _teleport_ every few months, and returning a few months later to bring him back.  A few of Lok’s people had even visited the settlement for a few seasons, bringing their stonecrafting skill and magical talents to aid in the building, learning in turn from the skills and lore of the surface folk of the West.  Under Lok’s tutelage the urdunnir were gradually abandoning much of their traditional isolationism, and from what Cal had seen during his visits, they were flourishing as a result.

The two friends sat together in quiet for a few minutes, enjoying their drinks and the beauty of the sunset.  The porch faced to the south, allowing them to look both into the village and at the road that led away to the west.  Cal had built it specifically that way.  “I heard that you got another letter from your aunt,” Lok finally said. 

Cal’s expression became half grin, half grimace.  “I see that the gossip-machine is still working at full efficiency,” he said, but his light tone belied the words.  “Yes, Alera’s come up with another candidate for me.  Now that I’m ‘settled down,’ it seems that there is nothing for it but to take a wife and start churning out the little ones.”

“Might not be a bad idea,” Lok said.  “If you’re truly ‘settled down,’ that is.”

Cal nodded.  “I don’t know, truly.  These years... I mean, I do miss the road sometimes, and the adventures that we had together.  But after...” he trailed off, but didn’t have to finish.  Lok understood, in the way that only he and two others could.  “It’s not as though we never get to have any fun, of course—why, it was just last spring that we helped those rangers deal with that crop of hydras that was rampaging out near the edge of the Wood of Sharp Teeth.  We made short work of them, as I recall.”

Lok smiled—he’d been there, and his axe had contributed to that victory, as always.  

“And besides,” Cal went on, “I’ve noticed that each time I take you back to the urdunnir, Gaera appears shortly thereafter.  She certainly seems more than casually interested in your visits.”

Lok smiled.  “The Elders say the same thing.  They have indicated that I should marry her, to strengthen the ties between the surface dwarves and our people.”  The genasi shrugged.  “They wish to make me a king, I think.”

The way he said, it was just a statement of fact, not a claim of glory.  “They could do worse, Lok,” Cal said seriously.  “You’d make a fine ruler—you’ve already been a great leader to your people.”

“I know that Dumathoin has plans for me,” he said.  “But I’m not ready, not yet.  This—” he indicated the simple village about him with a wave of his hand, “This has a great appeal for me, right now.”

“Simple village blacksmith by day, dwarven king by night,” Cal said.  “Sounds like a song might be coming on, to me.”

The two friends laughed, but then their attention was drawn to the west, where the sounds of someone approaching along the road were just becoming audible.  They turned to see a pair of tall figures, the final rays of the afternoon sun behind them drawing their shadows out long along the road, drawing near to the town.  

Cal was up in a flash, with Lok just a few steps behind.  They quickly met their friends, who joined them in warm embraces, clasped hands, and laughter.  The banter that had always been there between them quickly returned, with jokes, digs, and happiness shared.   

After those initial greetings, Cal drew them back to the porch, where Lok quickly grabbed a few more chairs from inside.  The sun had now set, leaving them in shadow, but Cal spoke a word and the lights inside the house sprang to life, shining out onto the porch through the open windows. 

Dana and Benzan showed the signs of long hours of travel, their clothes stained by the dust of the road.  Each looked hale, though, and as they sat each unconsciously took the other’s hand.  

“You’re late!” Cal chided them.  “Why didn’t you just teleport in?”

Benzan rolled his eyes.  “We did.  You’d think this once of these times we’re going to end up inside of a mountain, instead of a few miles off to the west...”

He broke off abruptly, as Dana jammed her elbow into his side.  

“So, what have you been up to?” Cal asked, handing her and Benzan each a mug.

Dana nodded in thanks, sipping the brew before responding.  Benzan, conversely, downed his mug in a few swallows, following that with a belch that drew a shake of her head from his wife.  

“Well, for one thing, the Cult of the Dragon thought that they could take advantage of Cormyr’s internal distractions to set up an outpost in the Stormhorns,” Dana replied. 

“And?”

“We disabused them of the notion,” Benzan said.  

“Lariel and Gorath send their regards,” Dana added.  “They would have come themselves, but it looks like the shades are stirring up trouble again on the western side of Anauroch...”

Cal nodded knowingly.  “And when are you heading out to join them?”

Dana and Benzan exchanged a knowing look.  “We can stay a few days,” Dana said.  “Lariel wanted to stop by Evereska on the way up, and there’s a place I know well enough to teleport to, up by the High Forest...”

“And Cylyria?  I admit, I owe her a letter.”

“She’s well,” Dana said.  “We were there—what was it Benzan?  Six months?  Yes, it was Midwinter, I remember.  She says to tell you that all is well, but that you still owe her a favor at some point.”

“Harpers,” Benzan said.  “As I’ve said before, once they get their hooks into you, you never get free again.”

Lok reached over, and before Benzan could stop him, turned up the collar of the tiefling’s cloak.  There, pinned against the inside of the fabric, was a silver pin in the shape of a harp.  

“Yeah, well,” Benzan said sheepishly.  

“Izandra is doing well.  She’s visibly taller each month, it seems,” Cal said. 

“I’ve missed her,” Benzan said.  He looked a bit uncomfortable, as if he wanted to say more, but Dana only took his hand in both of hers, and he smiled in response to her gesture of support.  

“I’m sure Elly and Georges wouldn’t mind if you stopped by after dinner,” Cal said.  “She’s doing well, Benzan, truly.  They’ll want to see you.”

“All right,” Benzan smiled.  “But in the meantime, what’s for dinner?”

“Well, I was just about to head over to ‘The Traveler’ to see what’s on the menu.  Barsa quite outdid herself last night with a quail stuffed with mushrooms in lemon-sauce, so she’ll really have to work to outdo herself tonight...”

The companions laughed, and continued their friendly back-and-forth as they gathered themselves up and left together for the inn, enjoying again the company of shared friends.

* * * * * 

The moon was out, a slender dagger in the sky, and the village was quiet.  A shadow made its way through the orchard behind the border where the orderly gathering of homes gave way to empty fields.  

Dana found her way easily; it was a clear night and she knew the path, and it was clearly well tended, free of obstructions that might threaten a fall.  She’d left Benzan to his reunion with his daughter; tomorrow they’d all spend more time together, and continue to catch up on old memories and new tales.  But tonight, she’d wanted to come here first, alone. 

The stones around formed neat rows, vague forms in the faint moonlight.  She felt drawn to the one she sought, and knelt there in the grass beside it.  She touched the _moon mote_ at her throat, and a pair of glimmering lights pulsed into being at her command, surrounding her with a pale globe of illumination, allowing her to read the runes upon the stone.  They were clear and deep, Lok’s work.  The stone itself had been shaped by one of the urdunnir, fashioned into the smooth forms of a flickering flame that seemed alive despite being frozen in rock.  

DELEM
1354-1374
LOYAL FOLLOWER OF KOSSUTH, SORCERER, FRIEND
HE GAVE HIS LIFE TO SAVE THOSE WHO LOVED HIM
HE WILL NEVER BE FORGOTTEN

She didn’t say anything, just sat there, surrounded by the stillness of the night.  



THE END


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## Talindra

**Sniff**

The ending was great, but I am really sorry to see it end.  Even when I didn't have time for anything else, I made time for this.  Lazybones, thank you for writing this story, I enjoyed it immensely, and I'm sure that I'll be back time and again to reread it.

I will keep a sharp eye out for your next venture.


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## Maldur

You spin a great tale, LB!

I can only say thanks for sharing it with us.


So: THX LB!

ps you still owe me a black eye for those insane cliffhangers


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## Reg Dword

Thank you Lazybones for taking the time to tell your story on these boards. I looked forward every work day to seeing a new update. As prolific as you are on most work days I was not disappointed. 

I can honestly say that you made me care about these characters and about what happened to them. In the end I think, that is what defines a good writer.


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## Broccli_Head

Wonderful Ending, LB....

Thanks for the tale from the first meeting on the road, to the hobgoblin stronghold, to Irieabor, to the Isle of Dread, to the North, etc....

Hope to see more of your stuff soon!

BH


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## Padril

Thank you for the story Lazybones. Its kept me occupied during my lunch break for a long time now.


> since my work computer can't seem to distill such a large file



I can help you with that if you like as I work at a printers (creating PDFs is what I seem to do most of the time).

Padril


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## Ziggy

And a final thank you from me as well, Lazybones. The epilogue was wonderfully written, one of your best moody pieces.

It's been a bumpy ride, but I've been a (mostly) faithful reader from day one  I'm both sad and happy that the tale has finally come to an end. Good luck with your next project, if you post it here I promise to be there....

.Ziggy


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## wolff96

A great ending to a wonderful tale, LB.

Following the trials and tribulations of the Travellers since I discovered the story hour has been a lot of fun. You have a real gift for storytelling.

I am curious about one thing, though... As the creator of the story, what do you see as happening from the "Chain Reaction" that Delem started? Is Grazz't dead? Did he wipe out a few layers of the Abyss?


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## Lazybones

wolff96 said:
			
		

> *
> I am curious about one thing, though... As the creator of the story, what do you see as happening from the "Chain Reaction" that Delem started? Is Grazz't dead? Did he wipe out a few layers of the Abyss? *



Well, I deliberately wanted to leave it open ended, and let the reader use his/her imagination.  The way I described it, I definitely envisioned the chain reaction as some sort of nuclear explosion (I read somewhere that the matter contained in a single human body, transformed to energy with perfect efficiency, would explode with a force greater than every atomic weapon ever constructed).  That c-squared is a pretty big number...   Of course, given the nature of the Abyss (pure chaos), who knows what would happen if someone unleashed a nuke there.  I won't go so far as to say that the big G is dead (though I imagine he's quite upset), but I would think that Azzagrat's an even less pleasant place to be right now...


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## djrdjmsqrd

*A Bard's note.*

LB,
Truely great LB.  Thank you once agian for a SH that provided me a good release from life when I need it.  

Great ending.  Could we see stats in the RG for the '5yr later' heros?


Djordje


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## CoopersPale

Hi Lazy,

When I saw you only had a few posts left (a couple of weeks ago) I've been trying to make sure I caught up with my favourite storyhour so that I was ready for the end.  I've been snatching a read here and there while at work, and finally I'm here. 

You are an incredibly prolific writer you know that  - I've been trying my hardest to catch up.



I love that ending.

Good enough to make me delurk.
I also grew more partial to Cal as we went along, he's cool  


Please make sure you tell us if you're writing anything that we can have a read of... I look forward to it.


Thanks for a wonderful storyhour. You've taken hours of my life away with it (in a good way).


cheers


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## Lazybones

Thanks CP!

I've been pretty busy, but I managed to craft the first three pages of a new story.  It'll be a run through the new "Shackled City" adventure path in Dungeon Magazine, starting at first level, set in the Forgotten Realms (of course).  As always, expect eclectic characters and cliffhangers a plenty.  I can't promise when I'll start posting it, as things are pretty hectic right now, but I'll continue to grab time to write as it appears. 

I'm working on editing _Travels_ for release as an e-book.  I should have it up on my website before the end of the week. 

Thanks again for reading,

Lazy


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## Black Bard

Marvellous, marvellous, marvellous!!!!

I've said it before, but it's true... You really caught our attention here, Lazy... But being stuck in the Wild West was a thrilling experience, and I thank you so much for it...

If you ever try again to get published ( and I hope you will), you have my blessings.... You have a gift, man!!!

Good luck and congratulations!!!


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## Lazybones

Thanks, BB!

Okay, the Microsoft Reader version of the complete _Travels through the Wild West_ is now available on my website, http://lazybones18.tripod.com/.  A PDF version will likely follow when I get around to it.  Enjoy!


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## Rugger

My lunch breaks just haven't been the same since the story ended... 

Guess I'll just have to grab that PDF when you are done with it and start all over! 

Lazybones, thank you for a truly fantastic tale...high adventure, intrigue and great characters made it one of the best!

Now get writing on the next story!

-Rugger
"I Openly Weep Because I Miss My Travels Through the Wild West Fix!"


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## Dungannon

Just another avid follower of the Travelers here giving you a heartfelt thanks for the many hours of entertainment you've provided since I found your Story Hour back in October.  I hope you continue writing, even if it is just for us common stiffs on ENWorld.


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## Dakkareth

/me bows

I have certainly enjoyed your tale very much. 

Would there be a way to get it in some format other than .lit? Maybe pdf or word or rich text or just plain text?

-Dakkareth


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## Lazybones

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> */me bows
> 
> I have certainly enjoyed your tale very much.
> 
> Would there be a way to get it in some format other than .lit? Maybe pdf or word or rich text or just plain text?
> 
> -Dakkareth *



I've contacted a reader who's offered to help me get the file distilled into a PDF; the file's too big for my work computer to handle it. I'll let you know when it's up on my website. 

Thanks, Lazy


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## Elemental

*Re: *Sniff**

Just caught the ending. Congratulations, it was everything I could have hoped for.

You have at least one regular reader for your next SH.


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## Lazybones

The PDF format of _Travels_ is now available on my website, http://lazybones18.tripod.com.  Zipped, the file comes to 3.11 MB.  A million thanks to reader/ENWorld member Padril, who formatted the document for me.


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