Deus Ex Machina

Mr. Nibbles is the first to go. Sensing danger, she instinctively leaps to Varel's defense, clawing and tearing at the incorporeal threat, but quickly succumbs to the life-sapping attacks of the shadows. Varel naturally goes after her, stepping outside of the radius of the sword's glow, and disappears into the black mists.

And then the feeding frenzy begins in earnest. The shadows are perfectly concealed, and the heroes flail about as they are repeatedly struck. Every touch brings the cold of the grave, sapping their strength. After only a few seconds, Salbadore and Laurie find themselves struggling to remain standing.

Rolf attempts to exorcise the shadows in the name of Erochir, but the effect is not as forceful as he had expected. "Something is not right here!" He exclaims with alarm, and realizes, "These spirits are drawing their power from somewhere in this cursed house! We must find out where and destroy it if we are to defeat them!"

Mercurio, somewhat accustomed to hearing voices, is nevertheless surprised when he seizes the sword from Salbadore's outstretched hand and its voice rings in his head: By the Master’s hand was the world-fabric torn, the Darkness invited into this house and world; thus, by the Master’s hand must the fabric be stitched -- and I, the Needle, to lance the unholy wound!

Orthos unleashes a deafening bolt of lightning into the darkness, hoping to clear a path toward an exit, but just then Mercurio tries to hand him the sword.

"I don't know how--" Orthos begins, but Mercurio cuts him off. "It wants the Master," the scoundrel explains, his speech uncharacteristically clear. "Like it or not, that's you!"

Orthos reluctantly takes the sword. But Mercurio is hardly defenseless; reaching into his cloak, he retrieves a gem, and a vibrating, violet blade of energy extends from his hand! Feeling a sudden chill behind him, he whirls around and slices through a shadow with the blade, and is satisfied when it issues a shriek of pain and surprise.

The golden sword speaks to Orthos: I am Glorion’s Tear. Be not afraid, son of Man. Let Us cleave through the Shadows together, thou and I. Hold Me aloft and carve the circuit of the Sun above thy head, and then drive Me into the heart of Darkness with all thy might!

Orthos does as instructed. Swinging the sword over his head with a rapid, circular motion, its golden glow brightens and expands into a sphere as brilliant as daylight. It continues to expand, illuminating the entire gallery, evaporating the mists and forcing the shadows to retreat into the main hall.

Charge! The sword commands. As if compelled by heroism he did not know that he possessed, Orthos rushes into the main hall, and the shadows continue to flee before him. Their sinister, menacing laughter is supplanted by pitiful squeals for mercy, but Orthos is not in a charitable mood.

The new Master of Sudlow Manor opens the door to the cellar and, charging down the stairway, he clears it of webbing with ease. At the bottom, he sees it: the heart of darkness, a black hole like a wound in the Earth itself. He can feel it draining his life away even as Glorion's Tear struggles to replenish it. Destroy it now!

Orthos steps forward, but falls to the ground as a deathly cold hand takes hold of his ankle. It is none other than the wraith of Lothar Sudlow! "Foolish boy!" He chides his nephew. "Now you will pay the price for meddling in matters beyond your reckoning!" Orthos feels the cold spreading up his leg and into the rest of his body, threatening to leave him paralyzed.

With one last gasp of fortitude, Orthos drives Glorion's Tear into the center of the void. As each cancels out the existence of the other, there is a great explosion -- or is it an implosion? The words lose all meaning as reality itself threatens to unravel...

And then, it is over.

When Orthos awakens, his head is throbbing, and his companions are kneeling over him in the cellar. "Are you all right?" Laurie asks, as Salbadore examines him for injury. "What happened?"

"We did it," Orthos says, and smiles.

*****

The End? I hope not! Though I still have plans for this game and your characters, I understand that there are real-life issues that are a greater priority at this time. Some people have requested a break, which hopefully will not be permanent.

For those who are interested, I would like to use this time for mini-adventures taking place over the character blogs. These will be used primarily for character development. Meanwhile, the main blog will be placed on hiatus until circumstances bring the characters together again.

I hope it was fun, and I hope the fun will continue! As always, thank you for playing.

-HomoDM

The Gallery

Sensing the peril of the oncoming darkness, Orthos readily agrees to Salbadore's suggestion that they follow the hallway in the hopes of finding a place of refuge.

The main hall terminates in a large archway. Passing underneath it, the party finds itself within a spacious gallery. The illumination, they discover, comes from a skylight, through which they can see that the day is waning fast. Very soon it will be night, and then...

The walls are lined with portraits of the Sudlow lineage. As Orthos examines the names and stern countenances of his ancestors, his eyes happen to fall upon a painting of a young man, his wife, and their infant son. He gasps, recognizing them immediately; intense, unexpected memories and emotions well up within him as he looks upon the smiling faces of his father and mother, and sees himself as a babe.

Orthos' mind brims with questions: if his parents hailed from such wealth as this, why were they living as commoners? Did they chose such a lowly life for themselves, or had it been imposed upon them? Had they shamed or transgressed against the family somehow? He notes that his parents’ portrait has been relegated to an obscure corner of the room, and supposes this is not a coincidence.

Otherwise, the most conspicuous feature of the room is a large, rounded nook in the middle of the westernmost wall of the gallery, in which four paintings are prominently displayed. Unlike the other works hanging here, these appear to have been carefully maintained, touched by neither dust nor time. They are unsettling for both the realism of the artist’s hand, which conveys a remarkable sense of depth, as well as the strange ugliness of his subjects.

The first painting depicts a bucolic scene of a herd of innocent lambs. Unbeknownst to them, a cross section reveals that they are being led one by one into a slaughterhouse, its walls spattered with gore, while a frenzied butcher gleefully hatchets them into juicy mutton cutlets. A placard beneath the painting reads: “As are we all.”

The second painting is that of a great shaggy wolfhound, its jaws wide and slavering hungrily over a crying baby on a platter, as if intent on devouring the defenseless child. A placard beneath reads: “Man’s best friend.”

The third is a portrait of a woman cradling a spellbook in her arms. Her mousy hair and fine clothing are dirty and disheveled, her jewelry is tarnished and dull; the cruel pucker of her lips suggests jealousy while her wide eyes hint at the depths of her inner depravity. A placard beneath reads: “Pride and joy.”

The fourth and final painting depicts a middle-aged man in a black robe, holding aloft a golden bastard sword in one hand while fending off a fierce black dragon. The placard beneath this one reads: “The summit of his power.”

In addition, two archways in the northeast corner of the gallery open into an adjacent chamber, though the mist remains too thick to see into it with clarity.

The Haunted Stairwell

Opening the door reveals a narrow set of stone steps leading down into what you presume to be the cellar. The dark passage is blocked by thick, ropy strands of magical webbing: yet another of Lothar’s protective measures against intruders. But there is something else here besides; you cannot see it, but every nerve in your body can sense it with a certainty so profound it turns your skin to crawling gooseflesh.

There is something utterly unnatural and fundamentally wrong about the darkness cloaking the stairs; it devours the light of Mercurio's torch greedily, causing it to flicker and wane while seeming to expand ever more around you, and you’re sure that you can feel the insatiable void siphoning away the warmth in your body, the vigor in your muscles, the very essence that sustains your life the longer you stand before it.

Yet it is difficult to tear your eyes away from that dreadful black pit of despair. Then, you see shapes emerging from the perimeter of the darkness: humanoid silhouettes, withered and emaciated, their arms and clawed hands reaching out toward you. In your ears, their ghostly voices murmur...

“...thosSudlowOrthosSudlowOrthosSudlowOr…”

“…OneofusOneofusOneofusOneofusOneofus…”

“…SohungryComecloserSocoldComecloserSohungry…”

For the moment, the despicable wraithlike things do not seem either capable or willing to stray beyond the inky blackness that shrouds them. But any comfort this limitation offers is short-lived as you become certain that the void is slowly spreading, and you realize that it is only a matter of time before night comes and the whole manor is plunged into darkness.

*****

MANOR MAP:

The House of Sudlow

The group thanks Henricus for his hospitality and proceeds to the manor. Though you lack the words to articulate why, a sense of revulsion and dread begins to bubble upward from the deepest recesses of your mind. The house grows less and less inviting the closer you approach; Mayna and Mr. Nibbles make avian hissing sounds and refuse to go any further without considerable encouragement from their respective masters.

Through sheer force of will, Orthos shakily inserts the brass key into the lock on the front double doors. He depresses the corroded latch and the doors squeak open at a light pull, revealing a long, darkened corridor within.

The heroes enter.

The darkened entry foyer is roughly 15 feet wide and appears to extend 50 feet or so before opening into another chamber where some daylight can be seen up ahead. Suits of armor stand along the walls like silent sentinels, their shine long eroded by oxidation and dulled by a fine layer of dust. A tattered, faded tapestry of the Sudlow crest hangs from a rafter, undulating lazily in a current of air stirred by the opening of the front door. The party proceeds cautiously down the corridor, their boots clicking against the marble floor, nerves on edge from an unknown source of foreboding.

Without warning, you are entombed in near-darkness as the front door suddenly slams shut with a crash! To your profound dismay, the exit vanishes from sight alogether, and a large, wicked mouth materializes on the wall in its place. As the magic mouth utters a chilling rhyme, the entire area is eclipsed in a fog so dense that you can barely see beyond two arms’ lengths in any direction.

“Who is that there who comes intruding?
A Thief, or Robber! Perchance he’s seeking
some Treasure or Wealth thus far eluding.
Whilst he proceeds with churlish sneaking,
poor Fool, mayhap he doth not perceive
that grisly Doom for him awaiting!
Or, this Warning he dare not believe,
a Madness of his own creating:
within the Dark all Heartbeats still,
as all Hope dies and Blood runs cold,
for all Futures do the Shadows kill;
and there will end your Thirst for Gold.”

*****

MANOR MAP:

Dale-Town and beyond

Since it is already late in the day, the party reluctantly agrees to spend one more evening in the shelter of the cave, with the plan being that they will head back to the road at first light. Orthos invites Rolf along to see the estate he has inherited from his great uncle, and the Dwarf (having nothing better to do, apparently, nor anywhere else to be) agrees.

At dawn, the group enjoys a quick breakfast of fish before extinguishing their campfire and bidding adieu to the waterfall cave for good. They retrace their steps along the path upon which Ereazaru led them, and reach the forest road still early in the morning. Their spirits buoyed by their recent gains, and glad to be traveling again, the group is unusually lighthearted and mirthful as their journey carries on into midday.

The party reaches Dale-Town early in the afternoon. It is a rather small community whose main form of commerce involves timbering and harvesting other commodities from the woods and the river. Taking a brief respite at the Lazy Beaver inn, the group treats itself to a well-earned meal and some refreshing pints of stout ale. The other patrons stare unabashedly at the Dwarf among them, and some of the less considerate laugh and make conspicuous remarks about his beard and height, but fall silent as Rolf sternly fingers the handle of his spiked mace.

As Orthos asks the barkeep for directions to Sudlow Manor, Laurie overhears some gossip about dragonslayers. Introducing herself as a traveling songsmith in need of fresh fodder for a good tale, she learns that a group of dragonslayers was hired to deal with a green wyrm that was menacing the town, but the dread beast seemed to have moved on and was recently seen in the skies above Corcoran, and the slayers had gone in that direction in pursuit. Laurie relays this information to her companions, who deduce that Ereazaru had likely made herself conspicuous elsewhere in order to lure the dragonslayers away from her nesting site.

Orthos returns to the group with directions, having learned that Sudlow Manor lies well outside of the town proper, in a hilly area near the southwestern edge of Lakewood Forest. He guesses that only another hour or two of walking will be required. The party, energized by their late lunch and eager to complete their journey now that they are so close, agrees to press on.

*****

The group follows the directions faithfully, nearing their destination late in the afternoon. The path they are on winds up a steep and desolate hill, at the top of which is perched Sudlow Manor. The great stone house is as cheerless as it is imposing; the windows are barred and dark, and an unseasonably cool breeze causes the door of a dilapidated wooden gate to creak open and shut at irregular intervals. A neglected garden, which at one time must have been verdant and splendid, rustles and rattles dryly in the wind. The mood of the party has changed from anticipation to apprehension; a crow caws as it flies overhead, but does not linger.

You are greeted by a haggard old man leaning on a cane for support, so thin and frail that it seems a strong gust of wind might snap him in two. He introduces himself as Henricus Finch and, upon being introduced to Orthos, clasps his hands together as if a prayer has been answered. He invites the group into his little cottage, which could be politely described as cozy, and proceeds to pour some tea which is served with a humble cake from his meager pantry.

“How much do you know about your great uncle Lothar, Master Orthos?” Henricus asks.

Mother love

Varel continues to attend to the hatchling’s needs, being careful to keep herself out of the line of fire of any further burps. The sun has neared setting when Ereazaru finally returns, carrying a small sack over her shoulder.

“Ooh!” She coos, upon seeing the baby dragon. “I see I am a little too late! I would have preferred to be here for the hatching, but you all seem to have taken excellent care of her in my absence.” She scoops up the tiny terror and nuzzles it lovingly. “Such a darling! She is so beautiful!”

She looks at Varel. “I knew I could count on you. Tell me, what is your name?”

“Varel,” the young druidess replies quietly, with just a hint of sadness in her voice as she realizes that her days of surrogate motherhood have come to an end. “Varel Dawnsong.”

Ereazaru smiles. “Then I shall name her Ravarellzea,” she declares. “Did you know that dragons have a faultless memory? Indeed, they can recall everything, even their time in the egg. Know that this little one will never forget you, Varel Dawnsong, nor the tenderness she knew in her first days. Long after you have died, your face and name will be remembered, and perhaps your story will be passed on to her own offspring.”

“Likewise,” she adds, “I shall never forget your kindness.” She drops her sack to the ground. “Ravarellzea and I must now depart for a safer haven than this cave. Please accept this gift as a token of my gratitude and goodwill.” She smiles at the party again and walks away, the baby dragon dozing peacefully in her arms as if it belonged there all this time. “Farewell!”

Her departure is followed soon after by a strong rhythmic wind that rustles the forest canopy, as if a massive creature is taking flight.

New life

Salbadore drives the ebony fly back to the cave, where his companions await. By some miracle, Varel is able to maintain her hold on the egg without mishap, and deposits it in the nest with some sadness for the other three eggs that were lost to the machinations of the pirate, Benedick.

Another day and night pass without incident. Early in the next day, however, a strange chirping sound can be heard coming from the egg. It is time!

Mr. Nibbles eyes the egg with predatory curiosity as the party gathers 'round to witness the baby dragon within fight its way to freedom, at last puncturing the leathery coccoon with a small "tooth" on its tiny snout and taking its first breath of air.

The miniature dragon is such a dark green as to appear almost black, its tender scales glistening with the leftover fluids that nourished its development in the egg. It opens its oversized eyes to view the world for the first time, revealing brilliant yellow irises that are split down the middle by the narrow black slit of its pupils.

It opens its mouth expectantly, revealing tiny bony nubs that a century from now may prove the toothy doom of young heroes such as yourselves.

Scheiss!

The group takes Varel up on her magnanimous offer to keep watch for the remainder of the evening while they retire to their bedrolls. As they slumber and snore, she lovingly oils the eggs by the glow of the dying campire, feeling like something of a surrogate mother to the dragonspawn developing within.

Suddenly, Mr. Nibbles issues a tiny warning peep: something approaches!

But Varel seems to have overestimated her wakefulness; though she knows she should alert the others, she cannot keep her eyes from closing. She slumps over and dreams of faerie cats, yowling eerily in her ears from across dimensions.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

She awakens with a start a short time later to find Mr. Nibbles hunched over her protectively. What just happened? Some kind of enchantment! She immediately looks to make sure the eggs are safe, whereupon her fears are confirmed: the eggs are gone!

Varel screams (startling her companions awake) and rushes out of the cave into the night. In the moonlight, she spies a ship sailing away downriver.

Nocturne

As night falls, the (as of yet unnamed) party and their newest companion sit quietly in a semicircle around a campfire near the mouth of the cave.

"Let us share stories," Salbadore declares. "I for one would consider myself very privileged to hear some Dwarven lore, though the invitation is of course open to all."

Journey from the center of the earth

Sunrise heralds the start of the third day of the heroes' vigil over the dragon eggs.

Salbadore is perhaps halfway into his watch - his hands slick with deer brains as he slathers the oily mash over the eggs and gently rubs it into the leathery shells - when Mayna alerts him to the presence of an intruder!

His companions are still asleep, owing to the fact that their rest was interrupted by the encounter with the badger. Urgently, Salbadore shakes Orthos awake, inadvertently smearing the young wizard's shoulder with brainy soup. "An intruder!" He whispers.

The two creep out of the cave to investigate. As they pass the roar of the waterfall, they hear someone singing in a deep, resonant voice:

"A lusty young lad at his anvil stood beating,
Lathered in sweat and all covered in mucket;
When in came a rough lass, all smiles and good greetings
And asked if he could see to her rusty old bucket!

"'I can!' cried the lad, and they went off together,
Along to the lass' hall they did go.
He stripped off his apron ('twas hot work in thick leather),
The fire was kindled and he soon had to blow!

"Her fellow, she said, was no good for such banging,
His hammer and arms were spent long ago.
The lad said 'Well mine now, we wont leave you hanging,
as im sure you'll no doubt very soon know!'

"Many times did his mallet, by vigourous heating,
Grow too soft to work on such an old pale;
But when it was cooled he kept on a-beating
And he worked on it quickly, his strength not to fail!

"When the lad was all done, the lass was tearful:
'Oh, what could I give you my fellow do so.
Good lad with your hammer, I'm ever so fearful,
I ask that you use it once more ere you go?"

The two wizards soon spy the source of the singing: there is a rather stout fellow bathing in the pool of water created by the falls, oblivious to their presence. He appears similarly proportioned as Nibben did, though significantly taller and much more stocky; moreover, his beard is quite long and braided, and he washes it carefully as though it were a source of some pride.

"Can it be..?" Salbadore gasped.

"A dwarf?" Orthos guessed.

But what was such a fellow doing here, above ground?

I am the egg man

Ereazaru leads the group into the woods for over an hour, heading toward a tributary of the Siannan River, finally stopping at a picturesque waterfall. “Here we are,” she announces. “Isn’t it beautiful? The nest is behind the falls.” She follows a narrow, misty path behind the flowing curtain of water and takes you into a damp, shallow cave that still smells strongly enough of the dragon to sting your sinuses and make your eyes water. There is an indentation in the floor of the cave filled with composting leaves and other rotten vegetable matter. Ereazaru scoops the top layer aside briefly, exposing four cream-colored, leathery eggs, each as large as a horse’s head.

“Pretty much all I’ve been doing is warming them by keeping them buried in this stuff. And I think I read somewhere once that mother dragons keep the shells of their eggs supple my moistening them every few hours with oil from some kind of belly gland, which I don’t really have, so I’ve been using mashed deer brains instead, which seem to be doing the trick so far.” She points to a goopy, earthen jar against the wall before covering the eggs again.

“Hopefully this won’t take too long. I only hope I can make it home to see Nana one last time before she… um. Yeah, like I said, gimme about a week.”

“Please, please do your best to protect these eggs,” she implores earnestly. “I know most people don’t have much use for dragons, and would just as soon they all drop dead, but they’re increasingly rare animals who have a place in this world no less important than any other. And these little ones haven’t even hatched yet to do anyone any harm.”

She looks at the nest one last time and sighs. “All right, I’m off. Good luck! I’ll be back as soon as I can!”

Under the boughs

Their business in Corcoran concluded, Laurie and Salbadore leave the town via the southwest road to Dale-Town. They meet up with Orthos shortly thereafter and travel as far as they can on foot before making camp for the night, the weight of Horace's execution (and their role in it) lending mute tension to their journey and respite.

The three continue marching the next day, and sometime in the early afternoon are rejoined by Varel and Mercurio. The young druidess seems to have made a new friend in a feathered creature the likes of which none of you has ever seen before: some bizarre amalgam of reptile and bird, it resembles a brilliantly colored, long-necked chicken with teeth, only much larger and nowhere near as domesticated. Varel cheerfully introduces it as "Mr. Nibbles." Lacking any of the canine charms of Wolfie, Mr. Nibbles eyes each of you as it might a potential meal.

Two more days of travel through Lakewood pass uneventfully. You estimate that another day stands between you and Dale-Town. Most of the tension seems to have evaporated, or at least has been momentarily forgotten, with Laurie's singing and Mercurio's joking helping to relieve the monotony and fatigue of travel by foot.

So distracted are you that you almost do not notice the woman standing in the middle of the road until she speaks. "Halt!" She commands.

Her appearance is most striking. A long, untamed mane of red hair cascades freely down her back, reaching nearly to her ankles. Her skin is fair and unblemished by age, but the way her eyes cautiously appraise you indicates that she is anything but naive. Despite her slight frame, she appears more than capable of fending for herself. She is outfitted in armor made of “leaves” of leather that have been dyed green and stitched together in an overlapping pattern. She carries a gnarled wooden staff lightly in her hands, while a bow constructed of horn is slung over her back.

A tense moment passes before she relaxes her stance. “Forgive me,” she begins. “I was unsure of your intentions at first, but I sense that you are good people at heart. I don’t have much time, so let me get right to business. My name is Ereazaru, and I am a wandering druidess with a bit of a problem. A rather significant problem, actually, and I’m wondering if you folks might be in a position to help a girl out?”

“Well, hmm, that’s not a very fair question, is it? I’ll explain. See, the people of Dale-Town had something of a ‘dragon problem’ recently before they hired professional dragon-slayers to deal with the beast. So much for that, right? Well, I was on my way home through the forest when I stumbled upon her nest -- with her eggs still in it!”

“I didn’t know what to do. They seemed on the verge of collapse, so I just started, um, tending to them as best I could, and have been doing so now for many days. I guess my maternal instincts got the best of me. Now, I would continue if I could, but there is a very pressing personal matter back home that I simply must attend to. You see, my grandmother in Corcoran is very sick, and I… well, never mind, I don’t mean to trouble you with all of that.”

“Anyway, I'm terribly sorry to impose, but I think you can probably guess where this is going…”

Interlude

Salbadore and Orthos decide that the brigand leader will be taken to the sheriff to face justice. His accomplices, meanwhile, are made to bury the charred remains of the driver. Deprived of their weapons and armor, they are released to whatever fate awaits them after having to endure a stern lecture from Salbadore in which they are exhorted to never steal again.

The party makes camp for the night, setting watches to make sure their prisoner does not escape and that his friends do not return and take them by surprise. Fortunately, the evening passes uneventfully.

Deciding that the robbers' items may be traded in town, Salbadore elects to keep them. Speaking a command word, he activates the ebony figurine given to him by Qroc. It inflates into a fly approximately the size of a pony, and the young genomancer loads the brigands' weapons and armor upon the loathsome creature.

After three more days of unremarkable travel, the party finds itself still a day outside of Corcoran. The next morning, they awake to find Mercurio and Varel gone. A note has been left in their place: “Gone for a tick. Will meet you on the road to Dale-Town. M & V.”

To his dismay, Salbadore discovers that the ebony fly cannot be activated for more than three days at a time. Without a pack animal, and now missing two members of the party who might have helped bear the load, he fears he may have to leave the spoils behind; however, Nibben volunteers the use of his fantastically spacious sack if he can keep half of whatever money the stuff is worth.

The party reaches Corcoran just as the sun begins to set. Salbadore and Orthos immediately escort the brigand to the sheriff while Nibben and Laurie head directly to the marketplace in an attempt to find someone willing to buy the spare weapons and armor. They all agree to meet at the Stumbling Squirrel once their business has concluded.

Upon receiving them, the sheriff (a corpulent slug of a man) asks the two wizards to detail the allegations against their captive.

On the road again

Consulting a map, it seems your journey will be leading you back into familiar territory; the most direct route is the road leading southwest out of Freybourne, which passes through Corcoran before terminating at Dale-Town, which itself is not far from the heart of Lakewood Forest. This seems to please Varel, whereas Nibben is not at all eager to go anywhere back near the lair of the snake people. For his part, Salbadore requests a coach rather than traveling on foot, and Orthos is able to negotiate a reasonable fare for a one-way trip.

*****

The group departs Freybourne on a bright, auspicious morning with clear skies and a pleasant breeze. The driver estimates six days to Corcoran, and then four more to Dale-Town. Three days of travel pass uneventfully for the most part, though there are a few moments of tension when a wasp flies in through one of the carriage windows.

*****

The fourth morning’s ride begins under the pall of a light drizzle that lingers throughout the remainder of the day. As twilight approaches, the driver begins talk of stopping for the night to make camp when there is a sound of thunder in the distance. Is it a mundane storm, or a harbinger of something dire? The group decides to press on for now, hoping to put more distance between themselves and the source of their unease.

Two hooded figures suddenly leap out from behind a stray boulder on the side of the road, their weapons drawn, and shout, “Stop!” The driver, seeing that an arrow is pointed directly at him, reins the horses to a halt.

A third fellow, his face hidden by a helmet, floats around the boulder on a white disc of light and settles between the other two. All three have conspicuously pointed ears.

He speaks. “Greetings, travelers! Lovely evening for a storm, is it not? Your poor horses seem awfully fatigued; surely you don’t mind if we Elves do them the favor of lightening their load a bit? And lest you get any big ideas, I should warn you that six more of my people are hidden in the grass around you. So exit the carriage, if you please, and place your valuables on the ground.”

Beginning of rounds:

End of Round 1:

This one went to market

As eager as he is to learn more about his inheritance, Orthos agrees to wait a day to give his companions sufficient time to prepare for the journey ahead. Mercurio spends most of it sleeping off the night before, whereas Salbadore continues to pore over Flavius' Kreisbuch in solitude while considering which operations he should commit to memory.

Laurie is in search of new clothes and, hoping to cheer Varel up, insists that the young druidess accompany her, if only to give her opinion. Orthos decides that his purse could endure some lightening as well and volunteers to escort them to the various markets and bazaars about the city. Nibben tags along as too, excited to see just how much his new bag will hold.

Breakfast of champions

After they have risen and bathed, the adventurers reconvene in a courtyard garden for a breakfast of succulent fruits, fresh flavorful breads, sweet butter, and tender honeyed ham sliced so thinly that it almost dissolves on the tongue.

The hour is early, so the midsummer sun has not yet warmed the air to an uncomfortable degree. Songbirds twitter their morning madrigals; bees and butterflies go about their business from flower to flower, while one of the college's cooks hums softly to herself as she harvests some herbs.

The quiet, pastoral ease of the moment is suddenly spoiled by the appearance of Qroc, a jarring reminder of yestereve's various dramas.

"Good morning, assholes," he chirps. "What a pretty day! Wow, you all look like stir-fried shit. Long night, I guess." He grabs a roll of bread and shoves it in his mouth whole, but this does not keep him from saying unpleasant things as he chews noisily.

"Nice tattoo!" He quips to Laurie. "I have one just like it on my ass," he brags, showing her a full moon.

To Varel he says, "Oh, one of the maids almost got her face eaten off by that fuckin' wolf of yours this morning. You just gonna leave it locked in your room the whole time? No wonder it's pissed."

Midnight bounty

The heavy oak door to Orthos' dormitory flies open and in Qroc flutters, clearly still somewhat inebriated from the festivities earlier.

"Whoooo! Okay. Baby humans. Good work, babies. You came through! If I were interested, I'd ask what took you so fuckin' long. But I'm not, and it doesn't matter anyway, so.. yeah, great job!"

"Adventurers. You all look so funny! I love you guys. Anyway. You like treasure, right? Yeah, it's all about the ducats. Hell, it's bread and butter to you cunts."

He snaps his fingers and a small bag appears in his little clawed hands.

"Here you go, Orthos," he says, producing an aged, crusty tome from the bag. "It's a book full of... whatever it is you conjure. Spirits? Bullshit? I dunno. Anyway, it's all yours! And some coin for your troubles," he adds, pulling out a small sack plump with gold and clumsily tossing it at him.

"Um. As for the rest of you fuckers... I don't really know you or what you like, so I can't promise that there's anything in my bag specially for you. I mean, there's plenty of gold to go around, sure..." He smiles wickedly. "But there is also a more interesting alternative."

He pulls out a shabby deck of cards.

"Shhh. Don't tell the Master I took these. I'll deny it and make your life hell. He never uses them anyway. Too unpredictable, he says. But also very powerful. How powerful, you ask? These cards can totally change your life - for better or worse." He giggles knowingly.

"So who wants to go first? Will you take whatever's in my special bag here? Or will you chance a draw from the Deck of Many Things?"

Denouement

[This isn't going as quickly as I had hoped, and I'm sensing a lack of interest. So rather than continue to distract from the opportunity to play your characters, I'm just going to narrate a resolution. I'm sorry if this disappoints anyone who was looking forward to solving the mystery. My thanks to those who put their time and energy into this subplot.]

“Wyvernsting,” Harrowsong concludes after examining the needle. “Not the deadliest of poisons, but potent nonetheless.”

“And in ready supply,” Duke Youngblood surmises. “All one would need to do is infiltrate the stables of the Winged Corps.”

“And have good reflexes,” Quentachi adds. “Would I be going too far to suspect the Cataract’s unwholesome hand at work here?”

“I would give it at least a 72% probability,” Virgis affirms.

(The Cataract: the underworld’s equivalent of the Inquisitors; these “monks” operate as thieves and assassins, using their psychic endowments to cloak their presence and manipulate their foes.)

Plutus marches over to Belarva’s courier, still recovering from the effects of the poison, and hauls him to his feet. “Where did the dart hit you, boy?”

“M’arm,” the young man slurs thickly, as if he had just gargled with cotton.

“Stand exactly as you were when it happened. Was it this arm? No. This arm, then. Show me where! Good. Now watch my finger, and stop me when it approximates the angle at which the needle protruded from your flesh. Try to remember!”

The other magi wait patiently as the Arch Evoker mentally calculates the trajectory of the assassin’s missile. Suddenly, he points to a piping troubadour: “YOU!”

“Here we go,” Quentachi mutters, rolling his eyes.

Plutus storms over to the confused player and grabs his fife from his hands. “Just as I suspected! This instrument is hollow!” He throws it to the ground and seizes the man by the throat. “Confess!” He demands.

“One moment, Lord Plutus,” Virgis says. “Let us give this fellow a chance to explain himself.”

Plutus softens his grip just enough for the piper to talk: “Forgiveness, milord, but I don’t remember… we were playing and then… I don’t know what happened. I felt like I was waking up, and then that man over there was collapsing, and milord had disappeared…”

“A likely story!” Plutus crows.

“A plausible one,” Virgis says.

Dame Harrowsong agrees. “The Cataract can induce others to act without any recollection, as if possessed. I have seen it myself.”

“Am I going to die?” The piper asks meekly, on the verge of tears.

“I have an idea,” Quentachi offers. “If you will permit it, Lord Virgis, I will cast an enchantment over the entire room to cause everyone to slumber. Only the most disciplined minds will be unaffected. Therefore, anyone other than ourselves who remains awake must be the assassin.”

“Proceed,” Virgis says.

Quentachi begins to chant softly…

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....






You open your eyes. What just happened? The enormous cake looks as if it has exploded, and there is a dark-clad figure holding a knife to the throat of the Duke! The other guests appear to be rousing from sleep as well, having fallen or slumped over in the middle of whatever they were doing at the time Lord Quentachi’s spell was cast.

“Don’t just stand there!” Youngblood commands the magi. “Do something!”

Virgis steps forward. “I’ve been asking myself why a Cataract assassin would be so inept in their attempt to kill me. It could not be mere inexperience, for they would know me to be a very difficult target, and would have sent the best they had to offer. I must therefore conclude that the failure was deliberate.”

He continues: “Of course, it also helped that your son warned me of your intentions in advance, Your Grace.”

“You knew the whole time?” Harrowsong asks. “Oh, Virgis. You and your love of drama.”

The Duke’s face turns violet with fury. “What? You accuse me--? Abelard! What manner of treachery is this?”

Abelard Youngblood yawns and stands up from his seat, wiping some drool from the corner of his mouth. “Hm? Oh. Lord Virgis speaks truly, Father. I overheard your machinations and saw an opportunity to advance myself. You have set a most ignoble example, and this must be corrected. Your corruption ends here.”

“Ingrate!” The Duke screams. “Cur! You conniving, limp-wristed swine! I should have drowned you at birth, you ill-bred whoreson!”

“Leave Mother out of this,” Abelard retorts smartly. “You have no one but yourself to blame for teaching me too well.”

Virgis snaps his fingers. The doors of the Great Hall unbar themselves and the shutters over the windows fly open. “You may go,” he says to the assassin. “See that you do not ever return.” The mysterious figure in black sheaths his (her?) blade, steps backward into a shadow, and vanishes without a trace. The Duke continues to remain standing, struggling against invisible bindings.

“Now let us see how Lady Belarva’s gift works,” Virgis says, his face glowing with schadenfreude. He opens the blue box once more, and makes a lifting motion with one hand. A perfect black orb, darker even than a moonless night, rises slowly out of the box, floating according to the will of its new master.

Ivor Youngblood stares in horror as the black sphere of doom glides inexorably toward him -- slowly, silently; his eyes wide, sweat cascading down his forehead, his veins popping out of his skin as he continues to struggle hopelessly against fate.

“Goodbye, Father,” Abelard says. “Thanks for everything.”

“Farewell, Your Grace,” Virgis says. “Thank you for a very entertaining party. I don't think anyone here will ever forget it."

“You haven’t seen the last of mmmmee---“ The Duke’s curse is silenced as the orb makes contact. His form contorts and twists into an impossibly thin stream of matter that spirals into the infinite depth of the orb, and then he is – utterly, inarguably, irrevocably – gone.

Virgis quickly claps the box back over the orb. “Splendid,” he says, very satisfied.

Turning to the son of Ivor, he bows. “All hail Abelard Youngblood, Duke of Kauhedl!”

Party games

Scene: The Great Hall of the College of High Summoning in Freybourne, on the day of Lord Virgis Grimrune's 194th birthday. Just seconds ago, an attempt was made on his life via a poisoned dart. The aristocratic crowd is on the verge of pandemonium with the knowledge that the would-be assassin remains undiscovered and at-large within the Great Hall, which has been magically sealed.

Virgis: My apologies if any of you had other plans, but no one will be leaving until my assailant makes him- or herself known. I understand that it may be troubling to have a killer walking among you, but please do not let it spoil your merriment. Your safety is guaranteed.

Qroc: Yeah, what he said. The food's probably fine, or else you'd all probably have croaked by now. So eat! Drink up! Keep the music playing! It's a party, for fuck's sake!

The troubadours take up their instruments again and play as commanded, though their eyes cast nervously about the room. The crowd murmurs through forced, unnatural smiles.

Virgis: This has turned into a very splendid party indeed, Qroc. So many surprises, and more to come, no doubt. Why, I'm positively tickled.

Qroc: Wow. If only I had known that's what it would take to make you happy, Master, I could have been hiring hit men all this time. Anyway, what now? We play pin-the-tail-on-the-assassin?

Virgis: Indeed...

CAST OF CHARACTERS:

The birthday boy

What a party! Never before have you beheld such unabashed opulence. The Great Hall seems to glow with its own light, reflecting warmly off gilded arches and a flawlessly polished marble floor. Long tables sag under the weight of enough food and drink to choke a purple worm. In one corner is perched a multi-tiered cake twice as tall as a man; in front of it, a band of troubadours, performing tirelessly for the assembly.

The hall is crowded with local aristocracy and their courtiers, dressed to the nines as they feast and drink and laugh at their own cleverness. You can see that many of the other Headmaster Wizards are also present: Lord Quintachi, sporting a fine robe of dazzling colors; Lord Plutus, wearing the official colors of the School of High Evocation; even Dame Harrowsong, Mistress Necromancer (so she can come out during the day!), her face covered by a veil of black lace. Duke Ivor Youngblood and his court have made an appearance as well to congratulate the Devil-Tamer on yet another year of exceptional longevity.

Lord Virgis sits enthroned at the head of the room, alone, his expression a mask of displeasure despite the ostensible festivity of the occasion. You are mystified by his dour face. What could be vexing him so? And then you realize that there are no presents! You balk at how such an important component of any decent birthday celebration could be overlooked, but then you wonder: what does one get for a man such as this? What could anyone possibly have to offer someone who can grant his own wishes? And then you reflect that perhaps ultimate power is not so fulfilling after all, for is it not the small pleasures that truly make life worth living?

“Uh oh,” Qroc mutters. “The Master looks unhappy! Better let me do the talking. By the way, Orthos, if this gift fails to please him, you can bet that your head will roll for it.”

Qroc flutters to the middle of the chamber. “May I have your attention please?” He squeaks. No one seems to notice, steeped as they are in conversations of their own. “Attention, please! Hey, everyone, be quiet!”

His tiny form quickly balloons into a huge infernal thing, so massive that his wings stretch from wall to wall, covered head to tail in flame and coarse hair the color of dried blood. Thick black smoke jets from his beastly nostrils as he roars: “SHUT'CHER JABBERIN' COCKHOLES!”

The party stops, the guests frozen in place with a mixture of chagrin and horror. A few people actually faint where they stand. Pleased, Qroc shrinks to his normal size and smiles. "Thank you. Ahem. Ladies and lords, esteemed visitors, Your Grace… all of you have gathered here to commemorate the one-hundred-and-ninety-fourth birthday of Lord Virgis Grimrune, Devil-Tamer and Headmaster of the College of High Summoning. Please join me in praising him and wishing many more happy birthdays to come!”

The tiny fiend claps with wild enthusiasm. The guests applaud as well, though somewhat more cautiously. Virgis has one eyebrow cocked at his familiar’s showboating, but otherwise his expression remains unchanged.

“So long has Master Virgis served this city that, to you mortals, it has no doubt seemed as though he has always been here. It is understandable, and not altogether unforgivable, that you might come to take him for granted and be lapse in expressing your appreciation for all that he has done and continues to do to ensure the ongoing supremacy of Freybourne. Well, no more. Today begins a yearlong celebration of Lord Virgis Grimrune!”

The guests look around at one another uncomfortably.

Qroc lands and bows down on one knee. “Master, pardon me for acting without your knowledge, but it has been so long that you have been pleasantly surprised that I thought it worth risking your ire. Since your last birthday, I have been conspiring with Lady Belarva of Haus Lebenskraft to find you something truly special and unique. Although she could not be present today, please accept her best wishes, and please accept this gift from us both.”

He snaps his fingers. “Bring forth the box!”

The jewel of Kauhedl

The weather is agreeable and the Road runs wide and smooth over flat grassland. Urged onward by Orthos, who seems to be beholden to some deadline, the travelers push themselves and reach Freybourne in just under a week.

Though Mercurio jokes and shares ribald tales, and Laurie’s lute makes the journey seem less long, there is little in the way of meaningful conversation between the members of the party; Orthos is preoccupied with reaching the city and makes little time for banter, while Salbadore still struggles under the weight of his recent losses. Nibben turns the riddle of his kinsman’s captivity over and over in his mind while scribbling notes furiously, and Varel finds that she misses her grove and her woodland friends more than she anticipated.

Freybourne is truly the jewel of Kauhedl, unrivaled in its architecture and civilized wonders. Magical lanterns light the streets, while His Excellency’s winged corps keeps the skies safe day and night. A complex system of aqueducts channels water from the Siannan River, while subterranean tunnels funnel the city’s waste into the sea. Apothecaries offer a variety of expensive potions and panaceas that are widely coveted by country-folk, who are often willing to spend all they have to secure a curative for whatever ails.

Though overwhelmingly human in its demographics, small bands of Gnomes and Halflings are also known to visit the city to peddle their wares, as do foreigners from distant duchies such as Qulaun and Ucidab, bringing exotic offerings of food and other cultural exports.

And, of course, there is the College of High Summoning, the gilded spires of which tower over all other structures in the city. It is not uncommon to see a learned wizard running errands about town with creatures conjured from who-knows-where to do any heavy lifting that may be required.

Life here is hurried, but orderly, and the Duke’s constabulary make their presence strongly felt to deter unlawful activity. Members of His Excellency’s infantry and navy also frequent the city, such that persons seeking to circumvent the law by necessity have to be much more clever and more subtle than most criminals in order to do so successfully.

This fact first becomes apparent at the front gates of the city, which is manned by Ducal Constables who demand to know the identities and business of all who pass through them: “Who are you? From whence do you come? Wherefore do you seek to enter His Grace’s city? Where will you be staying, and for how long?”

As the travelers attempt to come through the gate and provide satisfactory answers to these inquiries, one of the officers wearing a set of thick green spectacles stops them in their tracks. “That box!” He exclaims at Salbadore, accusatorily. “Who are you to possess such a thing, and what are your intentions for bringing it here? Present your permit!”