# The Ardick Campaign - Chapter One:  Repentance



## Angel of Adventure (Apr 11, 2005)

Just reserving some space for my upcoming Story Hour and thought I'd put in some meta-game notes.

This campaign is inspired by my ever growing need for Epic adventure.  As you may know, I game with The Jester and he's split his game into 2 groups - Epic Level and a lower level Halfling party.  As I have numerous RL responsibilities, I have to forgo the lower level game (almost) entirely and my time in the Epic game is sometimes hard to come by.  However, I love Epic gaming for a number of reasons:  high stakes, horrible monsters, and the grand roleplaying challenges that come from a party that has so many resources at its disposal.  

But how does a DM, especially a relative novice on like myself, start up an Epic Level game without an existing campaign world?  How do you adaquetly challenge these high level characters with a good balance of action and roleplaying?  I spent a lot of time thinking this over and, with 3 (now 4) enthusiastic players, we began our journey into this strange, seemingly desolate world with the hope that we all will have a rewarding experience.

I've started everyone out at 20th level, allowing them to use nearly any base class/prestige class that is in the Wizards of the Coast library.  They all started out with a slew of items and money that they've quickly come to see as being not nearly enough to have every base covered.  I also gave each of them the Leadership Feat for free and advised them that (hopefully) the campaign will be equal parts Action/Roleplaying/Empire Building.  

I'd like to thank the Jester for his ongoing advice about DMing and for all the great roleplaying experience I've received from playing in his game.  Also, his Cydra Yahoo! Group is an awesome supplement to my game.  My players have been delighted by the options available in his Player's Guide to Cydra and I am confident I can pay him back by playtesting some of his stuff.

First update to follow soon and thanks in advance for any readership/input you all provide.


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## Angel of Adventure (Apr 12, 2005)

Echoes

By Pink Floyd

Overhead the albatross
Hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves
In labyrinths of coral caves

The echo of a distant time
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green
And submarine

And no one showed us to the land
And no one knows the wheres or whys
But something stirs and something tries
And starts to climb toward the light



Falling . . . falling . . . falling . . . 

Then nothing.

They awoke, simultaneously, to find themselves standing in a large cul-du sac amidst tall, blackened mountains.  The hard brown dirt beneath them lay cracked open with thirst.  The sky was clear, the temperature mild.

Mhoram surveyed his surroundings, his metal hands, and then his two companions.  An unfamiliar certainty washed over him and he knew them instantly.

Darsint, Green Star Adept and practitioner of the Hex, cast a large shadow with his green metaled frame.  Scaled, clawed hands and sharp facial features underscored a draconic heritage.  He projected a commanding aura that loomed as big as his body and he wore an expression that was not fear; rather, a resolve to understand and overcome.

Gherrick, deadly Initiate of the Bow, stood left of Darsint, with Aegle in his left hand. A soft wind rustled his long hair and his right hand instinctively landed on his quiver.  His well worn garments and breastplate were all the more visible under Aegle’s shining luminescence, boastful of her strong capabilities.  

Mhoram could not see himself, though his long years in this body felt his exact appearance at every moment.  He stood a few inches taller than his human counterpart, Gherrick, but he was far sparser across the chest.  He leaned lazily upon his ruby topped staff and observed his silk-white robe decorated by an angel’s skeleton.  His facial features were cut like a diamond and his head as smooth as a pearl.

She suddenly appeared before them as a shinning image of tranquility, alight with sunbeams projecting from every angle.  No one could speak before the angelic figure before them began.

“Greetings, Travelers, I am pleased you have made it.  The translation was a rough one on all of you, I see.  You look a bit shaken and I feel as though your wits are slow to return.  You will need them, though, as well strong steel and magic, if you are to survive . . . You have been given what you need, both in person and property, to complete your atonement here, though you are somewhat diminished from before.  If you are angry about this, know that the terms of the bargain were very generous in the eyes of some.”

“Regardless of how you may feel, you are here, in this land called Ardick, and you must find your own way to fulfill your obligations.  I will give you your start, however, though your actions are you own to choose.  The town of Redshores is several days walk from here.  Follow the trail out of the mountains, across the Wasted Lands, and into Northern Freehold.  I encourage you to walk and see what has happened to this world.  I wish you luck, skill and courage in all ways.”

“Why are we here?” demanded Darsint.  

“I have told you all I can.  I will say no more.”  A pained look crossed her face as her form began to evaporate.  The pain became resolute concentration and her form slowly returned to its original airy density.

“Who sent us here?,” questioned Mhoram.  He searched her face for some sign of hope.

“I cannot say.”

“Cannot or will not?,” said Darsint, his tone rising uncomfortably.

“I am bound by certain bargains just as you.  I can do nothing more for you than what I’ve already done.”  Her gaze met Gherrick’s, prompting him to speak.

“At least tell us your name,” asked the archer.

“Karlissina.”

“Do you not have any empathy for us?,” growled Darsint.  “We have no memories of our past and little direction in our future.  Will you not aid us in understanding this place we have been sent to?”

Karlissina’s impassive look relaxed into a slight smile and her reply drifted towards him sweetly.

“Yes, I do have empathy for your situation.  It is not an easy one.  Know this:  time moves strangely in this land.  Do not be disturbed if you become disoriented initially.  Again, I wish you luck, skill, and courage, Travelers.  Goodbye.”

She diminished until no sunbeams could find her.


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## Herremann the Wise (Apr 12, 2005)

Hi Angel of Adventure,

Anyone who starts their Story Hour with a bit of Floyd - one of their best too - gains an automatic reader here!  

Looking forward to more - there's something about the way you write dialogue that's really good. You certainly seem to capture the feel you are after.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Angel of Adventure (Apr 13, 2005)

*The Keep - Part I*

They wasted little time debating their course of action and set off on the path before them.  They walked, mostly in silence, for what seemed like an hour before Darsint spoke.

“What do you know of me, Mhoram?,” inquired the Green Star Adept.

“Very little,” replied the Incantrix, “but I do know that you are Darsint and that your transformation has made you quite hardy.  You are very skilled with that greatsword hanging from your belt, though not nearly as proficient as Gherrick is with his bow.  You are an adept caster as well, though your magicks are more innate than mine.”

“I would agree with your assessment,” stated Darsint, “though I am not sure why.  I feel it, somehow.  As hard as try, my memory yields no specific information on any of our travels together.  It distresses me that so much of our past is lost to us.”

“Indeed.”

They walked on for what felt like another hour and came to the end of the path.  The blackened mountains surrounding them gave way to a dismal scorched landscape.  No plants, dead or otherwise, rose up out of the ground, nor were any landmarks present.  A soft wind stirred up dust clouds in front of them.  The dirt path was replaced by a white trail, roughly 10 feet wide, that sharply contrasted with the wasted land around them.  The road stretched out into an infinite horizon and was constructed from a familiar substance.

Gherrick knelt and examined it for them.

“It’s bone,” he relayed to this companions.

“This place must be some sort of Purgatory,” mussed Darsint. “Or maybe we are in the Hells somewhere.  Have we died?”

No one could answer him and a growing sense of unease solidified itself in all of them.  They quietly fixed their eyes on the bleakness that surrounded them and lost themselves in their separate thoughts.  A speck floating high above the flat horizon was spotted only by Gherrick.  It seemed avian and was floating lazily in the sky.  He could not say for sure and did not mention it to the others.  It was gone when he looked back at it several moments later, though were it hid itself remained a mystery.

Small pieces of bone dissipated into dust as Darsint’s heavy feet led them forward.  They walked for a while, noting their progress by the fading mountains to the rear.  There was still nothing in front of them when they set down to rest.  By then, the sun had set and their starting point was well beyond their sight.  

Mhoram produced a wooden spoon from a small bag on his belt, followed by large bowl.  He commanded the spoon to whirl itself around in the bowl and a sizeable serving of pasty mush appeared.  The taste was decent and he knew that the mush would sustain him until morning.  He opened his spellbook while he ate, hoping that his incantations would arouse some memory of the past.  None came forth.  

Gherrick looked in one of his bags and produced a meal of dried fruits and meats.  He took careful stock of his edibles and knew that they would not last him long.  Darsint, as they all knew, did not need rest or sustenance of any kind.  It was he who volunteered to keep watch while they rested.

Sleep came quickly for Mhoram and Gherrick.  Darsint watched them as they tossed and turned, Gherrick more so than Mhoram, and he wondered what it was like to dream.  He did not recall the last time he slept and could not remember what it was like when he needed rest like his fleshy companions.  

His suspicion about their dreaming was confirmed by Gherrick when the sun first crested the horizon behind them.  Gherrick awoke and told them about a horrible nightmare wherein the road before them became a mass of endless skeletons rising from the ground, all answering to the tainted commands of a mummified spellcaster.  They had fought as best they could but were dragged down, one by one, until only Gherrick remained.  His last vision was that of the caster uttering one terrible word:  “Death.”  He awoke instantly to a fuzzy mind that refused to concentrate on anything throughout the day.

Mhoram could not recall having any dreams; only a vague suspicion that something was knocking at his door.  They ate shortly after waking and their conversations ended quickly due to utter frustration.  All had questions; no one had answers.

Toward the day’s end they found themselves approaching the first sign of anything besides dust, blackened earth, and the bone-covered road.  The closest structures appeared as four long buildings, two on each side, centered around a small keep.  All were burnt with large sections missing, perhaps the damage being owed to some battle long ago.  The keep seemed to be the least damaged of all the structures.  It was built primarily of stone whilst each outer building was made of wood.  Darsint, as he had all day, led them forward with a consuming desire to learn more about their situation.

They took their time and cautiously explored the outer buildings first.  Each time, Darsint entered first with sword in hand, while Mhoram followed after.  Gherrick remained outside, covering them with his bow, until they disappeared behind the broken furniture and debris in each room.  He then followed them in with an arrow notched at all times.  

Their footsteps and a howling wind blowing through the damaged buildings were the only sounds accompanying their search.

Each outer building appeared to be a long hall, two being barracks that were filled with broken beds, tables, and chairs.  One was a mess hall, but all hopes of finding food vanished when nothing but molded bags and dust lined the pantry shelves.  The final hall, closest to the keep on its left-hand side, was once a laboratory.  All that remained at first glance were broken glass containers and hewn long, rectangular tables.  As in all the other buildings, Mhoram focused his concentration and magicks towards thoroughly searching every inch of the place for anything useful.  Unlike his previous efforts, this search yield results.

Mhoram was off in a corner, farthest from the broken wall where they entered, when a crack in the wooden floor beneath them emerged before his sharp eyes.  His metal hands methodically explored it and three more cracks appeared, forming a square in the floor.  He tapped around the edges until one tap evoked a slightly denser thump than the rest.  Mhoram again focused his vision hoping to find any protective measures meant to keep him from opening the door.  When he dected nothing, he breathed deeply and pushed on the latched side of the trap door.  It slowly rose towards him.

Inside was a two-foot long chest, wooden with metal hinges. It, too, opened easily after  passing Mhoram’s review.  He sifted through a few minor piece of jewelry, some moth-eaten garments, and eventually pulled out a tome entitled:


Basics of Warforged Construction – 101


Mhoram briefly skimmed through it before handing the book to Darsint in hopes that his construct mind could better analyze its contents.  

“The Warforged are a type of sentient construct,” Darsint told them.  “They are capable of improving themselves over time and are claimed to be free-willed.  This book outlines the principles behind their construction, though many of the exact steps are not detailed here.  I would also say that this was likely a book used frequently, as there are numerous notations and observations written within the margins and on the inside covers.”

“I thought your kind were the only constructed entities that were capable of learning and advancement,” observed Mhoram.  He did not know where these words came from.

“As did I,” answered Darsint, looking back at the book.  “It appears that this is not the case in our bleak new world.”

Gherrick returned from outside as the shadows consumed the little light left in the laboratory.  “We should enter the keep before we loose daylight completely,” he told them. “Perhaps it will offer us better shelter than these damaged buildings.”


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## Angel of Adventure (Apr 13, 2005)

*The Keep - Part II*

The keep consisted of a two-story square building.  From their immediate vantage point, approximately 50 feet in front of its double doors, they could see a small balcony on top.  Mhoram invoked a minor valence and flew up to it, scouting around the outside of the upper level for signs of life.  When he found none, he landed on the balcony and gazed into what was once a spacious living quarters, now as wrecked and ransacked as the previous buildings.

He returned to his companions and reported his findings.  They readied themselves to enter through the front doors.  Darsint opened the door quietly, expecting resistance, but found the lock on the door destroyed.  He entered, greatsword in hand, followed by Mhoram and an ever-ready Gherrick.  An eerie silence permeated throughout the keep.  All was dark save for the luminous presence of Aegle.

The bottom floor was deduced to be a reception room.  Broken couches and tables littered themselves along the walls.  A granite throne sat in the middle of the room and stairs leading upwards were positioned in the back, right hand quadrant.  They explored all areas thoroughly after Mhoram magically sealed the entrance.  Their explorations on both levels uncovered nothing that could aid them, either physically or intellectually, until Darsint returned to the throne.

Unwilling to accept their initial findings, Darsint pushed and cajoled the throne from every angle.  A mighty shove from the back did indeed move the throne forward and revealed a square trap door.  Mhoram took charge by examining it and, when the magical lock registered in his mind, he dispelled it quickly so that they could continue.

“Be ready,” commanded Darsint.  “This place did not hide its secret for nothing.  We have yet to find opposition and this should concern us all.”

The trap door opened into a stone staircase that led them downwards at a sharp angle.  At the end was a locked wooden door that splintered into several large chunks by Darsint’s large hand, after Mhoram’s sanctioned its removal.

A large room opened before them and showed them an amazing sight.  Centered in the room, behind a large translucent light blue and domed protective shield, was a large humanoid construct atop a small platform.  It stood over 6 feet tall and stared at them with vacant eyes. Its construction was of a magical metal that Darsint recognized immediately:  Mithrial.  The construct bore no possession, aside from the greatsword sheathed on its right hip, and did not immediately react to their presence.

Four large cabinets lined the walls, two on a side.  A large metal box, as tall and long as Darsint, sat to the immediate right of the construct with various tubes protruding from the top.  It hummed softly, with an occasional spark issuing from the tubing.

Directly behind the dome that housed the creature was what appeared to be a podium.  A glowing blue light emanated from it.

Mhoram centered himself and attempted to use his Incantrix powers to snatch away the protective blue dome.  He was rebuffed.

“There is strong magic here,” he told them.  “Too strong for even the likes of even myself.”

They avoided the humming box out of fear and uncertainty, content instead to explore the cabinets.  Each one held a different part that made up the basic building blocks of the creature inside the dome.  One held arms and hands, while another held pieces and components for legs and feet.  The other two contained internal wirings and various pieces for the head unit, including eyes and a likely voice-box.  All these parts were rapidly inserted into Darsint’s leather bag that seemed too small to fit them, but engulfed them easily.

The Travelers now gathered around the podium.  It revealed a sight that none of them could have predicted.  Instead of holding a book or manual, it had a glowing blue screen mounted into the wood.  The symbol of a dragon’s claw pierced by a dagger floated lazily in front to them.

Mhoram reached forward and touched the blue screen with a lack of precaution that surprised them all.  The claw and dagger disappeared, slowly fading away, and was replaced with a set of symbols only he could decipher.

WARFORGED PROGRAMMING SEQUENCE INITIATED.

ENTER SECURITY CLEARANCE:

The metal box to their left shook uncomfortably and the symbols on the screen were replaced by numbers they could all understand.

40 . . . 39 . . . 38 . . . 

“Darsint, hand me the book quickly!,” spouted Mhoram.  He quickly began looking through the handwritten notations on book’s inner cover.  His companions could only watch in hope that the codes were somewhere in that tome, and that Mhoram was quick enough to find them.

25 . . . 24 . . . 23 . . . 

The metal box let out a loud grinding noise that spurred Mhoram to look faster.  More sparks erupted out of the top, hinting at its instability.

15 . . . 14 . . . 13 . . .

He found a set of unrecognizable characters, repeatedly circled and underlined, on the back inner cover and immediately touched the blue screen.  The symbols leapt from his mind onto the screen and the countdown was replaced by three dots that expanded into five, and then back to three, for several repetitions.

SECURITY ACCESS GRANTED.  ENTER NAME OF WARFORGED UNIT:

Touching the screen before another countdown could begin, the name H.A.L . leapt from Mhoram’s mind.  The script cleared and was replaced by the dots again.  Then, shortly thereafter, a yellow horizontal line, capped by two short vertical lines on each end, appeared along with the text:

SET AGGRESSION METER

40 . . . 39 . . . 38 . . . 

Mhoram cursed himself for not becoming more familiar with Warforged Construction Basics before starting this task.  Too late now, though, but he dared not set the meter without understanding what he was doing.  His fingers tore through the pages, desperately looking for a corresponding diagram.

22 . . . 21 . . . 20 . . .

“Hurry, Mhoram!,” shouted Gherrick, quickly growing more and more fearful as the shaking metal box shuddered and lurched before them.

“Be prepared to fight this thing,” ordered Darsint.  “We must expect the worst if it is activated.”

10 . . . 9 . . . 8

Mhoram found it, just in time, towards the middle of the book.  The left side of the meter was labeled:  Passive.  The right side:  Violent.  He touched the left side of the meter on the screen, setting it all the way to Passive.  He hoped he was making the right choice.  The counter stopped at 3, and then the screen went back to its glowing blue projection with small dots blinking across the top.  Text did not appear for several minutes, during which time a loud whirling noise continually issued forth from the unstable metal box.

The whirling died down and was replaced by a violent shuddering.  More text appeared on the screen:

SET ETHICAL PARADIGM METER

Again, a yellow horizontal bar appeared, capped by short vertical bars on each end.  As expected, the countdown began anew.

Mhoram’s metal fingers raced through the book as his frantic search for guidance continued.  Darsint drew his sword and Gherrick notched an arrow to prepare for the violent end that they all expected.

12 . . . 11 . . . 10

“It’s not in here!,” screamed Mhoram, his calm face transformed into fear.  Sweat lined his brow and dribbled into his eyes.

“Do something!  Do anything!,” barked Darsint.  “This place will be dust soon if you don’t act now!”

As if to underscore his comments, the metal box shook itself violently and streams of lightning emerged from the top.  It rattled and rumbled, seemingly on the brink of annihilation.

4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1

Mhoram’s hand shot to the screen, roughly tapping the screen between the left hand side and middle of the meter.  He closed his eyes and braced himself for an explosion.

All was quiet.  None of them dared to even breathe.

The whirling sound started again and lasted for only a short minute.  The blue dome around the Warforged immediately dissipated and the construct whirled to face them with a hand on the pommel of its sword.  Its glowing red eyes locked onto Mhoram and it quickly advanced towards them.

Very well, thought Darsint, we shall see who is better made:  you, or I.

Gherrick was a millisecond away from filling it full of arrows when it stopped several feet in front of them.

“Greetings, Master Program,” it intoned in a deep metallic-masculine voice, its eyes never leaving Mhoram.  “Warforged Unit H.A.L. is now ready to take your orders.”


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## Brain (Apr 15, 2005)

Hi AoA!  Cool story so far.  I'll keep checkin' it out.


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## ciaran00 (Apr 24, 2005)

* From the players' perspective: An opinion on the past which we do not remember. Here's a guess as to a scene from Mhoram's past which is unrelated to the main story arc. Read for fun. Skip if only interested in story main.

There were no fields here, no forests or groves or meadows, just earth. No corner was left untouched by boiling magma and acid rain, and not a single leaf was spared on the spiderwork branches of the occasional dead tree. Sparse skeletons dangled from petrified branches, stripped of all their flesh by fire and left with their souls still screaming inside them from the time when they uselessly tried to defend their domains from the fiend who sat ruling it, unopposed. The ground still shuddered and groaned from the endemic curse that inhabited it, planted inside it by its arcane devastator. The wound was most apparent in a crater that stood at the heart of the blasted dominion, an ocean of ash that moated an obsidian tower that connected the sunless sky to its dense, bone foundation. The featureless tower was marked with a single man-sized doorway which stepped out into a precarious, banister-framed balcony.

From within his nest which was, no doubt, stacked with a demiplane's share of books and elixirs and arcane armaments the archwizard Mhoram stepped out onto the balcony. The suspicion which had brought him there could only be confirmed by his own faultless senses. Mhoram sniffed the air, as he had learned to do during his century-long incarceration in the Abyss, searching for the sign of an enemy he knew was trespassing in his kingdom of bane. The archwizard wore a featureless white robe and bore the appearance of just a man. Like the rest of him, his hands were skin and bone. Flakes of ash, the tell-tale remnants of enemies he remembered once razing, caught in his black hair and thick of his beard. His eyes scanned the standstill clouds in the sky. Suddenly, his head snapped around until he was staring back behind him with an eye. An apparition of a winged, humanoid figure stood not far from him. One of its arms flared into a blade of translucent, white fire and its mouth of fanged teeth was gleefully stretched about nearly the full circumference of its skull. Mhoram's eyes narrowed as he found himself momentarily transfixed by its fell gaze. And then, it happened.

The cloud moved, stretching gracefully out into the monstrous essence which, until now, was using it as cover. Its bone wings swiped out like two scythes, carrying its great skinless draconic bulk towards the archwizard who was its enemy. The dragon landed its claws upon the crown of Mhoram's tower, arcing its great maw towards the balcony. Just then, Mhoram's insubstantial guardian merged with its master, imprinting the outline of its avian bones into his featureless robe, as the archwizard floated out and up backwards from his balcony. Human and draconic eyes locked each other with equal and opposite rage, each too intense and alien for the other to fully weather. Somewhere else, a billion leagues away, an intricate and intensely-warded bone column that served as a long-dead dragon's phylactery throbbed nervously from the archwizard's piercing stare.

Pockets of air and the hollow spaces where marrow once was whistled with air as the dragon spread his jaws. A grey mist of howling, writhing spirits coned out from its mouth and blanketed the air where Mhoram floated, stripping the skin off the archiwizard's human body, corroding away his brain and lungs and blood, leaving behind only a vapour of his viscera and a fading echo of his pain. As the mist dissipated, Mhoram seemed only a memory.

The dragon was not so easily tricked. It dugs its claws into the obsidian tower, and placed its chin on its folded wings, waiting... anticipating... the counterstroke that was all but inevitable. It had all of time to wait out the conclusion to the duel. Its nemesis did, too.

ciaran


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## Angel of Adventure (Apr 27, 2005)

*Strange Company*

Hello, and thanks to all of you for reading thus far.  I planned to do this sooner but I bit off a bit more than I could chew, so to speak.  We are about 2/3rds of the way thru our first game after this update.

Herreman, thanks for you compliment.  Sorry the last updates have been dialouge light, but the introduction of a new NPC here will definatley give them a lot to talk about.  So, . . .


*********************************************************

Mhoram inhaled completely, holding his breath for a moment, and released it in a cleansing sigh.  He rolled over onto his side and nestled himself more comfortably within the bedroll.  He closed his eyes, trying to find a calm mind within a sea of whirling thoughts.  His body felt exhausted, as though it had traveled many more miles than his boots would show, but his mind stayed fresh and the persistent chatter would not stop.

The nightmares would not bother him, or Gherrick, tonight.  He had to believe that, otherwise his mind would be as burnt as the cracked landscape that surrounded them.  Some of the most powerfully protective wards in his spellbook were on himself and Gherrick right now; no outside influences or attempts to gather information would penetrate their mental shields.  

Sadly, Mhoram possessed no magicks that could will him into slumber.  In the back of his mind too many unanswered questions remained about why they were here.  Closer to the surface, the perplexing questions about their two new companions occupied his analysis.

There they were with their backs turned to him, one on each side of Darsint, staring ahead in silence.  H.A.L., living Warforged Construct and self-professed Eldritch Knight, and Saint Simon the Angel, rescued by Mhoram and his companions after thousands of years of torture by horrific undead abominations.  Simon called them, “Aags.”

Of the two, H.A.L. was much easier to understand despite an underlying subtlety of nature that none of them, save Darsint, could easily accept.  HAL approached them in that lab beneath a long-ago abandoned keep and surprised them all by not immediately attacking.  Instead, he addressed Mhoram in that low, tinny voice that issued out of squared, meshed box that is his mouth, and asked what his orders were.

They stood there, just looking in wonder at the intimidating mithrial construct before them.  H.A.L. loomed over them, nearly as tall as Darsint, with wide arms, chest, and legs connected to a much more petite waist.  It moved much more gracefully than any golem they could recall seeing.

“Orders?,” inquired Mhoram.  “What orders are you referring to?  What are your capabilities?”

“I am referring to my arcane and combat routines,” H.A.L. responded his flat, tinny, and somehow masculine voice.  “Both are currently online and are available at your disposal, Master Programmer.”

“What is he talking about?,” whispered Gherrick.  “I’m not eager to see these combat routines, especially if it means testing them on us!”

“Tell us about these arcane routines,” commanded Darsint.  “Do you mean spells that you can cast?  I’ve never encountered a construct, Mhoram, well, . . ., besides myself, with significant arcane abilities.”

H.A.L. did not respond.  Momentarily, Mhoram prompted with the same question and H.A.L. immediately began listing his arcane ‘sub-routines.’

“0 Circle Arcane Sub-Routines:  Acid Splash, Arcane Mark, Copy, Dancing Lights, Disrupt Undead . . . Touch of Fatigue.  1st Circle Arcane Sub-Routines:  Animate Rope, Enlarge, Expeditious Retreat, Feather Fall, Force Spike, Hold Portal, . . .”

(30 minutes later)

“6th Circle Arcane Sub-Routines:  Black Mantle, Brain Kill, Chain Lightning, Circle of Death, Contingency, Disintegrate. . . .”

“Stop,” ordered Mhoram.  H.A.L. did so.  “Now, tell us your highest valences, ending with the last two in alphabetical order.”

“Reconstruction, . . ., and Reverse Gravity.”

“Impressive, H.A.L.,” remarked Darsint.  “Now, we want you to follow us out of here and protect us at all times.”

H.A.L.’s red eyes met Darsint’s briefly and then turned back to Mhoram.

“Why don’t you follow his commands, H.A.L.?,” asked Mhoram.  

“I follow only the commands of the Master Programmer,” answered H.A.L..  “That would be you, Master Programmer Mhoram.”

Not unusual, ruminated Mhoram.  Constructs typically only follow the commands of their creator.  Still, the tome they found explicitly stated these Warforged creations possessed the ability to learn and think for themselves.

“H.A.L., insert a new sub-routine into your mind as follows:  I am to obey not only the commands of Master Programmer Mhoram, but also those he designates as . . . sub-programmers.  I now designate Darsint and Gherrick, both of who are here before you, as sub-programmers.  Do you comprehend this new command I’ve given you?”

H.A.L.’s eyes dimmed and a faint clicking sounded issued from his head.  Then, he stopped and H.A.L. snapped back to attention.

“Yes, Master Programmer Mhoram.  I will obey the commands of the sub-programmers you have designated, to the extent that they do not conflict with the commands given to me by you.”  

Mhoram looked at Darsint and said, “Well, give it a try.”

“On second thought H.A.L,” Darsint stated unequivocally, “we will rest in this laboratory tonight.  I want you to work with Mhoram to secure our resting place and use whatever magicks you have available to protect our location.”

“Agreed, sub-programmer Darsint,” H.A.L. responded in his flat voice.  Their resting place soon became a sanctuary, warded by heavy magicks, and protected by two very large and intimidating constructs.


********************************************************************

Mhoram turned himself over one more time in his bedroll.  This must stop, he growled at his mind.  I must be rest or I will likely be killed by my dull senses as I was today!

He could not, despite every effort put for by his mental prowess, push the thoughts of their newest companion away.   He pushed himself a bit more, then when he grew tired of the charade he gave in to the need to replay the day’s events in his mind . . .

********************************************************************


H.A.L. spoke very rarely during the next day’s hike, as did the rest of the Travelers.  Their silence was awkward at first as they all felt that there was much to discuss.  No one had answers, though, so perhaps there was nothing to discuss after all.

They all lumbered along, crushing the bones that made up their road even smaller fragments of what once was.  Darsint led the way, flanked by H.A.L., with Mhoram and Gherrick standing back about 20 ft.  Neither Gherrick, nor Mhoram, slept well in the keep.  Their bodies and minds yearned for a complete rest that could not be found in such harsh surroundings.  

The strange movements of the white shinning sun did not help them either.  At one moment it was just creeping over the horizon, staying there impossibly long as mile after mile was put behind them.  Without warning, it then rapidly ascended to the highest point on its path in the middle(?) of the day, only to lazily float downwards like a falling leaf.  Mhoram felt physically weak, but mentally fresh, when they finally made camp.  Gherrick was the precise opposite.  H.A.L. and Darsint felt as rested as they ever needed to be.

The sun eventually set and the moon lit the wasted land around them.  Somehow, despite the eerie, howling wind, their utter ignorance about their surroundings, and the pervasive nightmares that haunted some of them, the night did put some of their gloominess to rest.  At least they could not fully see the agony that expanded around them.

H.A.L. heard it first, and quickly alerted the others.  Dinner was finished and rest seemed near for some of them.  A tortured voice in the distance let out a low moan and repeated over and over, “Never . . . . you will never break me.”

“Prepare yourselves for battle,” demand Darsint upon hearing the voice for himself.  “Whatever is out there owes us some answers.”

“H.A.L, do you have any idea what is out there?” asked Gherrick.

“The probabilities of correctly discerning ‘what is out there’ are next to none,” H.A.L. replied in his flat, tinny voice.  “I have no experience with this place having been brought online 26.23 hours ago.”

“Oh, we will break you!,” screamed an unknown voice.  “And if not, we will just have ourselves a little fun with you and your guts!”  The voice was high pitched, foul, and feminine.

Darsint charged ahead after preparing his own wards and receiving another from Mhoram.  He gave no thought for his safety as he ran at an accelerated pace across the scorched land.  Answers were the only thing that mattered.  His quickened pace caused him to arrive several seconds ahead of the others, but he involuntarily paused as he gazed upon the horrific source of the voices.

They were perhaps the ugliest creatures Darsint had every laid eyes upon. The dead beings in front of him, about 100 feet ahead, seemed to be a putrefied version of the angel stuck between them.  Their dead flesh, pale as the moonlight, was stretched uncomfortable over their 10 ft frames.  They boasted long, talonned hands and feet, nearly skeletal wings, and an awful, sneering faces that bobbed slyly atop their long snakelike necks.  One held a dagger that was twisting around inside the green angel’s stomach.  They had him strapped onto vertical table and he wore only a few ripped pieces of cloth.

The aags, as they were later known, stared back at the large, green-metaled construct before them and immediately knew that they had new prey.  They rushed towards him, their forms blurred and fluctuating.

Mhoram, flying above them, watched in fascination as Darsint drew his greatsword and charged.  A battle was inevitable and Ardick would now witness their combined powers.  
He landed and readied his mind to unleash a terrible fury upon their enemies.

Darsint and the aags collided in a storm of talons, teeth, and swordplay.  He hacked, slashed, and chopped his way through his opponents, but with little result.  They moved too quickly and their forms were almost insubstantial at times.  The blows he did land found that their bones were nearly as hard as his body.  The aags were similarly disappointed when Darsint barely noticed their attacks.  His skills in battle were good, but his greenstar body easily defended him from their claws and the unholy energy that washed over him with each touch.  

Mhoram and H.A.L. stood close together, focusing their might on a single aag to Darsint’s left.  Several bolts on lightning shot from Mhoram’s right hand in quick succession while H.A.L. conjured five glowing balls of light that streaked toward their target, followed by a green ray from his right finger.  The ray vaporized a large portion of the aag’s abdomen, but it seemed like more of an inconvenience to the thing than a real wound.  It turned towards them and ran, ignoring Darsint’s parting blows.

Gherrick peppered the income aag with arrows, his hands moving with a speed comparable to the flight of his weapons.  He was a canon of holy power as Aegle’s aura of light lit their way to the target.  Gherrick fired arrow after arrow, all sure to hit the mark until the abomination slipped away at the last second.  Only a quarter of his shots were finding the mark, so his decision was simple:  he fired more arrows.

He could not bring it down, though, and the aag tore into Mhoram will all its evil might.  Its claws tore into him time and time again, removing flesh and spilling his blood onto the thirst ground.  Each successful strike also washed away his most powerful incantations, quickly leaving him without his most optimal weapons.  H.A.L. immediately drew his sword, its cool grey steel flashing in the moonlight, and brought it down in a series of rapid chops and slashes, hoping to force it away from Mhoram.  It did not budge.

The pain was too much and threatened to interrupt Mhoram’s casting.  He reached down to the very core of his concentration and muttered a final arcane syllable that transported him several hundred feet behind the aag that struck him.  His wounds continued to bleed after he quaffed a healing potion.  

I cannot be so slow to react, he thought.  I should have been much quicker when it charged us.  Perhaps I am rust.

Gherrick and Aegle continued their rapid assault and their target sported over a dozen arrows.  Never did a single arrow threat to hit H.A.L., who was on top of it with a flurry of sword blows.  His sword crackled with a yellowish energy and a loud, concussive boom issued from the blade whenever it found its quarry.  Approximately 20 arrows and several large gashes throughout its body finally brought it down.  Its corpse hadn’t even hit the ground before they turned their attention towards Darsint’s opponent.

The three of them fell the second aag after  a single minute of their focused might.  The combination of greatswords and arrows was too much for it, and she collapsed with a terrifying screech.  The angel seemed gripped by a momentary delirium as was muttering to itself in an unfamiliar tongue.

Mhoram picked up the dead aag’s dagger and cut the green angel down, who then slid to the ground before sitting up.  His body was horribly scarred and its form, while undeniably muscular, looked withered and emaciated.  Mhoram’s eyes instantly recognized the situation by the plain metal dagger and the angel’s table.  They were torturing him, stabbing him again and again, only to let its wounds heal and stab some more.

“What is your name, angel?,” demanded Darsint.  “And what are these creatures that were torturing you.”

The angel looked up at them all, taking stock of the beings in front of him, and quietly composed himself.  “I am Simon, . . . Saint Simon, they once called me.  These foul creatures you’ve slain are aags.  Thank you saving me  . . . I’ve been in their unholy hands for far too long.”

“How long?,” inquired Mhoram. 

“I don’t know as I lost count of the days sometime ago.  All I can guess is thousands of years that they’ve had me, torturing me each night with such sadistic glee.  Please, do not ask too much of me right now, as I haven’t had a reprieve in so long and I am very, very weak.”

“Guard him, H.A.L.!,” snapped Darsint.  “We must discuss this matter in private.”

Now several feet away, they began to discuss their newfound angel.  Darsint was clearly uneasy about trusting Simon, fearing a nefarious trap hidden behind such an important boon. 

“He was being tortured by these foul undead,” reasoned Mhoram.  “They kept him her for who knows how long, cutting him over and over, in an attempt to break him.  I do not think he is anything other than he appears.”

“Hmm, my gem will decide this,” answered Darsint.  He pulled it out of his bag and looked upon the angel, who was nothing but an angel.  “Yes, he is an angel, but he is also quarry of these aags.  Perhaps we should leave him to fend for himself.  Surely they will want their pin cushion back.”

“We can’t survive out here without some way of mending ourselves,” retorted Mhoram.  “I only have so many of these potions and none of us are skilled healers.  Angels of this power are quite capable in the divine arts and this Simon will fill a valuable role.”  He wasn’t sure where that had come from, but it was if he had always known this to be true.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen an angel like that before,” mussed Gherrick.  “What kind is it?  Why is it green?”

Mhoram thought for a moment.  “I believe they are called Planetars.  Not the most powerful of their kind, but not to be trifled with in any case.  Let us take him in for the night and we shall see what he can tell us tomorrow.  He must be valuable if the aags did not kill him.”

Darsint reluctantly consented and they brought Simon back to their camp.  He begged them to not question him until the morning and even Darsint finally relented.  What Simon could tell them would have to wait until tomorrow.

********************************************************************

Mhoram teetered on the edge of sleep now that his thoughts had run their course.  All the information about their predicament was analyzed, all the data stored in a safe place that he would find again in the morning.  The haze unconsciousness began to set in when a final thought entered his head.

Is this all fate?, he thought to himself.  Did someone conveniently place these new beings in our path or is it simple luck that we came upon them?  

The answers seemed so far away, shrinking further and further out of his consciousness as sleep finally took him away.


----------



## Angel of Adventure (May 5, 2005)

*The Tale of Saint Simon*

Dawn broke upon Ardick in wave of bright light, winnowing back the darkness into small slivers of shadow, and then dispelling it completely.  The brutal land that surrounded the Travelers scowled at them, angered at being revealed as the festering sore it was.

Gherrick awoke before Mhoram and quietly rolled out of his bedroll.  No reason to wait, he thought.  Aegle and I need our practice before we set out on the road.  

Yes, replied Aegle in his mind.  Your hands can always be quicker, Gherrick, and more proficient in wielding me.

His companions took little notice of him as he began his exercises, starting with the simple routine of drawing his bow in a slow motion and guiding it into the perfect firing position.  He sped this routine up until he wasted less than a second of time readying Aegle, then stopped his left arm in the air and rapidly brought Aegle’s bowstring back several times, sans arrow, in a blur of motioin.  Next, he combined the two movements, never once firing an arrow, while shadow targeting various stones and cracks farther and farther away.  After several minutes, he began tumbling around, as though dodging invisible blows.  Never once did he loose his footing while aiming methodical, rapidly shooting his unseen attackers.  He was a whirling dervish, kicking up much dust around him, and unconscious of what his deadly hand were doing.  He just moved; Aegle could do the rest if he gave her an arrow.

Gherrick stopped abruptly, letting the dust and his rapidly beating heart settle.  He closed his eyes and repeated the Code of the Bow.

“I do not shoot my enemy with my mind, though it is what led me to him.”
“I do not shoot my enemy with my hands, though they yearn to strangle him.”
“I do not shoot my enemy with regret, though he could know my forgiveness.”
“I shoot you, enemy of mine, with my heart and my bow.  For they are one and both will have their wrath upon you for ever trespassing against us.”  
“You may forgive yourself once you are dead.”

Gherrick took stock of himself, thanked Aegle for the excellent workout, and returned to camp.  He found them all sitting around Simon and enjoying a prodigious feast of breads and vegetables.  Water was plentiful, too.  The tall frame of Saint Simon loomed over them all, even sitting down.

“Ah, Gherrick, right?” asked Saint Simon.  “Come here and join us.  You could definitely use some sustenance after all this time out here.”  His gaunt, muscular arm motioned to the food in from of them.

“We were just finishing our tale,” Mhoram mentioned.  “You arrived just in time to hear Simon out.  He is about to begin.”

“Start by telling us why these Aags had you,” Darsint ordered.  “Yes, they tortured you out of pleasure; that is not hard to surmise.  But why else would they keep you around?  What haven’t you told us?”

“Well, I haven’t really told you anything about myself or my life on Ardick,” began Simon, “and I know you have many, many questions.  Please hear me out, Darsint, and I will answer for you what I can.  Just understand that my years here haven’t been kind and my memories are fragmented in many, many places.”

“Yes, we understand what that is like,” Darsint responded.  His arms were crossed and his face broke into a slight sneer when he talked.  “Tell you tale, Angel, and we will learn what we learn.”

“Very well, then.  I was not always the Angel you see before you.  I was once like you, Gherrick: a humble mortal, though a faithful servant to God.  Some might say that I did a lot of good in my time and perhaps I might agree just to inflate myself, but truly, I only made the choices that were needed at the time.  Not for me, nor those I cared for most dearly, but for all of us.  It was what any decent person would have done, if in my position.  Never-the-less, I was Sainted once I passed on from my world, and ascended into Heaven to join the glorious Choir along with my brethren.”

“I sang for countless centuries and gave every ounce of myself into lifting our harmonious voices to more magnificent song.  Eventually, I was called into our army and began to more . . . forcefully defend God’s Will.  I was ultimately brought to Ardick thousands upon thousands of years ago, in an effort to quell the Enemy.  I joined my comrades shortly after they had expelled our foes from the Shining City and we swept them out of ‘Redshores’, where you are headed, as well.  We spent some time there, gathering ourselves and burying the dead.  The town was not called Redshores, then anyway, but must have gotten its name from the blood stained beaches where so many of us fought and died, on both sides.”

“So, we pushed off into this place, these Wasted Lands and fought an epic battle against the forces of Shadow, smiting them with the might of our righteousness and banishing them from darkness forever!”  Simon opened his eyes widely in surprise, as if stunned by the strength of his words.  He could still feel His light shining upon them, giving them strength in the face of so much adversity, even so many years removed now.

“It was a vicious battle.  So many of us died that I could never hope to recite all their names within your lifetime, save perhaps yours, Darsint.  The battle was fierce and I was captured during our retreat.  I was left in the hands of those Aags, who used me as a dog uses a chew toy, for oh so many years.  Every day passed the same.  I was used for different experiments during the day, as the Aags tried to perfect a poison that would ruin my kind.  At night, they would take me outside, dragging me along and performing their profane rituals until just before sunrise.”

“This was truly an outstanding turn of fate for us that we met.  I have not seen anyone, save those you encountered, for far too long.  Just to witness the site of healthy, vibrant mortals such as yourselves would have greatly lifted my spirits.  I feared that we had not won, that all our losses had been in vain, and that the Dead now ruled all of Ardick.”  He ran his left hand over his face and bald pate, as if checking to make sure this wasn’t all a dream.  Perhaps he possessed many of the same feelings as the Travelers about their current predicament.

The Travelers took a moment to digest his tale, all looking downward and lost in thought.  Darsint wore a look of grim analysis throughout the entire tale; he spoke first.

“Tell us of your god, Simon.  Who is He?  And what do you remember of Redshores?  Is it a place that we want to go?”

“Darsint, my god is the Lord, the One True God of Good and Order.  He is the only true god, thus he is named as such.  As for Redshores, I am sorry my friends.  I cannot recall much, just spending most of my time digging graves or tending to our wounded.  Redshores was a decent sized town at the time; perhaps a thousand or so humans called it home.  It was a place of freedom, but good at heart.”

“Who is the Enemy, then?  What is his name?  I told you earlier that we were on a quest of atonement.  Perhaps he our true adversary in all of this!”

“His name is one that I will never say and, should you learn it, you all are advised to do the same.  And, yes Darsint, he is most certainly your adversary, as he is the adversary of all Good on Ardick.  Whether or not it applies to your atonement, I do not know.  But . . . it would be a good place to start.”  A large grin broke upon Simon’s otherwise stern and contemplative face.  

“Why did your forces retreat, and why did they allow you to be left behind?,” Mhoram interjected while Darsint search for his next question.  “From your tale, it would seem that your side had the upper hand.

“I do not know why they retreated, only that the retreat was called.  I was in the hands of the Aags soon after.  I know my Brothers quite well, Mhoram. They would have saved me if it were possible.”

“Tell us true, Simon.  Why did the Aags keep you alive?,” spat Darsint.  “It creates a great sense of unease in me knowing that they did not kill you outright.”

“As it does me, Darsint.  Again, they experimented on me with various attempts to find a poison that would kill Celestials, and as amusement.  As you can see, this is a desolate place.  There is not much to do.”

“Please, let us walk together, and gather our thoughts.  I do remember my past, unlike you, but it is so far away that there will be much time spent digging it out.  Gherrick, have some food, please.  You are looking a little too exerted from that workout.”

Gherrick nibbled on a few more breads and packed a bit more for later.  They sat quietly, contemplating, until Darsint broke the silence.

“Just one more thing, Simon.”

“Indeed, Darsint?”

“Now that you are free, will you leave and return to Heaven?”

“Ah, I long to do so badly, but it is unlikely.  This world is difficult to get out of, otherwise I would have escaped those Aags long ago.  Perhaps I shall ask God himself later today.”

“Difficult to leave, HOW?,” snapped Darsint.  “Must you always be so vague!”

Simon’s face was painted with sympathy.  “Darsint, I am sorry that I haven’t been more forthcoming.  It is hard on all of us, to not remember all that came before this.  We must press on, though, and be brave in spite of the loss.  You all seem very capable; trust in God to do the rest.”

Darsint sat up and walked away, needing time to himself.  No answers!, he thought.  All we get are obscured portraits of what we don’t know!

They broke camp and continued down the Road of Bone.  It was a warm day that severely taxed those who weren’t of Living Constructs or Celestial heritage.  Gherrick used up the last of his water towards midday and Saint Simon took it as a personal offense that he did not immediately ask for more.  Gherrick replied that he could not remember ever meeting a creature like Simon, but he would certainly ask for more in the future.  Aegle vehemently agreed, though she needed no water for herself.

Onwards, onwards, and onwards they traveled, walking and flying at various times.  H.A.L. proved quiet useful in enabling the party this way and Mhoram requested he cast more the next day on all of them, save Simon.  The sun continued its unpredictable path thru the sky and made it challenging to gauge the passage of time.  So onwards, onwards and onwards they went.

The sun was nearly set when H.A.L.’s sensors spotted a ramshackle abode hundreds of yards ahead.  They approached cautiously.  Darsint and Simon led the way.  The abode appeared to be a shanty house of some sort, assembled from various burnt pieces of debris, as the got closer.  There were others that dotted the landscape at irregular intervals.  

A sickly looking man, clothed in tattered black robes lazily prodded an ugly plant on the ground with his hoe.  He turned towards them as they approach, and revealed a sunken face with red, watery eyes that barely opened.  He was quite scrawny and, as he opened his mouth to talk, he exposed a blackened tongue and set of teeth.

"Helllllllls Weeeeeeeed," he whispered, extending his cupped palm.  "Heeeeeeelllss Weeeddddd."


----------



## Angel of Adventure (May 11, 2005)

*The Wilted Lands of Zackef, Pt. I - Harris*

Hey everyone.  Thanks for reading so far and hope you are finding things interesting.  This post here ends the first game of our campaign.  I didn't think it would take so long to write it out, but I'm glad its done and we can get into some good action soon.  We are scheduled to take a break while Mhoram's PC runs his game for a bit.  I'm looking forward to taking a break, playin' instead of DMin', and (just maybe) catching up on the story hour.  

Later,

AoA

***********************************

The Travelers looked at the wretched man before them, taking in his withering form and broken psyche.

“Heeeeeeeeeellllllssss Weeeed!,” he whispered forcefully, poking Mhoram with his cupped hand.

“We do not have any,” replied Mhoram as he gently moved the hand away.  He lifted his head in haste and he gazed all around.  Someone was watching them.  He could feel their eyes upon him.

“We are being watched,” Mhoram alerted them.  “Be ready!”

“Over there!,” shouted Gherrick, pointing his finger to a small, burnt structure a hundred yards ahead.  There was a man, halfway out the door, who noticed them immediately.  He retreated immediately, slamming the door behind him.

They flew into motion, reciting incantations and drawing their weapons.  Again, Darsint charged ahead with Simon, then Mhoram and H.A.L., followed by Gherrick drawing up the rear.  A single blow from Darsint’s metal fist busted the door into a thousand pieces.

Inside the squalid room was the man they saw, hurriedly slamming a trap door in the far corner.  Darsint reduced this one into many splintered shards and grabbed his quarry in a tight grip.  One pull from his arm sent him flying through the air, hitting the ceiling and collapsing at their feet.  Below, Darsint saw two small forms scurrying away from him.

“Please!  Do not hurt us!  We are innocent prisoners of Zacknef.  We do not do anything that would harm him or his minions!”

Darsint looked over his shoulder and saw the man slowly rising to his knees.  He was nearly as gaunt as the gentleman they encountered earlier, but his speech was clear and his chiseled face looked completely sober.  

“Do not fear us, my child,” whispered Simon, “for I can feel the Good in you.  We are not minions of this Zacknef and you will not feel his reprisals so long as we are with you.  Tell me, are there others with you?  If so, have them come out and join us.  We would not want to be strangers to them in their own home.”

Darsint and Mhoram’s eyes met in a look of mutual disdain at Simon’s words.  He had not only given away their identities, but also made promises on their behalf.  Important leverage was lost.

Mhoram helped the man stand and gazed upon him.  Though not in great health, he did have a bit more fat on him than the other one.  He stood before them now, pushing his dirty-blond hair out of his face, and gazing uneasily upon them.  He appeared as though he should be in the prime of his life, if not for the uncompromising conditions of the land. “My name is Mhoram, and the Angel before you is Saint Simon.  These others here are Darsint, Gherrick, and H.A.L..”

“I . . . my name is Harris, and my daughters are below.  Julia is the older, and Mylee is the younger.  Girls, please come up!  Our . . . visitors mean us no ill-will.”  He gazed nervously around at ushered them to a small, fractured table with three teetering chairs.  Mhoram and Gherrick sat down, as did Harris after his daughters joined them.

“It is a great honor to have you in our house, fair Angel and friends.  I wish I could offer you something to soothe you, as you have the look of ones who have been traveling for many days.”

“Your hospitality is appreciated,” replied Mhoram.  “Indeed, it has taken us several days to reach you, and the path was grim.  Please, tell us of yourself, and this misery that surrounds us.  We are strangers here, as you may have guessed.”

“Oh . . . where to begin?  Yes, this is a miserable land, full of suffering and addiction.  I saw you speaking to Jerome before you broke down my door.  He, like all the others, save myself and my daughters, is hopelessly addicted to Hell’s Weed; a product of Zacknef’s cruel machinations.  It keeps them docile, though for what purpose I do not know.”

“Why are you not addicted?,” interrupted Darsint.  “Why are you and your kin unaffected by this stupor?”  He could not remember ever being intoxicated since his transformation and found it hard to relate to such a weakness.

“I don’t know . . . I just am.  It is more of curse for me, if you can believe that.  When I was around Mylee’s age I developed a reaction to it.  For some reason, I could no longer properly digest it.  I would eat it and, shortly thereafter, I became violently ill.  I say this is a curse because I cannot sustain myself on the horrible vegetation around us without aid.  It seems as though Hell’s Weed alters your digestion so that one can exist on such wilted plants.”

“Is there food nearby?,” asked Simon.  “You must get sustenance from something else besides the vegetation around us.”

“Well, yes . . . and no.  I will show you how we survive after the sun fully sets.”

***************

Gherrick paced back and forth within the small distillery, anxious to talk with his companions, but hesitant to interrupt Harris.  Gherrick’s head was spinning with the knowledge of Harris’ life on Ardick, in what he had termed “The Wilted Lands of Zacknef”, and when their lives would eroded into a similarly squalid existence. 

Harris scratched and clawed his way through each day since becoming allergic to Hell’s Weed during puberty.  Every day, day after day, he would be approached by Zacknef’s followers to take it, and every day he would do so in order to avoid their suspicions.  He suspected others were ‘afflicted’ like him, but could only confirm this incidentally, until Julia and Mylee came along.  Their mother died at Mylee’s birth, and both daughters gained their resistance shortly after learning to walk.  

Harris found the underground lab, where they currently rested, during a desperate search to leave Zacknef’s lands.  It was several miles from his encampment and finding it was a stroke of luck beyond his highest hopes.  The equipment therein was basic in nature and easily discernable in function.  Someone else had left a vial of reduced, molded plant matter in a beaker that Harris ate it in desperation.  He survived and returned every night to cook again, only to submit himself and his daughters to the sickening tortures of the Hell’s Weed and Zacknef’s minions.

“It is a miserably life that we lead here,” Harris told them.  “There is so much despair that I sometimes wish my daughters and I were afflicted like the others.  We would just melt the days away and never know our prison.  Yet, after I found this place, I made a promise to myself and those around me that I would find a way to rid us of Zacknef’s grip and free us to our own destiny.  This is why I continue, as well as for the safety of my two daughters.  I would have them know freedom one day, even if it when they are old and grey.  Surely, you all can see our pain.  Will you not aid us?”

“We will help you,” answered Simon.  “You need not fear any longer, my son, and your daughters shall have their freedom well before the winter of their lives.”

“You do not speak for all of us, Simon,” growled Darsint.  He did not want to upset the balance of things, no matter how good the reason, until he knew the consequences of their actions.  “We shall discuss this amongst ourselves, not including you and Harris.”

“Very well, but you do have mine,” rebuked Saint Simon.  “I shall help you even if these others won’t.”

Mhoram touched the foreheads of Darsint, Gherrick, and H.A.L. with his metal hands and utterred the incantation that linked their minds together.

[Darsint]:  This Angel bothers me, Mhoram.  He speaks for us when he should not and I want to know more about this Zacknef before we make any decisions.
[Mhoram]:  Yes, I agree, but let’s not be too hasty as to simply turn away from them.  The suffering inflicted upon these people is truly evil and must be ended.  Yet, I feel that we are being pushed into this confrontation . . . as if it were looming before us ever since our arrival here.  I don’t like being pushed and prodded anymore than you two.
[Darsint]:  What if Zacknef knows about us?  We will want him alive to ask him our questions.
[Gherrick]:  I don’t think an evil entity such as Zacknef is likely to surrender such information.  We will probably have to take it by force and get our questions answered later.  
[Darsint]:  Let’s be clear!  I am for whatever course of action yields us answers, but we need to do so cautiously.  We do not owe these people anything, or vice versa.
[Mhoram]:  We cannot allow Simon to go by himself.  He is our only means of being brought back from total destruction and surely he will go off on his own if we let him.  He seems very rigid in his thinking.
[Darsint]:  I see your point in that.  Very well, we shall tell Harris that we will aid him, though it is none of our concern what happens after this Zacknef is cast down.

“Why are you all staring at each other?,” asked Harris.

“Never you mind,” replied Darsint.  “Now, tell us Harris, what type of creature is Zacknef?”

“I do not know.  He’s never appeared before us.  His minions come everyday, when the sun is at its highest point, and they appear as humans to us.  Once, though, as they were leaving, I thought I saw one turn into a bird-man.  He was covered in black feathers, but he disappeared quickly behind a building.”

“Where does Zacknef dwell?  Can you take us to him?”

“Yes, I can show you where his tower is.  I have never been there . . . I’ve only seen it from afar.  Oh, and one more thing, if you are sure you will go.  I’ve tried to find a cure for us but I am missing the correct components.  Everything around here has been tried.  Perhaps, and I don’t know why I feel this, I need something from Zacknef’s realm.  Maybe one of Zacknef’s followers is the key to all of this.  I don’t know . . . but try to bring one his more powerful minions to me, dead of course, and I will do everything I can to find us a cure.”

*********

They journeyed to just outside Zacknef’s tower in the early morning.  Harris pointed them in the right direction and off they went.  Their search did not take long.

Zacknef’s tower loomed above the flattened, cracked, and wilted surroundings like a giant weed.  The tower rose before them, nearly beyond the edge of their vision, crafted out of a black stone, or metal, that was deeply set with light blue veins.  Its base was surrounded by large walls that were shaped into an octagon and top was covered by a small, black dome.  The tower was larger at the base than at its top, significantly so, and the dome was supported by large pillars that allowed for some room for enterance.  The tower, as far as they could see, was windowless.

The Travelers sat in silence, unsure of what to discuss terms of strategy or technique.  The sun would rise, hopefully emptying Zacknef’s tower, and they would assault it.  Mhoram gave Saint Simon his greatsword, leaving only his staff as his telekinetic weapon.  The staff would do, but Mhoram preferred sharper instruments to complement his delicate touch.

This is not right, thought Mhoram.  We chose this conflict, yet it seemingly chose us.  I do not like the reciprocity here!  It makes me feel as though Zacknef is waiting for us, as though he wants us to come.  We have poor intelligence, little to no plans or time to prepare, and we have barely fought together in this new realm.  We risk so much, and for what?  Yes, we will help Harris and his brood, but will we help ourselves?  How many of us will be left to help once this is over with?

Mhoram wouldn’t have minded more time to think and reflect on the past few days.  Surely, with his keen intellect, more could be discerned if he had enough time.  Yet, before their very eyes, the sun streaked from the horizon behind them to the very top of the sky.

“It is time,” stated Saint Simon.  “Time for Zacknef to taste the pure might of our righteousness.”  He drew his sword and ascended whilst casting his protective spells.


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## Angel of Adventure (May 18, 2005)

*The Wilted Lands of Zacknef, Pt II - The Tower*

Our story continues . . .

*******************************************

“Zacknef, are you down there?” chirped a high voice.  “Why did you lock us out of the tower?”

Mhoram looked down the expansive corridor and carefully eyed the stone-carved staircase that led upwards.  Nothing immediately descended upon them, but he did not hesitate to summon a wall of pure Force and dimensionally lock the area around it.

Darsint walked back from the praying Saint Simon to join him.  “They will not be held at bay for long.  Once they see the damage we’ve done they will be all over us!”

Mhoram returned his gaze calmly.  “Whether we are successful or not, we will know more about this land Ardick before we die.  That, alone, is a reason to fight for both of us.  Gherrick, get over here.”

Gherrick, deadly Initiate of the Bow, left Zacknef’s harem and headed out to meet them now that he’d finished scouring the dead Succubi. He felt very small; walking through the massive tunnels of Zacknef’s lower lair brought unforgiving thoughts of how large their adversary could be.

“Gherrick, we need to you cover Saint Simon at all times.  He is possessed with hatred for our foes and he is unlikely to restrain himself if Zacknef is truly what we suspect.  Keep your arrows pointed at any who would harm him.”

“Yes,” shot Darsint, “but keep those arrows away from me!  We have seen amazing things from you and I don’t want to find out that it was all just luck.  And you, out of all of us, have the worst luck today!”

“I am fine . . . now.  I think H.A.L. cured me.”

“Hmmph.  I find it hard to believe that a simple abjuration could rid you of an addiction that has plagued these people for centuries!”  The image of their descent through the top of the tower flashed into Darsint’s mind.  The top entrance consisted of a long drop through a garden of Hell’s Weed.  It grew on vines that reached over 200 feet in height.   They were being tended to by a young girl, floating half way up and idly trimming her plants.

Darsint’s gem, when pressed to his eye, revealed her to be six-armed and snake-tailed Demon known as a Marilith.  Her immediate action was to set the garden ablaze by means of a magic rod on her belt.  They had taken her down after some trouble and only Gherrick seemed affected by the fumes.  He was, however, very deeply entranced with the feelings Hell’s Weed gave him.
Gherrick refused to move, fight, or do anything besides reach out for the burning plants around them.  Darsint restrained him and H.A.L did indeed break the enchantment upon their archer and he returned to them, though a bit groggy.

“I’m OK,” answered Gherrick.  “I am with you in this.  Aegle and I will not let you down.”

“That is correct,” pronounced Aegle.  “My light will guide us to victory, just as it guides our way through these dark tunnels.”

Footsteps arose behind them and they turned to see H.A.L. and Simon coming towards them.  The Planetar had a look of serenity and joy on his face that sharply contrasted with the many scars stitched across his green, lanky body.

“My friends, thank you so much for coming with me in this,” spoke Saint Simon.  “We have come to the final step in our mission here.  My divinations have revealed to me that our enemy sits within the chamber that rests behind those golden doors that block our path.”  His gaze went downwards and his expression changed to one of loving concern.

“If Zacknef is what we think he is, I must say that it is unlikely that we will all survive.  This does not affect my desire to see Zacknef slain, but I will not speak for all of you.  If you have the means and are so inclined, now is the time to leave; you will always have my respect for coming this far.  For those of you who would stay and fight with me, I offer you this:  you are more courageous and daring than any other mortals I have ever met!  Our Lord has willed us to this point in time for a reason, and that reason is a final victory over the one who casts his misery across this land!  With His help, I shall remove this final obstacle in our path and Zacknef will finally know the true strength of Good.”

“We are with you, Simon,” responded Darsint.  “Let us attack with care, though, and do not take unnecessary risks with yourself.  We will need your healing powers once the battle is done.”

“Our Lord will protect me, if it is His Will that I survive this,” Simon countered.  A single holy word from his lips resulted in a flash of energy, emanating from the Angel, and they were all surrounded by a golden aura.  “Let this protect you, as well.  My prayer will only take a short while, but this should be enough for you to cast protections of your own.  Now, ready yourselves!”  He knelt before the golden door and began praying in a low, powerful voice.

The Travelers did so with rapid speed.  Mhoram warded them all against fire; he and Darsint were completely immune to flame.  H.A.L. empowered Darsint, Saint Simon, and himself with a valence that increased the flexibility of their arms to the point that they could extend them an extra five feet.  He also energized his and Darsint’s swords with the power of pure sound, making them even more lethal.  Mhoram and H.A.L. then cast a spell common to both to them and their exteriors became as hard as stone, though with no loss of movement.

The prayer continued, giving Mhoram enough time to ponder the many mistakes they’d made during their attack.  If nothing else, he thought, we should have been hastier in making our way down here.

After descending through the burning garden up top, the Travelers opened the hatch in the floor and found themselves in a pitch black living quarters/laboratory that housed two casters of incredible arcane power.  (Mhoram guessed them to be sorcerers based on their lack of spellbooks.)  They moved quickly after overcoming their surprise, but not before one of the black robed figures nearly imprisoned Darsint miles beneath the earth.  The other blew a hole in Mhoram’s leg, roughly double in size as a common coin.  Saint Simon was there immediately to patch him up while Darsint, H.A.L., and Gherrick finished off their adversaries by means of several telling blows.

They picked through the lab, the fallen sorcerers, and the many chests in front of dozens of beds.  The delay cost them dearly.

They walked into two traps, one on each level as the descended through the tower.  The floor immediately beneath the lab consisted of a large, foul smelling nest filled with nearly 20 large bird-men, known as Vrocks.  Four groups, five in each, danced in a deadly circle, seemingly in celebration of their arrival.  The Travelers rushed the room just as four large blasts of energy lanced their bodies, and set four of the Vrocks ablaze.  Gherrick and Aegle proved their worth by killing nearly two-thirds of them, while Saint Simon’s holy prayers obliterated the rest.  

Again, they took time to search for clues.  This time, the danger below would not wait for them.

Simon had just finished healing them and they were preparing themselves to open the next trapdoor.  Suddenly, the door flew open and ten balls of green, crackling energy burst upon them, impacting H.A.L. and Gherrick in equal number.  They were sent by more black-robed figures that lined the staircase beneath them.  Mhoram annihilated them with deadly explosions of fire and a lightning bolt that arched its way through each of their foes.  When the dust finally settled, H.A.L.’s mithrial plating was badly scorched and Gherrick chest was a gaping, bloody hole.  Simon healed him with one quick prayer before Gherrick succumbed to the damage inflicted upon him.

Once thoroughly searched, the bodies were discarded and the Traveler made their way through the unholy chapel that housed these evil Warlocks.  Fresh blood was smeared across a well-used alter, though no victim could be found.  Saint Simon ordered them all to stop so he could consecrate the grounds.  He would not listen to them when they begged for him to follow them downwards.  

He returned to them shortly as they explored an empty parlor area, presumably the ground level of Zacknef’s tower.  A few thin beams of light penetrated the room through cracks in a set of large double doors, making this the only inner level that wasn’t pitch black.  The walls were lined with carvings of demonic creatures killing and torturing terrified villagers.  One panel consisted of a large, winged demon, wreathed in fire.  Its head pointed downward and its outstretched hands each held a head lined with Angelic features.  The prominence of this panel suggested that they were looking at the lord of the tower.

Darsint warily opened the door while the others, save Saint Simon (who was tearing away at the carving of the winged fiend), searched for another exit from the parlor.  Darsint returned as Mhoram found a final door hidden beneath a well-crafted rug.  He reported that a large, moving black cloud was on the horizon.  It appeared that Zacknef’s followers were returning.  Mhoram used his magicks to lock the door and block it with a Force wall.  The quickly hurried down the secret door and descended for a long, long time.

The underground level brought them to where they were now.  The tunnel branched off in two directions.  One led them to Zacknef’s harem.  Four Succubi greeted them, one holding two new-born babies.  Mhoram transformed himself into what he hoped looked like Zacknef and attempted to order the release of the prisoner.  His disguise was apparently not good enough, and the Succubi attempted to charm them with their lovely demonic forms.  They failed and all, save one that vanished, were quickly slain without harm to the babes.

Darsint, reasoning that she had escaped into the Ethereal Plane, quickly activated his enchanted breastplate armor and followed her.  He caught sight of her as she ran past him and down the other branch of the corridor.  He gave chase until he came up against a multi-dimensional barrier that forbade his further progress.  Mhoram, once alerted to the problem, quickly used one of his most powerful incantations to disjoin its magic.  A short walk brought them to the looming golden door at which Saint Simon now prayed.

Yes, we should have been quicker, concluded Mhoram, but I have a feeling that this fight will not last long.  Let Zacknef’s followers come, for if we can defeat Zacknef, we can wipe them all out at the same time!

A flash of pure sunlight attracted his attention and he noticed that Simon was no longer kneeling.  The doors in front of them miraculously melted away, revealing a sight that they all had hoped not to see.

**************************************************************

Thanks for reading!  Any guesses as to the identity of Zacknef?  How about Simon's prediction of likely slaughter.  Will it come true and, if so, for whom?!?


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## trexmaster (May 19, 2005)

Hmmm... My guess would be that Zacknef is a Balor. As for the future dead one...maybe Darsint.


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## Angel of Adventure (Jun 2, 2005)

*The Wilted Lands of Zacknef, Pt III - Zacknef Remembers*

Greetings everyone.  Thanks for waiting a bit for this one and I am definately sensing another update in the not-to-far future . . . 

Thanks a ton, TrexMaster, for reading and guessing about the fate of our Travelers.  Oh, thanks to for mentioning The Ardick Campaign as one of your favorite SHs.  Didn't mean to pay back your kind words with an extra long wait.  

Well, without futher rambling . . . 

..............................................................................................

Zacknef, Lord of the Wilted Lands, scratched a sharp nail upon the nameless white dome that nestled itself within his Skull Throne.   He stroked it carelessly before tapping the nail against another skull in an aimless fashion.  His fanged and hideous visage stared forward blankly, as though contemplating something far away, and he thrust his scaly wings outward so he could slouch better upon his throne.  His other hand gently held the pommel of a large, menacing sword to his right, and he leisurely maneuvered it in and out of the scabbard.

The Balor Zacknef, destroyer of many Angels, enslaver of countless Mortals, gazed downward for the moment, eventually spitting his fiery saliva upon the ground.  Everything given to him at the end of the Last Great War, from his beautiful, once impenetrable tower, to his the hundreds of thralls, to the vast Wilted Lands he ruled, could no longer be considered a boon to him.  

This was a conclusion he reach over 99,999 years ago.

Indeed, he saw these fanciful trappings as they truly were:  a cage.  For all of this was designed by his great master, Shoal, to keep him here in a state of total complacence.  Lord Zacknef no longer feared, nor prepared for, enemy attacks now that his borders were established.  He was given free reign to rule within them as his black heart desired, never once having to answer for his crimes.

However, no matter how much he pleaded, plotted, or planned, he could never leave his borders and infect other lands with his cruel misery, lest Shoal hand him a fate worse than death. 

Of all the things in the world that Zacknef hated most, this pervasive adversary remained undefeatable and untouchable to him, given his current position.  He hated this foe more than any Angel he’d ever extinguished, yet he could not strike at it, lest he tempt fate by venturing beyond his defined boundaries.

This hated enemy, this most dreaded of foes, was Boredom.  Utter and unending Boredom.

Zacknef yearned for change, but would never get it in these severely tamed lands.

Over 100,000 years ago he led his master’s forces on a victorious, blood soaked journey that scarred these lands forever.  He savored those long battles that ushered in the dark cloud of evil upon this land and rejoiced when a new order that was his to choose spread from his vile heart and corrupted the weak minds of his once noble populace.  He celebrated every destroyed hope, every crushed dream, and every Good creature murdered by his minions with a malicious joy that was unrivaled amongst his kin.

Over 96,789 years passed since his last ‘conflict’ with the humans he so easily enslaved.  Zacknef remembered the event as underwhelming at best.  His slaves were far too brittle and ill-equipped to put up an interesting attack or defense and, due to the complete hold of Hell’s Weed upon them, they would never even summon the motivation to try again.

Over 79,675 years passed since he ventured outside of his tower to torture someone.  He bemoaned that a disappointing 20,000 years of constant torturing could exhaust his many innovative methods. The repetitious screams of helpless, terrified mortals no longer moved him.

Over 57,893 years passed since one of his underlings attempted to overthrow him in any meaningful way and was broken, in every sense of the word, in front of his fellow lackeys. He wished that they didn’t have such long memories, as he hoped everyday that one would have brutal ambition to attack him again, perhaps even best him.

Over 45,666 years passed since Zacknef last killed something out of spite, hatred, jealousy, or any other toxic emotion that plagued him so fitfully during the Last Great War.  It was a fateful moment, as Zacknef realized there was nothing left in his realm that would ever excite, or enrage, him in any encouraging way.

He sequestered himself in the lower level of his tower, only occasionally engaging his henchmen to see if things remained the same.  They always did. A trip to the harem was about the only enjoyment he took of late, though his despicable need to humiliate and hurt his concubines, bending them unwillingly to his sickest desires, was 34,571 years past.

Day and night, Zacknef cried out to the darkest of powers in desperation, begging for any meaningful event would that would challenge him in some small way, perhaps even cause him to loose his temper and rediscover the impulse to inflict pain.

Pathetically, it never came.

Yet, when the Succubus Armirz appeared uninvited in his throne room, an act punishable only by the most wretched tortures in his arsenal, Zacknef felt a surge of hope run through him.  Today would be different, if for no other reason than it would be his first violent provocation in oh-so-many tedious years.

**************************************************************


The Travelers and their friends watched the doors in front of them melt away and reveal a grotesque throne room that smelled of bitter stagnation.  The creature they had feared to find, Zacknef the Balor, Lord of the Wilted Lands, stood in front of a large throne composed entirely of skulls.  His blackened demonic form, towering nearly 15 feet high, was wreathed flames hot enough to sear their souls.  A huge sword shaped like a lightning bolt, also wreathed in fire, lay at Zacknef’s side and was eagerly clutched by his slimy black fingers.

The natural stone room was a large oval, approximately 100 feet across and 70 feet deep, with Zacknef’s Skull Throne occupying the prominent place in the center.  Two large metal and spiked screens, maybe 20 feet in both dimensions, flanked the throne roughly 5 feet to the front.  An excited Marilith stood in front of one to their left, smiling cruelly in hopes of stroking Zacknef’s anger.  She bristled with an obscene amount of weaponry.

The Succubus they’d encountered earlier lay prostrated at Zacknef’s feet, attempting in vain to soothe his worsening mood.

“INTRUDERS YOU SAY!” boomed Zacknef.  “IF WE HAVE INTRUDERS, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE WITHOUT ONE OF THEIR HEADS IN THE PALM OF YOUR HAND?!?”

In one swiftly brutal motion, Zacknef raised his lightning sword above his horned head and brought it down upon Armirz’s neck, decapitating the Succubus in a bloody exclamation point. The head towards the Travelers at a rapid pace, eventually resting at Darsint’s feet.

“GREETINGS, STUPID MORTALS!” Zacknef roared as he turned his gaze upon them.  His mighty voice thundered around them, shaking loose a few rocks from the ceiling. “HOW KIND OF YOU TO JOIN ME IN MY CHAMBER OF DEATH!  IT HAS BEEN SO LONG SINCE SOMEONE DARED TO CHALLENGE ME THAT I FEAR I MAY BE A BIT SLOW IN KILLING YOU.  NO MATTER!  I WILL HAVE THAT MUCH LONGER TO ENJOY YOUR LAST SCREAMS!”


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## Angel of Adventure (Jun 16, 2005)

*The Wilted Lands of Zacknef IV - Confrontation*

OK, so it took a bit longer to turn this update out, but I'm pleased with it and hopefully you will find it worth the wait.  This brings about the end of our second (final???) gaming session and fufilled my need to give Mhoram, Zacknef, and Gherrick (the PCs) a fight worthy of their potent skills.

Enjoy!    

*******************************************************************

Zacknef surged forward, shaking the chamber around them with his mighty footsteps, each long stride consuming the space between himself and the Travelers.  Gherrick loosened five quick shots at him, only to have the arrows burned away by Zacknef’s black, fiery aura.  

Zacknef retorted by telekinetically grabbing Aegle from Gherrick’s strong grasp, tossing her at the feet of his Marilith.  His left hand arm extended itself and he made a slow, crushing motion with his hand whilst looking directly at Saint Simon.

“IMMMMPLLLLLOOOOOSSSSSSSIIIIOOOON!”

The loud echo of Saint Simon’s bones crushing in on themselves pierced their ears and his form suddenly collapsed into a compact package surrounded by a rapidly growing blood pool.

“HA, HA, HA!!! THE ANGEL DIES FIRST, SURELY AN OMEN OF YOUR PAINFUL DEMISE.  ADD ANOTHER SKULL TO MY THRONE!  COME NOW, WHO IS NEXT TO FEEL MY POWER?!?”

“Gherrick, come to me!” cried Aegle.  “Do not let Saint Simon die in vain!”

“Don’t just stand there gaping!” shot Darsint.  “We don’t stand a chance without your marksmanship!”  

Darsint and the seven rotating images around him charged Zacknef with sword in hand, landing a blow with swift precision.  Zacknef quickly retrieved a long, sinewy barbed whip at his side.  Its tail danced wickedly in the air before entangling Darsint, pulsing with a life of its own.  Zacknef pulled him forward into his burning form with an abrupt snap of the whip.

Mhoram and H.A.L. acted in concert, unleashing a series of electrical and sonic invocations at the Balor.  Their energies raced forward in rapid succession, creating blinding fireworks in the darkness around them.  The results were unimpressive, never giving Zacknef reason to give up Darsint.

Gherrick tumbled his way toward the Marilith on Zacknef’s right, dodging its blows masterfully and avoiding its enchanting gaze. He ran and dove for Aegle who eagerly returned to his needy hands.  Two shots were fired while on his back, aimed directly for her head, only to see his missiles pass through the Demon in front of him.

Gherrick’s true adversary slid out of the darkness from behind the throne.  She wasted little time and followed Zacknef’s lead by ripping Aegle from Gherrick. Aegle flew forward and impacted the Skull Throne at high speed, ricocheting behind it.  Her hands immediately grabbed the six blades at her side and she slithered forward, ready to slice Gherrick open.

Darsint wailed on Zacknef with his large metal fists, desperately trying to free himself from the Balor’s painful grasp.  He managed to push himself away, giving the combatants space to trade sword blows.  Zacknef punished him with two telling blows, forcing the lightning-shaped, adamantine weapon deep inside Darsint’s hardened body, never mistaking Darsint’s illusionary replicas for the real thing.  Darsint returned with four quick slashes and grimaced when they rang off Zacknef’s flaming skin.

“STUPID, PATHETIC MORTALS!’ taunted Zacknef.  “I WILL SEND YOUR WEAK SOUL TO THE ABYSS SO YOU CAN ENJOY A LEVEL OF SUFFERING THAT I COULD ONLY HOPE TO INFLICT UPON YOU!”  His whip stretched out again and ensnared Darsint a second time, lifting him off his feet and into the flames.

Mhoram and H.A.L. watched helplessly as more and more of their magicks were extinguished by Zacknef’s horrible aura.  Their own auras, provided by the mauled Saint Simon, did not seem to slow their boastful foe.  

“H.A.L.,” cried Mhoram, “maximize all of your damaging spells upon our foe!  We can only hope one of our more potent valences will get through this Demon’s defenses and do some meaningful damage!”  

H.A.L. responded with a cone of scintillating rainbow beams, aimed carefully as to not catch Darsint.  It was but a small annoyance to Zacknef.  Mhoram breathed in and concentrated on his enemy.  A small cylinder of force flew towards Zacknef and exploded through his right leg.  A geyser of black flames erupted from the wound.  

Zacknef turned his attention away from the entangled Darsint and gazed upon the bone-robed wizard still standing at the entrance to his lair.  “YOU CANNOT HOPE TO HURT ME WITH YOUR SILLY SPELL, MAGE!  LET ME FINISH WITH YOUR GOLEM AND I’LL SHOW YOU A DAMNATION THAT WILL BE YOUR ETERNITY!!!”

His voice rattled the chamber and a boulder shook free from the ceiling, dropping between Zacknef and his quarry.  The rock snapped the whip from his hand and forced Darsint away from him.  Darsint did not miss this opportunity, casting his own spell and then flinging his greatsword at the prone monstrosity in front of him.  It slashed a deep wound across Zacknef’s shoulder, creating a large gash that breathed more fire, before returning to Darsint’s hands.  

Gherrick desperately tried to distance himself from the six-bladed Marilith, whose swords repeatedly cut him.  He managed to fend off enough abuse to get away and retrieve Aegle, easily spotting her shinning glow in the darkness.  They turned to face their charging foe and embedded four arrows in her long tail and muscular torso.  

She was now on top of him and the two then began the deadly dance of Bow against Sword.  Gherrick could not recall the last time he’d practiced this routine, but it came with instinctive speed.

Gherrick dodged left, then right, before stutter-stepping to evade all but one of the Marilith’s attacks, slightly wounding his arrow arm but never slowing him.  He and Aegle fired arrow after arrow from seemingly impossible positions; at times shooting blindly as they tumbled back and forth, each arrow scoring a bloody victory.

The Marilith now realized that Gherrick could not be allowed to use his weapon so freely and grappled him with her long, reptilian tail.  The force of her strength bore down upon him and he felt consciousness slipping away.

“Fight, Gherrick, fight!” a desperate Aegle called out.  “Do not allow yourself to leave your friends without killing this beast!”

Gherrick felt his rib cage start to crack, bringing a blood into his mouth and out onto his lips.  Aegle restored some of his strength immediately, giving him a few more precious seconds of consciousness.  

Zacknef never stopped the brutal offensive he’d begun against Darsint.  Flecks of Greenstar metal flew in all direction each time the jagged blade hit home.  H.A.L. rushed forward with greatsword drawn, hoping to intervene.  He found his metal frame thrown aside by a powerful punch from the Demon that threw him up against a spiked screen that stood in front of the throne.  Prying himself off, he charged back, diving out with a repairing spell charged on his hand.

H.A.L. flew past Darsint and touched his back, magically closing some of the cracks now stitched across the Greenstar Adept’s frame.  H.A.L. tumbled expertly to an abrupt stop and reentered the fight.

“WHAT IS THIS?’ boomed Zacknef.  “TWO METAL MEN AT ONCE?  DO YOU HAVE SOULS, YOU STUPID GOLEMS?  WE’LL FIND OUT ONCE I STRIP AWAY YOUR LIVES!”  

“You will not take that pleasure, Demon!” exclaimed Darsint.  “It will be you who looses your soul today, if there is anything still left of it!”  

Sword strokes exchanged themselves amongst the three combatants, their weapons clashing in a flurry of deadly violence.  The Sucubus’ head remained near the entrance, a reminder of Zacknef’s deadly prowess.  His sword, bristling with evil, chaotic fire was something to be feared in its own right.

Zacknef was a consummate tactician.  He moved easily from side to side, never letting his foes get behind him and while trying to use them as cover from Mhoram’s magical attacks.  He ignored damage from the few valences that penetrated his innate resistance to mortal magic and further pressed his attack.  Mhoram now realized, through trial and error of all too many of his spells, that electrical attacks would not harm this Balor.  Likewise, Zacknef’s fiery blood burned too hot for any fire-based incantations to succeed.

H.A.L. feinted to his left, provoking an attack from Zacknef, but leaving open a small window for Darsint to strike.  Darsint swung again and again, absorbing Zacknef’s black, fiery aura harmlessly by way of the wards provided to him by Mhoram, H.A.L., and the extinguished Simon.  His own attack did little harm and two blows returned by Zacknef erased all of H.A.L.’s repairs.

“You will not take me, Demon whore,” gasped Gherrick, still struggling to break free of the Marilith’s squeeze.  He found a dagger strapped behind his right shoulder and pressed it deep into the Demon, causing her to scream loudly.  She released her grasp just enough for Gherrick to spurt free and turn his bow back upon her.  He danced between her blows and kept firing, always firing no matter where she forced him. His foes now sported a dozen arrows on her foul frame.

The Marilith pressed forward, trying to yank away Aegle, before raining down six strikes too fast for Gherrick’s keen eyes.  His breastplate adequately protected his vitals, but the foul energies in her strikes shocked him to the core.  He fired desperately, trying to seek cover behind a spiked screen, then the throne.  She pursued him mercilessly.  Two more arrows found their target, one flying wide and another deflected by a sword.  Each retreated to opposite sides of the Skull Throne to take count of their many wounds.

The Marilith stopped, taking a defensive posture on the opposite side of the throne and weighed her options.  She was bleeding from too many wounds, and the nimble archer was too fast for this engagement to work out in her favor.  Even if Zacknef did win, he would probably rape her in a fit of mad glee to celebrate his victory.

“F&(# you, Zacknef!” she spat at him.  “I will not sacrifice my life for the miserable likes of you!”  She vanished from view with a pop that echoed throughout the chamber.

“WHAT IS THIS?” snarled Zacknef, his face twisting in unfortunate surprise. “YOU STUPID BITCH!  I WILL CHASE YOU DOWN AND RIP EVERY LAST INCH OF SKIN FROM YOUR BODY!”

H.A.L. and Darsint seized the moment to strike together, their greatswords a whirlwind of menacing steel.  Only Darsint’s blows landed successfully and more fiery wounds erupted along Zacknef’s black skin.  He glared at Darsint and shouted, “COME, LITTLE ONE!  LET ME PUT THE SWEET WARMTH OF LIFE BEHIND YOU!  I WILL SEND YOUR SOUL TO MY LAIR IN THE ABYSS AND YOU WILL FOREVER BE MY THRALL!!!”

Zacknef’s sword came around from above his head and brought the pommel down atop Darsint’s head, sending him to his knees.   His eyes were forced downward so that he never saw the death blow coming.  

Zacknef’s muscular arm descended as his lightning-bolt sword swept across Darsint’s torso in a blur of flaming metal, splitting him in two.  His heavy body landed with successive thuds, and the Traveler’s dead face was pasted with a look of horrific confusion.

“HA, HA, HA!!!” chuckled Zacknef.  “I DON’T NEED ANY HELP WITH YOU WEAKLINGS.  ANOTHER OF YOU LIES DEAD AT MY FEET!  WHO WANTS TO TASTE MY FINAL GIFT, AND WHO WILL NOW BEG FOR MY MERCY?  YOU DO NOT STAND A CHANCE OF DEFEATING ME!”

“Darsint!!!” cried Gherrick, finally able to find his words through the rising lump in his throat.  His fingers acted instinctively and Zacknef soon wore a circle of arrows upon his winged back, each one planted with precise accuracy.

“Here you die, Demon,” replied Mhoram coolly.  “We will fight you to the very last; there will be no mercy for you.  None shall ever feel your tyranny past this day!”

“IDIOTS! IT IS MOST CERTAINLY YOU WHO WILL NOT SEE THE NEXT DAY.  I HAVE WAITED SO LONG TO DESTROY ANYONE AS BOLD AS YOU!  THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME THE OPPORTUNITY TO KILL YOU ALL!!!”  More stones shook free of the ceiling and debris briefly cloud their sight.

Mhoram wasted no time during Zacknef’s tirade to act decisively.  He concentrated all of his power into a dark cloud that puffed out around the Demon’s, sucking away any moisture residing in his fiery frame.  It took hold with deadly potency and all watched Zacknef’s skin wilted before them.  He cried loudly, spitting fire upon the ground at his feet and taking three thundering steps backwards.  A fireball exploded upon Mhoram, but it was skillfully evaded by the Incantrix.  

“FOOLS!’ proclaimed the ailing Balor, showing his first signs of weakness during their fight. “YOU WILL JOIN ME IN THE ABYSS!  KILL ME!  YOU DO NOT HAVE THE COURAGE!  TO DO SO MEANS YOUR OWN DEATHS!  DO IT, FOOLS!  I DARE YOU!!!!!”

Fire spurted from Zacknef’s wounded, dried skin and he shook with an agitated energy that reminded Mhoram of a stopped-up, full beaker held up to a very hot flame. 

A cone of ice issued from Mhoram’s hands, maximized with all his remaining power.  It impacted Zacknef squarely in the chest.  Frost overran the Demon’s torso and his form rapidly stiffened as the cold overtook him.  His cruel face contorted into a crazed, evil smile, just before he exploded in a flash of searing destruction.  

The explosion rolled over the room, lifting man and object off the floor. It threw them backwards against the wall and they lost sight of each other in the blinding flash of energy.  A loud crack issued forth from the ceiling and rubble descended up them, threatening to celebrate their victory by burying any potential survivors alive. . .


----------



## Angel of Adventure (Aug 14, 2005)

Harris finally sat down at his small, nearly broken table and desperately fought to keeps his emotions together.  He’d paced relentlessly throughout the day until he saw the sun rise to its zenith in the sky.  He reminded himself then that this could be the last time he had to fake his allergy to Hell’s Weed and that nothing, absolutely nothing, could tip Zacknef’s men to the insidious plot that was now underway to bring about his demise.

He composed himself and took his daily dose, barely managing to hold the Hell’s Weed down until after Zacknef’s men left.  His daughters did well by doing the same.  They quickly wandered off before their captors could take their pleasures.  

They returned to their ‘house’ (he didn’t know why that word came to him, as no one around them really had one) and paced some more, trying not give into the hope that the Travelers would succeed.  Even if they did return victorious, Harris did not know where his people would go.  Their newly gained freedom would evaporate soon after it was granted, exhausted by the harsh lands around them.

Feelings of panic surged through him and he forced himself to sit back down.  It would all end today, one way or another.  Looked at his daughters playing quietly in the corner and prayed to Saint Simon that they would not seek Zacknef before they died.

His door flew open and three figures appeared, their features blacked out by the sun behind them.  Harris threw himself over his daughters and bade them to close their eyes.

“Hush, you two,” Harris pleaded over their cries.  “It is time that we leave this place; we will be free very soon.”

“It is done,” said a familiar voice.  “He is no more.”

A shocked Harris turned around and saw the three of them in his room.  Mhoram looked completely drained, his tanned completion a noticeable shade lighter and he breathed heavily.  Gherrick stood his right, holding the crushed body of Saint Simon and covered in his angelic blood.  Electrical sparks shot out from H.A.L.’s various extremities, and his normally upright posture was a bit hunched over.  All were covered in brownish dust.

“Do you speak truthfully?” pleaded Harris as he advanced towards them, his eyes starting to water.  “Are we free of him for good?”

“Yes,” replied Mhoram.  

Harris flung himself onto his knees and a pair of emaciated arms wrapped around Mhoram’s legs.  A wailing sob, full of thankfulness and relief, resounded throughout the house.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you . . .,” whispered Harris, over and over.  He stayed on his knees, holding Mhoram and crying until his eyes ran dry.

**********************************************************

The remaining two Travelers slept until sunrise, surrounded by every remaining ward Mhoram possessed.  Both awoke and made their way towards their fallen warriors.

Mhoram looked over their dead while Gherrick silently observed.  The Initiate of the Bow looked over Darsint, cleaved into two chunks and lined with uncountable chips and cracks.  Saint Simon was a mauled effigy of himself, squished into a diminished stature that reeked of heavenly blood.

Fortunately, killing Zacknef hadn’t caused their demise.  The ceiling threatened to collapse upon them, but H.A.L. reacted first.  He protected them inside a large hemisphere of pure Force, invisible yet unmovable, leaving them enough time to collect their dead and acquire Zacknef’s riches.

Mhoram pulled out a slender grey libram from his angel-skeleton robe and thought of Darsint.  Alas, he mused, the living construct that was Darsint would have enjoyed this tome.  Creating a Stone Golem, especially one as outlined here, was certainly a challenge worthy of the Adept’s skills.  

I must choose, thought Mhoram, between a link to the past and one to the present.  Simon is our only true key to temporary immortality.  His prayers will bring us back to this place no matter how we are destroyed.  Moreover, he knows at least something of this time and place, though a 100,000 years or so removed from the present day.  But Darsint, he does not deserve this.  He is too proud and powerful to make his end in such a manner.  I would hate to loose him; he feels like a good friend that I’ve never met.

“Which one should I choose, Gherrick?” inquired Mhoram.  “I can only bring back one of them, for certain.  I can’t be positive, but I feel that Simon’s prayers won’t be strong enough to return Darsint to us.  I may be wrong, but it is unlikely.  Darsint is no longer a man now that his ascendance is complete, and Angels only hold sway over those with defined mortalities.  Speak now, Gherrick, and tell me:  which one?”

“Darsint, I think,” he whispered in a low voice, “but don’t ask me.  Simon is a great asset for us, though Darsint came here with us, and I think he would do the same for either of us, given a change in our positions.”

“It is settled then.  I will bring Darsint back to us.”

The loud, thumping gait of H.A.L, Warforged Eldritch Knight, issued from behind them.  H.A.L. approached and addressed Mhoram.  “Master Program, I request permission to examine the remains of Sub-Programmer Darsint.”

“Proceed.”

H.A.L. dropped to his knee and spent several minutes assessing the situation.

“With your permission, Master Programmer, I will return Darsint to a limited level of functionality.  From there I may attempt to fully restore his systems.”

“Say true?  Can you do the same for Saint Simon?”

“Negative.  Darsint and I share certain commonalities.  My restorative processes will only aid him.”

“Do so then, at your earliest possibility.”

“I will need to refresh my arcane subroutines.  Earliest execution of said programs will occur tomorrow morning.”

“Well, I guess that makes your choice easy,” muttered Gherrick.

“Yes, you must surely restore Saint Simon,” offered Aegle.  “He is a kind and just creature.  Our newfound flock will need his spiritual guidance in such a harrowing place as this.”

Guidance indeed, thought Mhoram.  Surely, the positive must far outweigh the negatives for bringing Simon back to us.  Perhaps these newly freed prisoners could use his preaching.  I cannot see a denial of our responsibility here, but all the better if they rely on him more than us.  Our path may be too treacherous to bring them along

“I WISH SAINT SIMON RESTORED TO LIFE AS HE WAS BEFORE OUR ENCOUNTER WITH ZACKNEF!” commanded Mhoram.

A column of heavenly light issued forth from above at the conclusion of Mhoram’s words.  There was a bright flash, and then Saint Simon stood before them, restored to his full vigor.  His formerly gaunt frame boasted thick muscle and he appeared straighter and taller.  The dozens of Aag-inflicted wounds were replaced by smooth and supple green skin.  He was a wonder to behold in his new state of being, coursing with holy energy and smiling contently.

“Thank you, Mhoram.  I owe you much for this grand favor.  I cannot restore the losses you received from casting such a taxing valence, but I will work everyday to repay you, knowing that the sum of my works will never truly equal what you have done for me.  Now, tell me, is Zacknef no more?”

Mhoram returned his smile and the joy of their accomplishment radiated throughout his posture.  “Yes, it is done Simon.  The tyrant is dead, and his prisoners are now free.  What we will do with them is something we must consult on once Darsint is restored.”

Saint Simon rushed towards them and they were soon caught in the long arms of his loving embrace.

“Merciful Lord, he was the last one who should have met this fate.  You followed me into Zacknef’s quarters, both of you, because the goodness in your hearts persuaded you.  I fear Darsint followed out of mere loyalty to you, despite his inner objections.  I wish I could have died twice, once for both of us.”

“Don’t worry about him,” advised Gherrick.  “H.A.L. will restore him in the morning.  Now, what about these people?  Harris is off cooking up a possible cure from the Marilith’s corpse we brought back.  If he succeeds, what shall we do?”  Agitation permeated his normally cool exterior.

“The answer lies with your heart, good Archer.  We must help them, whatever the cost.  As to how, it is something I must meditate on.  Please, let me tend to your wounds and we will discuss the matter in the morning.  We should all be here for that conversation.”

“Agreed,” said Mhoram.  “Rest well, Saint Simon.  We will talk in the morning.”


*************************************************************

They all gathered around to watch H.A.L. begin his work an hour after daybreak.  He carefully pieced each severed bit of Darsint back together in an efficient and knowledgeable manner.  When completed, H.A.L. stepped back a few pace and cast his spell.  A white ray sped forth from this right finger and a violent spasm rippled through his patient.  Darsint convulsed, contorted, and opened his eyes. 

Darsint was speechless at first.  He couldn’t stop looking at the hundreds of cracks that coursed through his mighty frame.  Something told him that he had never been hurt this badly in the past.  When his senses coalesced, he turned to them and asked:  “Did we do it?  Did we kill that foul bastard?”

“Yes, it is done,” replied Mhoram.  “Now lay still whilst H.A.L. repairs you.  Then we shall all talk.”

“Yes, do as Mhoram asks,” included Saint Simon.  “For now, can I offer you a bite of food from my backpack?”

“I don’t need food,” retorted Darsint.  “And, moreover, where did you get such a useful item at such an opportune time?”

“The Lord,” he answered succinctly.

*******************************************************************

Their meeting took place during the early afternoon.  Harris had not returned to them and his missing presence remained in the back of their minds.  Soon, the sun would climb to its zenith and nearly a thousand poor souls would be missing out on their daily dose of Hell’s Weed.  

Darsint appeared fully restored, from every crack in his body to the tight scowl that pursed his lips.  H.A.L. did an extraordinary job repairing Darsint, and Mhoram let the Warforged know it.

“Thank you, Master Programmer Mhoram.  Your approval makes me . . . happy.”

Mhoram recounted their narrow escaped to his revived companions.  They listed intently as he described how H.A.L. stabilize the falling ceiling long enough to gather them up and give the room a quick search.  Zacknef hid a small chest, filled to the brim with valuable coins and an important gem:  diamonds.  Mhoram handed the Golem tome to Darsint, and imparted several other treasures on Saint Simon.  None claimed the fiery-red and bejeweled headband that could shoot searing balls of flame at one’s enemies.  Such a refusal clearly demonstrated their current equipment was far more favorable.  

“Now, what will we do with these refugees?” broached Saint Simon.  “We must take them with us.  Surely they will die if let out here, whether from addiction or the inherent hostility of the land.”

“We are going to Redshores, a town none save you have ever visited,” countered Darsint.  “Will they greet a thousand poor and needy with open arms, or stow away their wares and turn a cold shoulder to them, and to us?  We do not know what laws or customs we might violate by bringing them along.”

“There are laws and then there is what is right and what is wrong,” Simon responded.  “Those in Redshores are surely still good folk Karlissina bade you to find them.”

“We do not know if Harris will complete their cure, or come back empty-handed,” Mhoram interjected.  “If he is unsuccessful, we must have a plan as well.  I agree with both of you, to some extent.  Simon, there is what is right and what is wrong.  Whether they are cured or not, we must arrange for basic provisions for them and allow them to make a meaningful start.  Darsint, you are wise to understand the reaction of the residents of Redshores to these people, and towards us, could be hostile.  If these refugees of Zacknef’s Wilted Lands can sustain themselves out here, we will give them everything they need then travel on.”

“Mhoram, you cannot be entertaining such thoughts!” cried Simon.  “Look deep inside; what would you want them to do for you, if your positions were reversed?  That answer is the duty that you will owe them, what it is you decide for yourself and them.”

“Ha, Simon, you are so merciful when you would seek to drag others down with you!” shot Darsint.  “You appeal to our good nature while you thrust us in front of the will of your God!  We do not have any codes of conduct or written proclamations declaring that we need to be this kind.  We have done enough for them, more than anyone else, including your God.  Their responsibility is not mine, and I have never said so.”

“You accuse the Lord and I of bending your actions to suit our desires?” shouted Simon.  “You want me with you just as much as these people want you to help them escape the curse of their mere existence.  Deliver them, Darsint, from that which you have freed them.”

“I am disinclined to do so at the moment, and I will not talk further with you on this until Harris returns with word of his success.  Mhoram, come with me.  We need to talk in private.”

“Look into your heart, Darsint, lest you loose your moral footing inside the cold metal frame you possess,” answered Simon.  “You must remember that we owe it to those less fortunate than us to use our powers . . .”

“Enough, Angel!” screamed Darsint.  “You tell me to think with my heart?  Think with your head!  Your last bold foray for the sake of others left you crushed by Zacknef’s mere whim.  Do not make the same mistake twice.  I don’t think Mhoram will be so eager to return one who cannot manage to merely stay alive.”

“Zacknef was merely lucky when he squelched me,” returned Simon.  “Every evil fiend may carry victory in the short run, but his very pride (by your account Mhoram) is what cost him his life.  He stayed to berate you and taunt you with answers.  He was killed for the privilege.  I may have met an early end, but it was the Lord’s lesson that he was given on that date, and it was the final lesson of he ever had.  I lived just long enough to deliver the message.”

“Good!  Though, I wouldn’t say it was your Lord that decided your fate.  It was you, wise Saint Simon, who threw caution to the wind and put yourself in front of a charging Demon.  Next time, try to remember your wits long enough to recall that we need you.  The outcome could have been different for both of us if you had lasted longer.  Now, Mhoram, I must talk with you  . . . alone.”

A slight commotion arose from the south and they were distracted from their verbal sparring.  It was Harris, running towards them at great pace.  He carried a large beaker of a foul looking concoction.

“We’ve done it!” shouted Harris in between gulps of air.  He stopped in front on them, caught his breath, and continued.

“I think we have a cure to the Hell’s Weed.  The beast’s heart was the key . . . I don’t have a lot, though, but it’s a start.  Can you help us again . . . with your magicks?  Can you help me make more of it?”

“Your prayers will certainly be answered,” Saint Simon assured him.  The Planetar shot Darsint a contemptuous look.  “I will aid you for now, but perhaps others will feel inclined to do so later.  Yes, Darsint, go and discuss their fate.  Trust whatever organ in your steely body that will let you judge the truth of this matter.”


*****************************************************************

“What is it you wish to discuss?”

Darsint’s gaze went downward and he considered his words.  Mhoram was definitely of a similar moral bent to Saint Simon.  But, realities were realities, not the pleasant situations that all hoped for.  Darsint knew he would need to be very appealing to have Mhoram’s support.

“I feel uneasy about these refugees,” began Darsint, shifting his posture to be more upright and powerful, while adopting a stance of openness and sincerity.  “We are thrust into this by fate and nothing else.  Regardless, I think this is more than a subtle poke.  We are being shoved into this relationship and I would not be surprised if this was all part of a greater design.  If it is a design by those who sent us here, I’m inclined to let these people fend for themselves.”

“What will happen to these folk if we walk away?” Mhoram asked rhetorically.  “Will they settle down somewhere near, perhaps lead quiet agrarian lives of peace and prosperity?”

“Why do you bother to ask?  It shouldn’t be our concern.  We need to reach Redshores with as little delay as possible.  Our immediate actions must yield us more information about ourselves and this world, or we will die ignorant and alone!”

“Simmer down, Darsint.  I hate this lack of knowledge as much as you.  We will find the answers, and I think these people may lead us to more.  We can transport ourselves instantaneously to Redshores with but one word from my lips.  This ‘guide’ of ours, this Karlissina, asked us to walk the land and see what has become of it.  She also spoke of repentance.  Why haven’t you considered this?  We should not let this opportunity to pass us by, for she also said that we would be here until this repentance was accomplished.”

“I don’t like being cornered like this!” growled Darsint.  “Even if Harris can save them, who is to say that we can?  This is a harsh land and we cannot protect all of them at once.  They will slow us down when we may need speed.  Further, we do not owe them anything.  Nothing, I say!  We have done enough for them and it is time they did for themselves.”

“They will take their chances with us, for they have no choice,” replied Mhoram in a calm and soothing voice.  “We cannot abandon them and doing so would loose us Saint Simon.  You may not need him, but Gherrick and I do.  Simon will not be persuaded to let these people be and his fate will be the same as theirs, or worse.  How do you think Simon will do out here, Darsint?  Will he be a shining beacon to those who . . .”

“Enough!  I can see that your kind nature is truly the force behind this.  Knowledge, I can understand that.  But you chain yourself to a sinking man in the midst of a tumultuous sea.  Idiotic in every sense!  They will weigh us down, not to mention the dangers of bringing such rabble into a civilized place like Redshores.  You want my help, but your offer is not sincere.  You know I must stay with you and my arguments are immediately dismissed.  You do what you want and expect me to follow.  How did that fare for me in Zacknef’s Lair, Mhoram?  Not so well, remember?  The path I see for us this time is very different . . .”

“Thank you, Darsint.  You will not regret this.  These folk will sing many songs about you once we lead them to safety.  Come.  Let us see if Harris created an antidote.”

“I care very little for them or their cure,” he muttered.  “The ones who survive may stay with us, but they are not my charge.”

They walked back into the town and easily spotted Simon doling out spoonfuls of the dirty grime inside Harris’ beaker to the many, many addicts around them.  There were now three more beakers next to him and he’d dispatched Harris to tend those who’d already receive their dose.

The cure was far worse than the disease, causing fits of nausea that lasted tens of minutes at a time.  Several minutes after receiving a dose the patient buckled over with violent burst of blackened vomit.  It was as though every cell in their body was cleansing itself from the taint of the Weed.  Apparently the taint ran very, very deep.  The heaves would last for tens of minutes, subside briefly, and then resume with renewed vigor.  The Travelers could not work fast enough, nor employ enough magicks, to keep the area clean for long.  

Within a few hours everyone had received their medicine and the entire town, nearly 946 people to Mhoram’s count, heaved and hurled in agonized unison.

****************************************************************

The next day was spent helping them regain some of their newfound strength.  Saint Simon moved about them constantly and tended to their injuries and appetites as best as he could.  They slept again that night, this time without Mhoram’s wards against mental influence.  

Mhoram and Gherrick shared a similar dream of the beautiful, scintillating orb that pulsed with life and energy.  An elven female, made out of water and shifting forms violently screamed in pain.  She cried out to them, at once begging them to help her, and them commanding them to leave.  

They awoke bathed in sweat and immediately shared their experiences with the others.  Darsint was reached as well during his extended meditation.  He would wait until later in their journey to tell of his revelations.

The Travelers awoke their flock early and whipped them into marching order.  The folk reacted with surprising speed and formed several columns ten abreast and twenty deep.  

With Saint Simon flying above, shouting out commands and scripture, the Travelers continued the walk northward along the ominous Road of Bone. . . .


----------

